None of the converts wielded weapons. Instead, they all wore identical gauntlets—grotesque things that grew with their bodies, expanding to match their bulging muscles and massive fists. Their robes had been stretched and torn by their transformations, but unlike before, they no longer moved like humans. Their bodies jerked and snapped unnaturally, like marionettes yanked by invisible strings—only these puppets were blindingly fast and brutally strong.
Kyren met the first cultist head-on, his Lion's Requiem crashing down—only for the puppet to catch it mid-swing with its gauntleted arm.
He was ready for that.
Kyren disengaged instantly, twisting away just as the cultist's fist came hurtling toward him. He barely dodged, the sheer force of the punch ripping through the air like a cannon shot. But there was no rhythm, no instinct to their movements. Their attacks were too erratic, too mechanical.
His Prey Eyes flared to life, scanning his enemy—seeing every weak spot, every chink in the unnatural strength before him.
Found it.
He shot forward, using Soundless Step to close the distance in a blur. His sword flashed, slicing clean through the cultist's knee ligaments. The blow should've dropped the puppet instantly. Instead, as soon as Kyren surged past toward the priest, the cultist reappeared in front of him in an instant.
Kyren's eyes widened. Too fast!
Before he could react, the puppet slammed into him, gripping his body like a vice and hurling him into the ground. The impact cracked the stone beneath him, the breath ripping from his lungs. Before he could recover, a brutal kick sent him skidding twenty feet away.
The puppet returned to its post before the priest, unmoving.
Runa danced between two puppets, her floating blade striking like a viper—cutting through ligaments, slicing at exposed joints. But the puppets barely slowed. Even as she weaved around their wild, jerking attacks, slashing at every vulnerable point, their stiff, unnatural movements never stopped.
She adjusted. If they wouldn't go down immediately, she'd make them move less.
Her attacks became surgical, targeting elbows, knees, ankles—turning their already rigid movements into something even more sluggish. One of her puppets was starting to falter, its motions stiff and jagged.
But she was running out of time.
Her breathing was growing heavier. Controlling the flow of the battle while constantly dodging their relentless attacks was beginning to wear on her. The moment her speed slipped, a fist caught her clean in the side.
A wave of force blasted through her ribs, sending her flying. She hit the ground hard, rolling before catching herself. Even though their attacks were stiff, their strength was monstrous.
I have to slow this down.
She recalled her swords, the three grass-forged blades dissolving back into her palms.
Lydel was a blur, weaving through the battlefield alongside his afterimage, sending feints in every direction to confuse the puppet attacking him. Sometimes he sent the clone forward. Other times, he switched places at the last second.
He saw the puppet's wild swings before they even started, adjusting his footwork instantly.
The problem was landing real hits.
He kept striking vital spots, aiming to slow it down like Runa, but the puppet barely reacted. It only moved more wildly, attacking everything in range, including his afterimages. Another clone vanished as the puppet obliterated it with a single punch.
Lydel sidestepped, readying another feint—
Then the puppet's arm whipped through the air faster than he expected.
He moved, but not fast enough.
The massive fist collided with his leg, flinging him sideways like a ragdoll. He hit the ground hard, rolling until he somehow landed on his feet, barely standing. His knees wobbled, but he refused to drop his sword.
Baldwin had no weapon. He never had.
Sixty-five years in Zafeer had taught him how to fight, how to steal, how to survive. Here, in this far-flung military and trade outpost—too distant to be part of the inner city, yet too strong to be called the outskirts—the weak were crushed underfoot.
But Baldwin had never been weak.
His power wasn't about making himself stronger. It was meant for more.
While the others rushed in, Baldwin stood back, tracing intricate symbols onto his palms. A cheetah's face on his left hand. An elephant's head on his right.
He slammed both hands into his chest.
Mana swirled. His muscles tightened. A burst of speed erupted from his body as he launched forward faster than any man his age should have.
A gauntleted fist came to meet him. Baldwin didn't flinch.
He met the punch head-on, trading blow for blow with a creature twice his size. Then, when the opening came, Baldwin caught the puppet's arm, gripping it tight.
With a powerful twist, he swung the puppet around like a battering ram, sending it hurtling into the far wall.
But he wasn't done.
Baldwin slapped his right palm against his chest again. His strength dropped—but his speed doubled.
He dashed through the battlefield, a blur of motion.
Kyren first. He reached the downed warrior, slamming a palm against his back.
Kyren gasped—his body surged with mana. Strength and agility flooded his limbs, his movements feeling sharper, faster, effortless.
Runa next.
Baldwin streaked past, tapping her as he ran.
Her mana roared to life. The Trident Scythe burst into existence in her hands—its long, light brown shaft glowing with energy, its three curved blades gleaming like polished metal. She twirled it once, and then she moved—faster, sharper, flowing like a storm.
Lydel last.
Liora had already landed on Lydel's shoulder, healing him, but Baldwin added to it—slapping both hands on his shoulders before whispering:
"This is how we win."
Then Baldwin was gone, dashing back into the fight.
Lydel's injuries vanished in an instant, but something more flooded his body. Mana surged, and for the first time, his movements felt… perfect.
He dove forward, faster than before. His sword slashed down, cracking the gauntlet of his puppet's raised arm. His afterimage followed a heartbeat later, its strike severing the puppet's limb entirely.
But the puppet didn't stop.
It lunged, ignoring its lost arm, blood spraying from the stump—
Lydel dodged, already moving. He struck again, his afterimage feinting high while Lydel cut low, his blade cleaving clean through the puppet's knee.
It dropped, dragging itself forward on one leg, refusing to stop.
Lydel didn't hesitate.
One more step, one last swing—his sword flashed, and the puppet's head rolled from its shoulders.
The body twitched once. Then it went still.
Lydel spun toward the others.
"You have to destroy them! Cut off the head, or they'll keep moving!"