Reidar stood in the shadow of a crumbling building, his gaze locked on the Church of Unbinding's base inside Creamont.

The concrete structure dominated the street. It was a tumor of steel and mana growing out of the city's ruins and bringing forth even more decay. It was ugly and functional, and the inside radiated a mana signature that made his skin crawl.

It was Silas's mana signature.

—[«Reidar Miller—Level 299»]—

Reidar checked his status. He stared at the interface until the blue light blurred in his vision. Level 299. For anyone else in the settlement, that number would have been a cause for celebration—a guarantee that they had finally outpaced the danger. But looking at it, Reidar didn't feel powerful; he felt hollow. It wasn't an achievement. It was just a reminder that he was the strongest person among his people and that the duty to fight the church fell on him.

Not even his trait worked. After he went searching for good monsters to hunt, he got proof that batch summons weren't good at high levels. Reidar summoned thousands of creatures, but he had been only able to kill 7 monsters higher than level 300, and they massacred his army.

He ran the tactical calculations again, but the math remained unforgiving. Swarm tactics were dead; the monsters here simply ignored his low-tier fodder, forcing him to sink his mana into high-tier skills.

That left him walking the woods with few summons—a dangerously thin line of defense. It made him feel exposed.

He had to skulk through the undergrowth like a scavenger, belly-crawling through the mud, because he knew that if he stood up and drew aggro, he wouldn't survive the first hit.

The level number in front of him came at the cost of the trembling in his hands and the hollow cramp in his stomach. He hadn't slept in days, not out of discipline, but out of necessity—the monsters were too strong to allow for a single moment of vulnerability.

<It's not enough.>

The thought tasted like ash. He had pushed his body and mind to the breaking point, bridging the gap between himself and the monsters, but Silas was at Level 330.

31 levels. That gap wasn't just a number; it was a chasm, and Silas was also past level 300. A single spell from the Archdeacon would vaporize him. Direct combat was suicide, and using so many summoned creatures was going to be useless since they would be vaporized as fast as he would.

The only good thing was that thanks to his trait, mana wasn't a problem anymore. He just needed to keep his original summons alive and scatter some of them around for them to summon more without using his mana.

Of course, if he wasn't killed during the fight.

His hand tightened around his wand.

<Let's hope this works.>

He sighed, his breath misting in the chill morning air. The time for grinding had passed.

<Let's see what happens, Silas.>

The battlefield changed. A ripple of power washed over the courtyard, silencing the lesser combatants for a second.

—***—

Aaron arrived. Jake started his battle against the mutated man, but down in the mud and gore, the War Hounds found new resolve. It wasn't just because Aaron got there, but also because more people came with him.

Judas was arrogant, but he wasn't stupid. He sent people to buy new skills and then sent them onto the battlefield. Of course, everyone bought summoning and healing skills, whatever they needed to win. That was making the battle dynamics change already.

It wasn't just that, but two more people joined the fray. They were Judas's comrades, his most trusted men.

Helga crushed a spectral wolf's skull and turned. A mountain of a man blocked her path to the inner gate.

—[«Tim Korg—Level 184»]—.

He wore armor made of scrap metal welded into a second skin, and he held two tower shields like they were dinner plates. He didn't carry a weapon; he was the weapon.

"You're the ox?" Korg said. He slammed his shield onto the ground. The resulting noise was like a crack of thunder.

Helga spat onto the ground. She adjusted her grip on her warhammer. "Who are you calling an ox, you giant trash can? "

The air screamed first, torn apart by the wild arc of the hammer, but the blow never reached the ribs it hunted. Korg did not dodge.

The impact detonated like a blacksmith's hammer on an anvil, sending shockwaves vibrating up Helga's arms.

The force behind the attacking and defending blow almost wrenched the weapon from her grip, but Helga held firm. The shield got barely dented, and his stance was unbroken.

Korg roared, shoving his shield forward like a piston. The steel slab caught Helga in the chest, knocking the air from her lungs and sending her skidding across the blood-slicked stones.

150 meters away, Aldric skewered a War Hound mage and spun his spear tip into a new target. A blade whistled past his ear, shaving a lock of his blonde hair.

—[«Clarence Vane—Level 181»]—

Aldric clocked the man's build. He was wiry and unburdened by armor. The lack of it meant the enemy would be fast, relying on the leather straps to get a mobility edge.

But the real danger was in his hands. He stared at the twin serrated sabers, noting the green viscous liquid dripping from the edges. Venom. If he took even a single scratch from those blades, the fight—and his life—would be over.

"The Sun Chaser," Vane said, licking a blood splatter from his lip. He hopped down. "I heard people talking about you. Why did you come here to Creamont? Didn't you have your territory already?"

"I heard people needed my help here…"

"No one needed your help. We were perfectly fine."

Aldric leveled his spear; this man was strong, to the point that even Aldric got intimidated.

"Just shut up, you idiot," Lorian said. "I didn't come here to hear you talk. Just to kill you."

"Ah, Lorian, what a pleasure to see you. I wondered if I would see you today."

"I'm here now; do you want an autograph?"

"Not now, Lorian!"

Aldric then launched himself, raising his spear high. Vane caught the blow on his crossed blades, sparks showering the ground between them. The assassin twisted, aiming a kick at Aldric's knee, forcing the spearman to give ground.

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