Though sleep evaded Kyren for hours, it eventually found him. He had hoped for a dream—something to prepare him for the battle that loomed—but nothing came. Just darkness. Just sleep.
When Kyren was finally awoken, it was by Lydel's voice.
"Your turn to watch. Sorry, but it's another boring night," Lydel muttered, plopping down beside the tent.
Kyren sat up, blinking groggily. Moonlight filtered into the tent in faint silver strands, just enough for him to make out Runa's peaceful face as she slept beside him. He took a breath, then crawled out of the tent, stretched, and drank deeply from his canteen.
Then, he summoned his sword.
He moved through each strike Runa had taught him—flowing, controlled, deliberate. When he finished, he stretched again, muscles loose and sharp. His body felt light. Stronger than it had ever been.
Kyren opened his system, flipping to the Wayfinder's Kin tab.
The first thing he saw made his breath hitch:
Wayfinder's Upgrade: Legendary Mount – Veldthar, Herald of the Stormpath
New Legendary Abilities:
1. Stormstep Pulse (Passive)
With every bound or thunder-charged dash, Veldthar leaves behind a trail of electrified air—pockets of storm-born energy that shimmer in his wake.
• Allies who pass through this tempest path find themselves invigorated, their strides quickened and bodies cloaked in a faint, crackling barrier of protection.
• Enemies caught within the trail are momentarily rattled—their reflexes dulled, their movements sluggish as though the storm itself has turned against them.
2. Tempest Charge (Battlecry of the Stormbeast – can be unleashed once each passing of a minute)
When Veldthar roars and takes to the charge, thunder splits the air and lightning races down his limbs.
• Foes in his path are struck with blinding force—flung aside by the might of his gallop, their voices silenced by the shock.
• As he storms through, spheres of living lightning—Arc Sparks—are left in his wake, pulsing with unstable energy that explodes if not quickly subdued.
• If Kyren rides upon his back, the charge crescendos into a Stormcrash Leap—Veldthar soaring into the air and crashing down like a bolt from the heavens, sending enemies sprawling in all directions beneath the weight of wind and fury.
3. Wayfinder's Shroud (Eternal Mist of the Kinbond)
While summoned to the mortal world, Veldthar carries the storm with him. A swirling mist clings to his hooves and horns, veiling his rider and their companions in the breath of the clouds.
• Within this stormborn shroud, movements grow harder to track. Those who rely on spells, scents, or spiritual senses find their reach dimmed—like trying to see through lightning-lit fog.
• For thirty paces in every direction, the mist obscures and confounds, turning shadows into ghosts and footsteps into whispers.
4. Thunderbond (Sacred Kin-Synergy: Only when Arvalen walks beside Kyren)
When the stormbeast and the lion-spirit stand together, a forgotten power stirs. At Kyren's call, Arvalen's roar merges with the pulse of lightning, forming a harmony of storm and spirit.
• Thunder crashes and spirit fire howls. All enemies near are struck still—caught in awe or terror—as their bodies seize with raw energy.
• A mark forms on their skin, seared by unseen runes—Veilbrand, a curse of heritage and wrath that weakens their guard against Kyren's every strike.
• This power may be called upon only once during a battle, for it draws deeply from the sacred bond between soul and storm.
Kyren stared at the screen, stunned. Veldthar was a legendary mount now. His heart beat faster—not from fear, but awe. He didn't even know what "legendary" meant yet, not fully—but this? This would help them.
He scrolled down to Arvalen's page.
Arvalen (Adolescent Spirit Lion)
Soulbound
That was new. It used to just say "Spirit Lion." His curiosity flared, but he didn't summon either of them. Not now. Not yet. They'd have their place in the battle.
The sun began its slow rise over the horizon, just barely peeking above the hills. The clock had started ticking. Not long now.
"Can we really take down this whole village with three people and a couple of animals?" Kyren muttered.
His friends stirred behind him.
"Morning. Y'all ready for the eclipse?" he asked, standing to meet their bleary gazes.
"As ready as I'll ever be to cause destruction," Lydel said flatly.
They shared what food they had left as the sun climbed higher.
"When do you think things'll pop off?" Lydel asked. "I say two hours."
"I give it four," Runa replied.
"I'll be in the crowd in three," Kyren said.
They stretched in silence. Underneath their calm faces, fear simmered—but none of them showed it.
"Kyren," Runa asked, holding up her wrists, "what exactly am I supposed to do with these bracelets?"
"I need you to fill them with mana," Kyren said. "Focus on the weapons you made. As soon as the ritual starts."
"What's that gonna do?"
Kyren shrugged. "Make a storm."
Runa narrowed her eyes but let it go.
"What's my plan?" Lydel asked. "Don't leave me out."
Kyren smiled. "Honestly, bro? When the chaos breaks out, just start kicking some ass."
"Oh, I can do that easy."
Runa stood. "Time to head to town."
They packed camp quickly and walked toward the city. The sound of chanting grew louder.
At first, it was jumbled. But then it came into focus:
"Who is next?"
"Who is next?"
"Who is next?"
The crowd boomed.
As they approached the gates, they saw it. A sea of red. Cultists crowded the pavilion like blood spilled across stone. Onstage stood twenty kneeling figures in red robes—cultists. Behind them, five more figures: the priests and the Starmakers.
One priest stepped forward, hand dipping into a box, drawing a name.
When he read it aloud, the crowd cheered—then immediately returned to chanting.
"Who is next?"
The pattern repeated. A name. A cheer. Then silence.
The crowd had swelled to nearly 150. One by one, people were chosen. Kneeling. Awaiting Conversion.
Kyren, Runa, and Lydel pushed forward through the crowd. They made it near the middle just as the eclipse began—light fading, the moon sliding into place.
The priests raised their hands. Nature mana swirled violently, more intense than anything Kyren had ever felt.
"Now, Runa! Fill the bracelets!" he shouted.
Runa closed her eyes and poured mana into the bands.
They pulsed red.
Across the city, 150 blades—hatchets, swords, daggers—began to rise. She had planted them all the previous night.
The weapons soared through the streets, cutting down unprepared cultists on the outskirts of the pavilion—slashing flesh, tearing robes.
Above the pavilion, the blades spiraled into a storm.
The priests began the ritual. The mana turned sharp—piercing the kneeling cultists, infusing them.
And then—
The blades fell.
As the blades fell, they tore through the crowd in a whirlwind of metal and screams. Panic erupted. Cultists scattered, trampling each other in a mad rush to escape the storm of slashing steel.
On the stage, the bodies of the men undergoing Conversion began to swell—muscle and sinew twisting under the weight of raw, unfiltered nature mana.
Two of the priests were struck by blades—deep gashes through their abdomens. They collapsed to their knees, groaning in pain. Runa's eyes locked onto the embedded weapons, and with a clenched fist, she focused her power.
The blades twisted deeper.
Not enough to kill, but enough to end their part in the ritual.
Only one man remained unmoved—the Starmaker in the center.
The converts before him continued to swell grotesquely, veins bulging green, eyes glowing with wild, fractured light.
Something was wrong.
Kyren remembered Windy's words—too much nature mana.
Then came the roar.
The men twisted beyond human recognition, their minds torn apart by the overload. Bones cracked, arms lengthened, spines arched into beast-like forms. They weren't men anymore.
They were monsters.
With a snarl, the Starmaker rose and spread his arms wide. "Kill them! Kill them all! Let the strong survive!" he shouted, his voice unhinged. "Can you kill my minions?!"
Then he sat down.
Smiling.
Watching the carnage unfold.
The men whose Conversions had been interrupted lay motionless in a pool of blood and failure. The rest—the beasts—lunged forward, charging into the crowd like unleashed predators.
Runa responded instantly. Every scattered blade across the city halted midair—then shot toward the stage like a hail of judgment.
With a single gesture, she brought all the weapons crashing down—onto the beasts, onto the stage, onto the madness.
An icy dome erupted around the remaining priest, shielding him and the two Starmakers. The blades clanged harmlessly against it, frost flashing across steel.
Kyren summoned Fang of Requiem, the blade flaring to life in his hand.
"It's time to fight!" he roared, and dashed into the fray.
One of the converted monsters had dodged the blade storm, now barreling through the crowd toward a group of screaming civilians.
Kyren moved to intercept—feet flying, weapon pulsing with power.
But as he ran, a thought crept in—unbidden, sharp, unsettling.
That voice.
The Starmaker's voice.
It sounded familiar.