NOVPUBIn the midst of the chaos, time slowed for Count Rimmon.
His heart pounded like war drums in his chest, drowning out the screams, the clash of steel, even the roars of the wyverns. All that remained was the sight—a battlefield soaked in firelight, strewn with the corpses of his beasts, and crawling with soldiers that should not exist.
His gaze swept the carnage.
Ashbourne's troops fought like phantoms—silent, merciless, and inhuman. No fear. Only cold, perfect coordination.
And behind them, the embers.
Those damned embers that birthed teleporting killers. And the knights still burning—still burning—yet walking like they felt nothing.
Terror coiled around Rimmon's spine, tightening like a vice.
This wasn't natural.
No army—no matter how well-trained—should be capable of this.
He's been there, Rimmon thought, a chill piercing his soul. He's accessed the Primordial Realm…
A place whispered of in legends, and through the mouths of those at the top.
Only the most ancient and exalted bloodlines were permitted to enter—those blessed by I Am or directly appointed by the Emperors themselves.
And for a mere lord to produce warriors touched by that place?
There was only one answer.
He's backed by the Emperor of Sacred Flame.
The thought turned his stomach. If Asher had the emperor's favor… if House Ashbourne had ties to the Throne of Fire…
Then this wasn't just a skirmish.
This was an alliance.
A declaration. They weren't the ones with the numbers and advantage.
His wyvern shrieked and veered away, wings beating hard to escape the nightmare below. Rimmon did not resist.
He couldn't.
He had seen enough.
Just then, Asher heard it—footsteps, but not like any man's.
They came in slow, thunderous strides, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. Deep. Resounding.
He turned.
Through the wall of flame walked a silhouette, wreathed in heat and shadow, untouched by the inferno. Nearly eight feet tall, clad in gleaming silver armor chased with black, and draped in an imperial purple cloak that swayed with measured grace. A brooch fastened it—a dragon, unmistakable.
House Nethaneel.
Asher's eyes narrowed, catching a flicker of glowing orange light from within one of the helmet's eye slits.
An Awoken One.
His hand curled tightly around the hilt of his sword, but he did not move.
The armored figure advanced, and to Asher's surprise, none of his men reacted. They ran past the stranger—some brushing by, none slowing. It was as if he didn't exist to them. Or perhaps they were too consumed by the wyvern assault to perceive the man cloaked in imperial pressure.
At ten meters, the stranger stopped.
His cloak gathered gently around him. There was a pause—a soft, chilling click as he tilted his head slightly to one side. Then came a voice, deep and smooth as molten obsidian.
"Such ravishing beauty…"
His gaze bypassed Asher and locked onto Sapphira, who stood behind, her silhouette calm in the flickering firelight. Just outside the tent.
"Such beauty should stand beside the man who shall rule these lands… the rightful emperor of all domains of the Eternal Immortal Empire."
His helmet turned to her swollen belly.
"Tsk… compared to her, the one they call 'the jewel of the empire' might as well be a peasant's daughter. How did you hide her for so long? And you've already made your mark…"
Garen grunted. The orange glow flared within his helm.
Asher didn't move.
Didn't speak.
His silence, taut and deadly.
Garen tilted his head again, thoughtful.
Then he chuckled.
"There's still a possibility, you know. He bedded many noblewomen. They bore his bastards. Perhaps… once he beds her, the child will bear the name Nethaneel."
He pointed at Sapphira, tongue clicking in mock disapproval when Asher still didn't come charging.
Asher's only reply was a silent flex of muscle—a tighter grip on his sword's hilt.
Garen's chuckle died.
His stance shifted.
"Very well…"
The air changed.
A deep pulse of power emanated from Garen—slow, terrifying. The very ground vibrated with it. 𝔫𝖔𝔳𝖕𝖚𝔟.𝔠𝔬𝖒
Then came the heat.
A shimmering haze distorted the space around him, a radiant veil rippling off his body. Even the wyvern fires paled in comparison—those flames were pleasant compared to this.
A drop of sweat trickled down Asher's brow—not from fear, but from the sheer furnace now pressing against his skin.
The ground beneath Garen blackened, and cracks began to appear.
"I am Tenaria's anointed knight. Fourth in ranking. Titled, the Dauntless Knight."
Garen's voice was steady, his breath calm in the midst of heat and carnage.
"It's an honor to meet the famous warlord."
Shing!
Steel rang as Garen drew his sword—a massive, broad-edged blade crackling faintly with heat.
"Come at me… or I shall slaughter—!"
Clang!
Asher didn't wait. He leapt, his blade flashing downward in a clean arc. Garen **parried** the strike with a single fluid motion, shifting one foot back.
Just then—Nero's voice shouted from the flank.
"My Lord!"
He tossed a shield across the battlefield.
Asher caught it mid-air—only to realize too late that Garen's body was growing.
His armour didn't stretch—it thickened, expanded. His limbs elongated, plated metal grinding as his height surged beyond eight feet. What had once been a giant was now a walking war machine.
Asher didn't flinch.
He raised his shield and sword into stance.
Boom!
Garen launched a kick—and the impact sent Asher sliding backward, his boots carving twin gouges through the scorched soil.
Before he could regain footing, a radiant orange slash erupted from Garen's blade.
A sword light—a ranged cut of pure, compressed energy.
Asher exhaled sharply and sliced it apart, retaliating with his own: one horizontal beam, then another vertical layering pressure.
Each attack forced distance. Each blow was a test of their mastery of the skill, Output—the essence of powered strikes in high-order combat. At this level, close combat skills weren't as important; it was about who could manifest greater will through force.
Garen absorbed the blows, grunting as he charged, his armoured mass barreling like a siege engine. He brought his sword down in a heavy arc.
Clang!
Asher raised his shield to intercept, but the force drove him to a knee.
His muscles trembled, veins surging beneath skin as he forced upward, twisting to launch a piercing thrust.
Ting!
The blade struck square into Garen's cuirass—
And bounced off.
Asher's eyes widened.
Bam!
Garen slammed his sword down, the force cratering the earth beneath Asher's boots. His shield shuddered. His arms ached.
Garen scowled behind his helm.
"Surprised? You should be. I read the reports—strongest armour on the continent belongs to your house, forged from Elden ore, yes?"
He scoffed, lifting his sword again.
"What I wear… isn't from this continent."
The blade came down again like a hammer.
Asher rolled, narrowly avoiding the thrust, dirt spraying around him. No time to dwell on the mystery of the armor. No time to retreat.
Garen advanced.
Asher braced his shield as another blow came.
Clang!
Asher's body shook, and in that moment—he exhaled.
He diverted the impact with a twist, parried it aside, and drove his sword forward in a lightning-fast thrust aimed at the dented section of Garen's chestplate.
This was no normal thrust—he poured full Output into it.
And yet—
Crk.
Only a small dent.
