CH414 Fortress Climax III

***

"Two Gold ranks, eliminated." Eleanor's report chimed over comms.

Mogal and Kavakan both stiffened, their expressions twisting in an almost comical mixture of pride and indignation.

They were the combat specialists—the frontline warriors—and yet a healer had just killed two Gold ranks when they were struggling with just one?

How were they supposed to hold their heads up after that?

Naturally, they responded the only way they knew how; they stepped up their attacks with renewed ferocity.

Meanwhile, Havel could not have cared less.

As usual, the noble race Ronin moved at his own slow, deliberate pace—untouched by the chaos around him.

After receiving Havel's challenge, Arvegil had no choice but to respond. He stepped into the open with his metal spear in hand and motioned for Havel to follow him somewhere more suitable for a duel.

Havel observed him lazily. The man was obviously scheming something, but Havel still followed.

It was much more efficient to crush his scheme head-on than try to skirt around it.

Arvegil led him to a plaza situated between the facilities and the officer's quarters—a fair distance from Zora's zone of influence. The intent was obviously to separate the Ice Sorceress from the one guarding her.

"Do we really need to fight?" Arvegil asked mildly. "How about we just wait here and let everything pass?"

It was unclear whether he meant it or was simply buying time for his hidden archers to finish off Zora. But Havel merely shook his head.

"Watching a worm squirm about in its illusion of intellect is only interesting up to a point," Havel said flatly.

"What?" Arvegil frowned. "It was just a suggestion. There's no need for insults."

"Insult?" Havel lifted a brow. "Since when has the truth become an insult?"

Arvegil's frown deepened. Havel clicked his tongue softly, disappointed.

"You still don't get it, I see," he muttered. "Well… it doesn't matter. At least your 'brains' allowed me to avoid a hassle."

He yawned—genuinely.

"Let's get this over with."

Even though his tone sounded languid and bored, Arvegil felt a chill crawl up his spine. Beneath that lazy delivery was murderous intent sharp enough to cut bone.

He tightened his grip on his spear and advanced. But while Arvegil schemed, Havel had already finished preparing his killing move.

While being led to the plaza, he had silently concentrated mana into his katana. The moment he spoke those final words, he unleashed everything.

Arvegil lunged forward.

Havel didn't even blink.

Time slowed.

The world dimmed.

Then—

[Quickdraw: Phantom Razor]! (Battōjutsu: Gen'ei no Yaiba!)

Arvegil froze mid-dash.

Behind Havel, an apparition manifested—

a towering death phantom wielding a scythe.

A phantom of death (shinigami).

In Arvegil's eyes, Havel didn't move at all.

Instead, the apparition behind him—the death phantom—was the one that swung its scythe.

Click!

A single crisp sound echoed through the plaza as Havel pulled and resheathed his sword. The soft metallic click reverberated unnaturally far, as if the air itself carried the note.

Horror flickered across Arvegil's face.

A heartbeat later, blood sprayed from his torso—

and his body split cleanly into four pieces.

From the perspective of any onlooker, Havel had remained perfectly still. Even stranger, the spray of blood stopped just short of touching him—barely an inch from his feet—as though an invisible boundary had denied it entry.

Havel clicked his teeth in mild annoyance.

"Four strikes is still all I can manage at my best," he muttered.

A memory surfaced. A thin man, whose frail-looking shoulders somehow bore the weight of the world.

That man had once performed nine instantaneous strikes using the same technique—a technique whispered to be capable of felling a Legend, should all its phantom blades hit their mark.

What was the true maximum of Phantom Razor?

How many strikes were needed to kill a Legend?

No one truly knew.

Havel exhaled softly and shook his head.

The battle still raged in the distance, but the noise was noticeably lighter. He considered returning to the fray… then promptly dismissed the idea.

There was a stone bench at the edge of the plaza.

Havel walked over, lay down on it, placed his katana on his chest, and stared up at the sky as if sunbathing rather than participating in a fortress siege.

The ongoing battle no longer had anything to do with him.

He was just about to let his eyelids fall closed when they snapped open again, as though he had remembered something important.

"One Gold rank down," he announced over comms in a bored tone.

Only then did his weary eyelids shut properly, and Havel drifted into a light, lazy rest.

As for Arvegil's so-called plan to take down Zora by dragging Havel away?

Utterly pointless.

As Havel had implied, Arvegil merely thought himself clever. Using Havel's own challenge to lure him away might have worked on someone else, but Havel had only gone along because he knew Zora didn't truly need his protection. Also, someone else had already arrived at her location to take over his role.

Back at Zora's position, the Ice Mage unleashed another [Ice Boulder], dropping the massive spell onto a cluster of fortress troops that had been neatly herded into place by the two Fury knight teams.

She let out a soft breath of relief as she descended, landing gracefully upon a thin sheet of ice that formed naturally beneath her feet with every spell she cast.

A moment later, another figure leapt down from a nearby rooftop.

Silver.

"Is it done?" Zora asked.

Silver nodded. "All hostiles in the area have been eliminated."

Around them, in the hidden archer nests Arvegil's group of archers had been using, every archer lay dead—each with a single arrow embedded cleanly in the centre of their forehead.

The precision left no doubt who the culprit was.

"All hostiles in the area eliminated," Zora echoed across comms.

On Alex's end, he nodded as both Zora's and Havel's reports came in.

That means this battlefield is the only one remaining, he thought.

Ahead of him, Mogal was locked in a brutal clash against Baron Leland Helton.

The barbarian was bleeding everywhere, his body battered and torn—yet his eyes blazed with life. His stance remained firm, his fists continued to strike and his spirit burned hotter with every exchange.

This... was what the Dravo tribe barbarians lived for.

A true fight.

A powerful opponent.

A battle where life and death sharpened the soul.

Mogal's grin widened the longer the duel dragged on. His mastery of the Dravo tribe's pugilist method seemed to grow by the heartbeat.

Conversely, Baron Leland's face grew darker.

He felt the barbarian's strength rising with every exchange.

And worse still…

He no longer sensed the auras of his sub-commanders.

'They were killed?'

He didn't want to believe it.

He desperately wanted to deny it.

But he couldn't.

If one of these outsiders could hold him back…

…then others among them could certainly slaughter his weaker sub-commanders.

"Hahaha!!!"

A wild, guttural laughter tore through the battlefield.

From the corner of his vision, Baron Leland saw the tiger-headed man—Kavakan—cut down the last of his Silver-ranked guards with a single brutal swing of his axe.

In that instant, the Baron understood.

His death had come.

Across the field, Alex watched as Mogal held his own—barely—against the fortress commander. He nodded slightly when he saw Kavakan dispatching the remaining officers who had accompanied the Baron.

All that remained now were the ordinary and elite soldiers—none of whom Kavakan cared about anymore.

The weretiger's entire body thrummed with anticipation.

He was itching to join Mogal's fight.

"Hm?"

Alex was just considering whether to let the weretiger join Mogal when a familiar sensation pulsed through his body.

His mana had recovered—enough to finally cast a spell.

He raised his hand.

[Multiple Mana Bolts]!

A Grade 1 spell, yes—but each bolt easily possessed enough force to kill or incapacitate an ordinary soldier.

Alex's casual spell ripped through the remaining troops around the Baron, erasing the last dregs of his defence force.

The message was clear.

Alex's mana was back.

Seeing this, Baron Leland's remaining sliver of hope crumbled entirely.

With Alex restored—and with Kavakan and Udara already primed to move—the Baron now potentially faced four opponents, all only slightly below him in raw power, but terrifyingly dangerous when combined.

He knew the end was coming.

So he chose one final, desperate act.

"Sorcerer!" he roared, disengaging abruptly from Mogal. "Do you dare duel me? Or can you only hide behind your men like a coward?!"

Alex looked at him.

His pupils briefly flashed a deep, predatory crimson before settling back into their usual ruby-red glow. His hand flexed around the Draconic Baton—tightening… relaxing… tightening again.

He exhaled softly, gazing up at the sky as though weighing something.

Then he turned back to the Baron.

"This is a war, not a noble's ballroom," Alex replied calmly. "You do not get to request a duel. And as for being a coward…"

He gestured casually to the bodies scattered across the field.

"…I think the blood of your men on my hands, and their corpses at my feet, speak louder than I ever could."

He waved dismissively.

"All of you… finish him."

At the command, the remaining three surged forward—Udara's shadowy form flashing ahead, Kavakan's axes gleaming, Mogal's hulking figure thundering across the stone ground.

Though the Baron knew his death was inevitable, he refused to bow quietly.

Drawing deeply upon his lifeforce, he burned everything he had left.

His aura exploded outward, forcefully pushing his strength beyond the limits of the Gold rank as he reached toward the threshold of a Combat Master.

Alas… he could not touch the door.

He held on for another five minutes—five long, brutal minutes—fending off three relentless foes, each one eager to fell him.

But the odds were never in his favour.

Eventually, his lifeforce guttered out and his movements slowed, causing his blade to sag.

Alex's followers did not hesitate.

Udara's shortsword sliced behind his knees, taking away his fluid movements.

Mogal's iron fist slammed into his liver, freezing him in place.

And finally—

Kavakan's axe descended.

The Baron's skull split cleanly in two.

Baron Leland Helton died as he lived—in battle.

And thus, the three-hundred-strong fortress defence force…

was wiped out.

***

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