The Kingmaker System Chapter 722 - 721. Vanguard: King (7)

The encroaching black flames consumed the desolate forest, resembling a virulent plague spreading unchecked. The very earth beneath them sizzled and fractured under the intense heat, as adjacent trees succumbed, dissolving into charred remnants. Even the atmosphere became noxious, heavy with a dead mana saturation that pressed against the lungs of all present. This oppressive force was so potent that it forced some of the weaker dark elves to their knees.

Yet, within this infernal panorama, Zale advanced with an unruffled demeanor. The ethereal luminescence of Serathil pierced the surrounding gloom, the hallowed blade weaving beside him with the grace of a silver serpent navigating water. Its articulated segments shifted with subtle, melodic clicks, scales interlocking and disengaging in a quiet metallic symphony.

The instant Jabran’s gaze fell upon the weapon, the inferno encircling him intensified dramatically.

"Hm," Zale commented softly, noting the visceral reaction. "So, you do recognize sacred armaments."

Jabran remained stoic, concealed beneath his hood, yet the ambient pressure around him palpably thickened.

The surrounding dark elves instinctively recoiled.

Even Xeveris felt a primal urge to flee.

These were no longer adversaries they could possibly contend with.

Xeveris and the other dark elves observed a palpable bloodlust permeating the air, as dense as the suffocating dead mana. Xeveris struggled to comprehend the unfolding events: first, the shadowy forces, and now, the Merfolk King, summoned at the behest of a Dragon. It was as if history were ominously rhyming.

"So, the Dragon dispatches the King of Nelius Ocean himself," Jabran finally vocalized.

A faint smile touched Zale’s lips.

"Not precisely. My Master merely indicated that some pests required purging here."

The black flames erupted outward, and the ground beneath Jabran's feet disintegrated as pillars of hellfire surged towards Zale, mirroring ravenous predators.

Several dark elves cried out in alarm, but Zale did not falter. Instead, Serathil moved.

The divine blade unfurled with astonishing speed, its silver scales parting as the weapon sliced through the inferno with terrifying grace.

A piercing, resonant chime echoed across the battlefield, and the black fire cleaved apart. It wasn't extinguished but rather bisected with clean precision.

The surrounding flames recoiled sharply as sacred light surged forth, bathing the scorched landscape in a brilliant silver-blue radiance.

Jabran’s eyes narrowed beneath his hood.

That onslaught should have engulfed the King completely.

Instead, Zale stood unscathed amidst the collapsing inferno.

"My turn?" Zale inquired politely.

Then, he moved.

To the dark elves, only a blur of silver was perceptible.

Serathil shot through the air like a striking serpent, while Zale himself materialized directly before Jabran, his robes billowing dramatically behind him.

Jabran reacted instantaneously.

Black flames spewed from his arm as he intercepted the oncoming strike with his bare hand.

BOOM.

The clash reverberated through the forest.

Hellfire and Aura collided with explosive force, generating shockwaves that tore through the surrounding trees.

A number of nearby dark elves were violently propelled backward by the sheer pressure alone.

For the first time since his arrival, Zale's smile wavered slightly, and Jabran perceived a chilling revelation.

The King of Nelius Ocean was not merely defending the dark elves.

He had arrived with the unequivocal intent to kill him.

"Lord Xeveris," Zale addressed, his voice remarkably composed against the searing heat of the hellfire, without turning. "It would be prudent for you to proceed. I will handle this individual, and reinforcements are expected shortly, so do not be concerned and escort your people away."

Xeveris gazed at the King's back for a moment.

Even amidst the pandemonium, Zale Turquoise maintained an almost unnerving composure. The pale aura of Serathil coiled around his arm like a living cascade of moonlight, its segmented blade rippling fluidly with every minute adjustment of his wrist. In stark contrast to the suffocating dead mana that pervaded the forest, Zale’s presence exuded a cool, impossibly steady aura.

Ermid and Yttriva exchanged meaningful glances before offering Xeveris silent affirmations.

Remaining here any longer served no purpose.

This was no longer a battleground within their capacity to influence.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Xeveris finally conveyed.

A soft chuckle escaped Zale.

"Proceed," Zale instructed. "They failed once; they shall fail again."

As if spurred by these precise words, the dead mana surrounding Jabran surged with renewed vehemence.

The black flames expanded outwards in a colossal wave, engulfing both ground and trees, while several lances of hellfire shot directly towards the retreating dark elves.

However, Serathil moved before any other action could be taken.

The holy blade unfurled from Zale’s arm with a sharp hiss, like scales scraping against each other, before it whipped through the battlefield like a silver serpent. A potent wave of aura erupted, carving a dazzling arc through the forest and obliterating the oncoming flames before they could even approach the others. The very ground trembled from the violent impact.

Trees splintered, and the earth itself cracked open under the ferocious clash between Serathil’s might and the dead mana. "Move!" Xeveris commanded urgently. Without hesitation, the dark elves scrambled, carrying their wounded deeper into the woods. Younger elves kept glancing back, their faces etched with anxiety. Even from afar, a terrifying pressure radiated from behind them, and as the dark elves fully retreated, the true battle commenced.

A deafening roar split the forest as Jabran’s dark flames met Serathil’s radiant blade head-on. The resulting shockwave surged through the woodland, powerful enough to tear trees from their roots entirely. Yttriva faltered briefly, steadying herself against a rock. The atmosphere felt charged and unstable. Each subsequent collision sounded less like steel on steel and more like thunder rending the very heavens.

Tendrils of black flame consumed all in their path, while arcs of silver-white aura repeatedly tore through the encroaching darkness. Ermid gulped, stealing a glance backward. The ravaged forest behind them pulsed with flickering black and silver light, a testament to the collision of two cataclysmic forces. "Monsters..." he whispered to himself.

Meanwhile, further ahead in the eastern woods, the Pure Mana Elves were being escorted to safety under the vigilant protection of the Elven Knights. The once peaceful forest had long succumbed to utter chaos. Patches of woodland blazed with unnatural black flames, and grotesque piles of corpses littered the forest floor. These were the fallen corrupted dark elves and the knights who had failed in their duty to secure the evacuation routes.

"Keep moving!" "Guard the rear!" "Don't stop running!" The knights bellowed orders repeatedly, guiding the terrified civilians toward safer grounds. Standing firm at the very tail of the procession was Rhylen, a bulwark refusing to yield. His silver armor was defiled with blood and ash, and visible wounds marred his body. A deep gash ran across his shoulder, and another had pierced his abdomen earlier during the fight. These wounds resisted healing, the flesh around them slowly decaying from the touch of dead mana, yet the Captain of the Elven Knights remained unbowed.

The colossal longsword in his grip dripped with black ichor, and the corpses of corrupted dark elves lay scattered around him. The battlefield surrounding him now resembled a charnel house more than a forest. Rhylen exhaled slowly, his sharp eyes surveying the shadowy woods ahead. The surviving knights gradually retreated behind him, escorting the Pure Mana Elves. Something felt amiss. He had anticipated an assault from the Dark Elves, but the black blood staining these foes was a grim indicator they were no longer mere Dark Elves. Black blood signified demons, and those whose blood had turned black were kin to the dark forces.

Rhylen had only grasped this horrifying truth after felling dozens himself. The more he fought, the more unnatural his enemies became. Their movements were devoid of fear, their eyes burned with madness, and some of them continued fighting even after sustaining mortal wounds. A more intricate plan was at play here. Something far grander than a simple ambush. If he failed to halt it or report it swiftly, the entire eastern region faced imminent catastrophe.

Rhylen lowered his sword slightly, gazing one last time at the devastated battlefield. The forest floor was a carpet of the fallen, while black flames continued their relentless consumption of the distant trees. The surviving knights had guided most of the Pure Mana Elves to safety, and no enemies seemed to linger nearby. Or at least, that was the perception. The sudden, unnerving quiet unsettled him far more than the preceding battle.

Rhylen turned, preparing to rejoin the others and relay his discovery, but as he took a step, a violent chill snaked down his spine. Years of battlefield instinct propelled his body forward before his mind could even register the impending threat. He twisted sideways with sudden force, and a sharp object sliced through the air precisely where his neck had been moments before, sending several strands of his midnight-black hair fluttering to the ground. Rhylen’s eyes instantly narrowed. The sound arrived a fraction too late. CLANG.

On pure instinct, his longsword shot upward, intercepting the black katana that descended from the darkness. Sparks erupted violently between the clashing blades, and the sheer force of the strike fractured the earth beneath his boots.

Rhylen stumbled back a single step before regaining his footing.

Several feet away, amidst the swirling black mist, a figure materialized.

Tall and clad entirely in dark attire, the stranger seemed to merge with the shadows. A black fabric obscured the lower half of his face, while strands of dark hair shifted subtly around his piercing silver eyes. In his hand, a long black katana rested, its blade absorbing nearly all light.

Yet, it was the dead mana that unsettled Rhylen more than the weapon.

Like living smoke, black mist began to creep across the surrounding forest, gradually consuming visibility until the adjacent woodland grew distorted and indistinct.

Rhylen immediately resumed a defensive stance, every fiber of his being on high alert.

The man before him lacked the unhinged demeanor of the corrupted dark elves. His posture was composed, controlled, even relaxed.

It was the bearing of someone utterly confident in dispatching any opposition.

The stranger tilted his head slightly, as if examining Rhylen with inquisitive eyes.

"So, you are the Captain of the Elven Knights," he spoke softly, his voice devoid of any animosity.

This calmness inexplicably heightened Rhylen's unease, and he did not lower his blade.

"And you," Rhylen retorted coldly, "must be the rat lurking behind all this filth."

A faint chuckle emanated from the man, causing the shadows around his feet to ripple unnaturally.

Without a moment's notice, the figure vanished.

Rhylen's pupils constricted. He swiftly swung his sword behind him with enough power to cleave the very air, but the blade passed cleanly through a dark silhouette that dissolved into smoke the instant it was struck.

An illusion. No, not quite.

Before Rhylen could fully process it, another presence emerged at his side.

Steel shrieked.

The black katana grated against Rhylen's armor, and a burst of sparks flew as he wrenched the strike aside before launching an immediate counter. His longsword sliced through the mist once more, cleaving through another phantom image.

The true assailant had already shifted position.

Rhylen clicked his tongue in annoyance as he leaped back across the ravaged terrain, his keen eyes scanning the shifting darkness.

A swordsman.

An assassin.

And an exceedingly vexing one at that.

The black mist continued to coil through the forest, and several silhouettes slowly materialized between the trees. Some hung upside down from branches, while others remained inert on the ground, all wielding identical katanas and possessing the same crimson eyes.

Rhylen instantly discerned they were not genuine.

However, the conundrum lay in his inability to distinguish the real body swiftly enough.

The soft sound of footsteps echoed through the mist once more.

Then, the stranger's voice followed quietly from somewhere within the gloom.

"You rely too heavily on direct confrontation."

Rhylen's grip on his sword tightened.

The voice shifted again.

This time, directly behind him.

"A knight's methods are predictable."

Rhylen spun instantly and slashed with overwhelming force.

The massive blade tore through three shadowy figures simultaneously, along with the trees behind them, sending splinters flying through the forest.

But once again, no blood. Only black mist.