Chapter 380: CHRISTOPHER
Far to the east, beyond the crumbled spires of the Isle of Halor and the distant shimmer of the Aetheris riftlines, the human stronghold of Eldoria burned against the dusk sky.
It was the last bastion of human dominion—fortified stone walls layered with mana wards, towers bristling with runic ballistae, and banners of silver and deep green snapping violently in the wind.
But tonight, the horizon was not peaceful.
Tonight, the borders screamed with the clash of steel, the thrum of magic, and the war cries of two worlds colliding.
At the outer defense lines, goblins in jagged armor and orcs wielding massive cleavers surged forward like a black tide. They had crossed vast leagues from the endless dark kingdom of Endless himself, carrying the stench of that accursed realm with them—ash, rot, and an aura of magic so foul the grass beneath their feet turned grey.
At their head, a towering figure in robes of shifting black mist commanded their advance.
The Dark Magi.
His presence alone choked the air, his hooded face hidden beneath a crown of shadow. Around him, tendrils of abyssal energy crawled over the battlefield, unraveling the light of torches and turning the very earth beneath him brittle.
Across the blood-stained field, the humans held their line.
Their commander stood unshaken at the very front—Drake Grey, elder brother to Morris and current head of the venerable Grey family. His armor was a blackened silver, his pauldrons etched with the sigil of a rearing gryphon. His blade—a family heirloom—shone with a faint, cold radiance that burned away the corruption seeping in from the Dark Magi’s influence.
"Hold the line!" Drake’s voice cut through the chaos, commanding without effort. "Eldoria does not break!"
Behind him, formations of soldiers and battlemages worked in perfect synchrony, their shields locking into runic grids while mages chanted layered wards that bent enemy arrows out of the air.
And then—through the chaotic frontline—came a blur of crimson.
Christopher.
Kaelen’s junior, a Pacesetters prodigy who wielded a long crimson blade like an extension of his soul. His armor was lighter than the rest, designed for speed, and the moment his boots touched enemy lines, orcs and goblins fell like wheat to a scythe.
Each slash of his blade wasn’t just steel—it was fury incarnate, arcs of crimson light severing weapons, cleaving armor, and sending monstrous bodies crashing to the dirt. The energy he poured into each strike made the very air shimmer, and in his wake, enemies either fled or died without so much as a scream.
Drake watched him from the corner of his eye, the faintest smirk touching his otherwise stoic features.
He’s grown stronger... Kaelen’s influence runs deep in this one.
The Dark Magi’s gaze, however, was fixed sharply on Christopher.
For the first time that night, the robed figure stepped forward, the ground beneath his boots blackening to ash.
He raised one of his hand.
A chain of black fire erupted from the ground, twisting toward Christopher like a serpent hungry for blood.
But Christopher’s blade blurred—one step, one swing, and the chain was severed, dissolving into smoke before it could touch him. His eyes burned with challenge as he pointed the tip of his crimson sword toward the Dark Magi, daring him forward.
The Dark Magi’s expression could not be seen beneath the shadows of his hood, but the air around him shifted—an acknowledgment of indignation and irritation.
Then, with a voice like smoke over cold iron, he hissed a single command.
"Fall back."
The order rippled outward like a physical wave, and instantly the goblins and orcs disengaged, retreating in chaotic but urgent motion. Their guttural war cries turned to growls of frustration, but none disobeyed.
Christopher, chest heaving from battle, stepped forward instinctively to pursue—but Drake’s hand caught his shoulder.
"Let them go," the Grey patriarch said quietly, his gaze following the Dark Magi as the black tide receded into the night. "This was not their true attack. This was a message."
Far above the battlefield, the crescent moon emerged from behind thick clouds, casting its pale light over Eldoria’s weary defenders. The retreat left behind a field littered with bodies, the smell of iron heavy in the air, but the walls still stood, and so did the humans who defended them.
Christopher sheathed his crimson blade, though his jaw was set. "If this is the start of what’s coming," he muttered, "then Kaelen better return soon."
---
The march back to the Dark Legion’s forward camp was silent, save for the heavy boots of retreating orcs and the guttural breathing of goblins nursing their wounds. The camp itself was hidden deep in a ravine lined with blackened stone, lit by the greenish glow of burning witchfire torches. Its jagged palisade of bone and iron loomed like the jaws of a predator, closing around its prey.
When the war party returned, there was no triumphant roar, no victory feast—only the slow scattering of warriors into their assigned tents, the air thick with the stench of blood and failure.
Alen, the Dark Magi, moved wordlessly past them, his robe trailing shadows that clung to the dirt like tar. He entered the largest war tent, its interior lined with cursed banners that seemed to whisper in an alien tongue. The moment the heavy hide flaps fell shut behind him...
...his control broke.
A blast of black mana surged from his body, rattling the iron braziers and snuffing out the flames inside. The ground trembled under the sudden pressure of his rage.
"Damn him!" His voice was a razor’s edge, slicing the thick silence. "Endless dares to send me—Alen, The First and the Dark Magi—as a mere scout master? To measure the strength of human insects with a band of half-trained beasts?!"
He swept his arm, and a table laden with strategy maps and enchanted markers exploded into splinters. Shards of bone and glass tore into the tent walls.
His eyes—two pits of molten crimson—narrowed into slits.
"Despite going through hell and back to resurrect him, even losing my beloved daughter to that bastard. This is nothing short of humiliation... to be forced into this disgraceful farce while others bask in his favor." His clawed hands flexed, trembling not from fear but the strain of restraining himself from acting on thoughts too dangerous to speak aloud.
After a long moment, his breathing slowed, but his voice dropped to a deadly whisper.
"I will repay him. Oh... I will repay him dearly. And when I do, the name Endless will bleed like the mortals he toys with."
The braziers flared back to life at his will, casting his elongated shadow across the tent wall—its form warped, monstrous, like something far greater than the man himself.
Outside, the camp remained quiet. The soldiers had no idea the storm that brewed in their commander’s heart.
---
Meanwhile, in Eldoria...
The battle had ended hours ago, yet the outer ward was still alive with activity. Lanterns and conjured light globes lit the wounded rows of soldiers laid out on cots, healers weaving spells over their injuries while others worked with salves and bandages. The metallic tang of blood still clung to the air despite the steady breeze from the plains.
Drake Grey sat at a wooden table inside the command tent, his armor unfastened at the neck, a map of Eldoria’s borders spread out before him. His right gauntlet lay on the table beside a cup of cooling tea, and his eyes scanned the latest casualty lists with a quiet, measured grimness.
Across from him, Christopher leaned back in his chair, his crimson blade resting against his shoulder, the tip still faintly glowing from the magic it had absorbed in battle. His posture was casual, but his gaze was sharp—always listening, always ready to move if the alarm sounded again.
The tent flaps burst open, letting in a rush of cold night air. Charlotte entered at a near run, her braid swinging over one shoulder, her expression tight with urgency.
"Drake!" she called before she’d even fully crossed the threshold.
Drake’s head rose instantly, reading the urgency in her tone. "What is it?"
Charlotte took a breath, steadying herself, but the spark of relief in her eyes told part of the answer before she even spoke.
"It’s Lila," she said. "She’s awake. She’s finally regained consciousness."
For the first time since the battle ended, the iron mask on Drake’s face cracked—just a fraction. His gaze sharpened, and Christopher straightened in his chair.
"Where?" Drake asked.
"In the inner keep infirmary," Charlotte replied, already half-turned toward the exit as though expecting him to follow. "Neana’s with her. She’s weak, but... she’s speaking again."
Drake rose from his seat in one fluid motion, the map forgotten, the weight of command momentarily set aside.
"Then we go now."
The three of them moved swiftly through the camp, weaving past healers, soldiers, and the battered remnants of Eldoria’s wall. For the first time that night, the war at the border faded into the background, replaced by a singular thought:
Lila was back.