It was impossible to stay hidden in the open.
The morning sun countered Kiva's mana, the enemy would spot the shadowy mana long before the strike team would reach them. Slipping in underground had been discussed—but any half-decent Esquiliana mage would sense them tunneling. Worse, it would take too long and in that time who knows how many of their fellow legionaries in Gorath's hollow would have perished.
That left only one option.
A frontal charge from the flank.
Almost half of the enemy force had already poured into the breach. The rest were tending the wounded or preparing to follow. It was the perfect moment.
As the strike team charged, their mana flared to life, a wave of power rolling across the battlefield.
Any competent mage used mana not just to cast—but to feel. A spread of energy that extended around them like a sixth sense, sensing motion, heat, and pressure changes in the immediate area. The range and precision of that sense varied from mage to mage, often shaped by the nature of their element.
Lightning, by its nature, excelled in this.
Rifi's mana, sharp and ever-reactive, reached farther and faster than most. He pulsed it in intervals as they moved, mapping every fluctuation in the terrain, every shimmer of hostile energy ahead. It made him impossible to miss—any experienced mage would feel that sharp-edged pressure before they saw him. Normally, that was by design.
But not yet.
Rifi kept his output in line with the others, dulling the surge just enough to blend into the team's collective flare. There would be a time to reveal himself. Not now.
The formation shifted naturally as they ran.
Brann took the point, his heavier build and crushing force ideal for absorbing impact. Mira and Kiva fanned out slightly behind him, flanking with speed and misdirection. Velen moved on the left, Dereth on the right, with Alin centered slightly behind them—her position critical, close enough to respond, far enough to stay protected. Rifi followed a few steps behind, keeping tight to Mira's side, already scanning the enemy ranks.
He wasn't looking for foot soldiers.
He was hunting commanders.
Already, shouts rang out across the field—Esquiliana officers bellowing orders, pulling their scattered units into defensive arcs. The discipline was there, crisp and effective. Formations pivoted, lines realigned.
And the spells came.
A barrage of mana projectiles arced across the field, dozens of attacks converging from every angle—wind blades, fire bolts, sharpened stone, condensed water spears.
The strike team didn't flinch.
They didn't need to.
Velen had already ensured the incoming barrage wouldn't touch them.
Barriers of earth surged upward in sharp, precise layers as his mana pulsed through the terrain. There was almost no waste—each wall shaped with perfect control, rising just high enough to intercept the attacks. What little slipped through, the team swatted aside without slowing.
The second volley came faster, harder—Esquiliana's frontline mages adjusting, now joined by their stronger casters outside the keep.
But Velen didn't waver.
Still running in formation, he channeled a focused tremor of his earth mana particles directly ahead. A deep pulse rumbled through the battlefield—targeted, precise. The spell wave shattered mid-air—wind blades scattered like leaves, stone shrapnel vaporized, fire bolts doused in a burst of broken mana.
Even without Red Core mages among them, Esquiliana's spell density was high—enough to wear down most defenders in a matter of moments.
And Velen was no exception, a good chunk of his mana was used already for the potent defense he conjured.
His breaths grew shorter, shoulders tight with effort—but he kept moving.
Dereth, just off to his right, sensed the strain and took the load without being asked. "I've got this side," he called, his mana flaring as a fan of earthen spires erupted along the flank, intercepting a third volley before it struck.
Dust and energy burst across the field.
But the strike team didn't wait for it to settle.
They surged through the haze.
Velen let out a long breath, regaining rhythm as he pressed forward behind the others. "Let's make it count," he muttered.
The Esquiliana line faltered for just a moment—shocked at how easily their spellwork had been dismantled.
Then their commander's voice rang out again, barking orders. Mages regrouped, casting new barriers—earth, fire, water, wind, woven in quick layers to break the incoming charge.
It didn't matter.
Brann saw them—and grinned.
"Velen!" he called. "You already know what to do!"
Velen didn't break stride. His will surged downward, and a spike of earth burst beneath Brann's next step—launching the battlemage into the air like a slingshot.
Brann rose fast, mana swirling dense and tight around him.
Then he let go.
His mana didn't explode outward— well it did but at the same time it collapsed in, folding the world toward him. Gravity distorted around his frame, air wrenching inward, walls flickering and crumbling under the sheer weight of his presence as he came down on the defensive enemy walls.
Fire hissed out. Earth crumpled. The constructs couldn't hold.
He slammed down hard, and the ground cratered beneath him—a ten-meter dent ripped into the field by the sheer force of impact.
"Now I'm gonna enjoy this," Brann growled, drawing a short rod from his back.
It grew as he moved, mana condensing into a massive hammer of packed weight and crushing pressure.
Mira shot past him on the left, steam bursting from her limbs as she moved like a drawn blade—controlled chaos slicing through staggered enemies.
Kiva didn't announce her presence. She vanished into shadow as her shadow mana flared—then reappeared behind the enemy flank, silent as smoke, her strikes precise and final.
The field tilted instantly.
The enemy formation—composed of mid-core mages, most blue core or lower by what the team already gathered, hastily organized to repel a standard assault—was outmatched. The strike team was too fast. Too coordinated. Too dangerous.
By the time the dust settled, the defense had shattered.
Dereth and Velen pushed forward just behind the frontline, anchoring the team's rear and flanks. Their coordination was seamless—Dereth's sharp, precise control complementing Velen's seasoned timing. Every spell that flew toward the team from a distance met a wall of earth or scattered under a wave of mana disruption.
Even the green-core Esquiliana commander, desperately hurling spells from a rear perch, found himself thwarted. Velen broke his firestorm apart mid-air. Dereth countered a spear of stone with a wave of raw force that sent fragments showering harmlessly to the side.
Alin stayed near the center of the formation, her mana clinging to the frontliners like a second skin—thin streams of water reinforcing joints, cushioning impacts, knitting shallow wounds before they could bleed. She never stopped moving, constantly shifting her focus between Mira, Kiva, and Brann, shielding, stabilizing, and enhancing.
Rifi fought close, dancing through the fray alongside Mira—watching her blind spots, covering the flanks when her movement left an opening. She didn't need much help; the enemy had little left to throw at her. Still, he stayed nearby—not for her safety, but to maintain the team's balance. He kept low, quiet, waiting for any higher-ranked mage to slip join the battle.
None did, yet.
The only enemy mage of a higher rank outside the keep—the same Green-Core who'd tried to assist earlier—was already being dismantled, caught between Dereth's raw pressure and Velen's layered defenses. The rest of Esquiliana's outer forces were completely overmatched..
It was a massacre.
Then the field cracked again.
Brann's hammer struck a hastily raised earth barrier, summoned mid-swing by another green-core mage who had just joined the defense—a fresh reinforcement. The slab shattered on impact, debris scattering like leaves. The mage that was being assited staggered, but in the next moment Brann's shoulder slammed into him, launching the man through a splintered barricade.
Brann turned, ready to taunt the newcomer green core—
"You—"
—but never finished.
A sudden eruption of fire forced him back, his boots dragging a full meter through the dirt. The earthen shield he raised at the last second absorbed the worst of it, but not enough—heat slammed into his chest in a crushing wave. Brann barely flinched. Alin's water mana had already surged around him, soaking the blast before it could burn through. Her timing was sharp. The fire damage was minimal, only the momentum of the spell did deal some damage.
A Red-Core mage stepped into view from the enemy camp, her hand raised, eyes blazing.
Rifi hadn't sensed her in time—he'd been keeping his lightning output low to avoid drawing attention. Now that he'd found a target worth the effort, it was time to stop holding back.
Then he was gone—a blur of purplish-white light streaking toward the blast, dense arcs of lightning cracking in his wake. The air hissed behind him, scorched by the overload.
The Red-Core mage raised her hand, summoning a spiral of flame that bloomed upward like a twisted flower before condensing into a burning sphere above. That was when she felt it—the shift in pressure, the sudden spike of danger. Her senses screamed at her, and she wasn't a fool.
Fire mana flared around her as she conjured a tight, blazing shield and reached beneath her robes.
Rifi's breath hitched.
The cursed mana stone.
She meant to use it.
He surged forward—faster, sharper.
Flames lashed out in every direction—wild, panicked, unfocused. She couldn't track him, so she tried to burn everything. It wasn't precision. It was desperation.
Rifi tore through the fire like it was fog. His mana shield absorbed the scattered heat, and his lightning blade snapped forward.
Her hand dropped, severed cleanly at the wrist.
The gem tumbled from her grip.
Her eyes widened, mouth parting to scream—
"Too slow," Rifi muttered.
The second blade punched through her chest.
She crumpled, her core flickering out with a silent, breathless thud.
Rifi stood above her, still as stone. Lightning crawled over his skin—dense, wild, alive. It cracked against the ground in snapping arcs, each one loud and sharp, scattering sparks like shrapnel. The air around him shimmered with pressure. His body radiated more than mana now—it radiated force. The Orange-Core lightning surged through him like a storm held barely in check, lashing outward as if his frame was no longer enough to contain it. Every step he took left scorched marks in the earth.
He crouched and scooped up the cursed stone, tucking it into a reinforced pouch at his belt.
If nothing else, this was a first—no one had ever recovered one of these from the Esquiliana bastards.
At least now, they might finally uncover some of its secrets.
Behind him, Mira was already carving through the last scattered Esquiliana units, her steam bursts sharp and cutting. She dropped one soldier with a burst of superheated pressure, then spun and sent a geyser of scalding mist into another's helmet.
Kiva was barely visible—flitting through the edges of the melee, a ghost with blades inside of her shadowy shroud. Her presence in the shroud was only known by the trail of corpses she left behind.
Brann swung his hammer again, crushing the bothersome Green-Core who'd dared to get in his way moments earlier. He was grinning now, his rage honed into purpose.
Near the perimeter, Dereth and Velen had just finished off the Green-Core commander. Without pause, they turned their spells on the now retreating Esquiliana, cutting down those trying to flee back toward the base camp.
Alin weaved between them, her hands never still—water coiled through her fingers, stitching skin, reinforcing joints, shielding the bodies. She reached for Brann's shoulder to close a deep cut—the big guy was a magnet for enemy attacks.
It was over.
The battlefield outside the keep lay broken.
Then the world shifted again.
They all felt it.
A spike—raw, violent.
Twin pulses of energy burst from within the keep, tearing through stone and air like cannon fire.
Two distinct signatures. Their mana was different now. Wild. Unstable.
Red-Cores—no longer. Their mana had changed, flaring with a denser, sharper quality. Orange-Core, maybe even beyond it. But something felt off. To Rifi, the energy pulsing from within wasn't smooth—it was stubborn, almost as if resisting its own wielder.
It was a strange sensation. He had no better way to describe it.
Kiva reappeared near Rifi, her tone grim. "It's them—the two Red-Cores who led the charge. They took the cursed stones."
Rifi's jaw tightened.
Brann glanced toward the breach. "The Sergia clan won't last long if they're facing that."
"They won't have to handle it alone," Rifi said. "Now the real fight starts."
Velen and Brann stepped up beside him. Neither spoke.
"You two—come with me. Alin, support us if you can, but stay as far back as possible. Kiva, you and the rest—secure the breach. No more reinforcements can get through. If they do, this gets worse fast."
Mira opened her mouth. Dereth tensed. Rifi raised a hand.
"I know what you want to say. But those two aren't Red-Cores anymore. They're Orange now. If you go in as a Green-Core, you're only courting death. Support Alin if needed—but don't stray far. Kiva will need the help."
They fell silent. The weight of it hit them. This wasn't the time to prove anything.
Lightning surged across his frame once more as he instinctively enhanced his body in anticipation of the battle. It wasn't his highest output, but the charge was dense enough that arcs of lightning danced visibly across his skin. He turned to the breach.
"Time they learned the difference between stolen power—and earned power."