What is magic?
Magic was the art of shaping reality by manipulating mana, the fundamental energy flowing through the world. The greater the spell's scale and impact, the more mana it demanded—often drawing from the environment like a whirlpool consuming the sea.
And Raging Thunder was no ordinary spell.
Its power skirted the edge of grand magic. Even those with only a flicker of mana sensitivity felt an unnatural stillness creeping in, as if the very air around them were being inhaled by an invisible force.
All the mana within reach surged toward the torn scroll in Lord Prell's hand.
Even after he released it, the scroll refused to fall. It hovered in midair, pulsing with a blue glow, trembling with bound energy.
The unnatural phenomenon sent tremors of panic through the nearby soldiers. Despite their commander's desperate shouts, several broke ranks and fled.
Then, the parchment burst into reality.
KURRRR-THOOOOM!
In the cloudless night sky, thunder boomed like divine wrath.
The sound was deafening—like lightning crashing inches from one's ears. Even battle-hardened soldiers stumbled, disoriented by the shock.
The heavens split open.
A storm of lightning bolts poured from the sky, crackling white and blue as they slammed into the mana cannon and its surroundings.
Dozens. Then hundreds.
Like spears hurled by the gods.
Screams mingled with the roar of thunder, and the battlefield was engulfed in smoke, fire, and devastation.
Lord Zane, galloping in retreat, couldn't tear his eyes away.
"This is madness…" he breathed.
The ground where the mana cannon once stood had become a scorched crater.
And yet, Prell's expression remained grim.
"We didn't completely destroy the cannon…"
Though he'd seen the magic land true, doubt lingered in his heart.
But the mage beside him answered, breathless.
"Even if not obliterated, it's been crippled. That cannon is magi-engineered—it'll take days to repair, assuming they even can."
Prell's face softened. They had suffered losses, yes—but if they'd bought time, it was worth the price.
As long as they could hold until reinforcements arrived, this battle was not lost.
But the moment of relief was fleeting.
Enemy horns echoed across the field. Soldiers from the Dusel army, drawn by the thunder and the magic's glow, rushed in from all directions.
Dark-armored and furious, they bore down on the fleeing cavalry.
"Ugh!"
"Cough!"
Under a rain of arrows and thrown spears, riders fell one by one. Each drop of blood was a precious cost for borrowed time.
Though few in number, Prell's forces were elite. Trained. Resolute.
Yet as their numbers thinned, despair gripped even the strongest.
Near the bridge to Friel Castle, only half remained.
"Just a bit more…!"
Prell urged his horse forward. Through smoke and chaos, he glimpsed armored riders approaching the bridge.
Then he saw it—the Izell family crest gleaming in the torchlight.
He exhaled.
"Ha…"
Infantry across the bridge surged forward with spears raised.
"Protect the Viscount!"
"Secure the path!"
These were not seasoned guards. Many were conscripts, barely trained. But no knight, no matter how skilled, could easily charge through a wall of spears.
Like a hedgehog bristling with thorns, the infantry locked into formation. Leo gritted his teeth, planted his spear into the earth, and tucked the shaft beneath his arm.
There was no technique here—only raw resolve.
Across the field, Knight Freyer of Dusel hesitated.
"Should we break through or fall back? If we retreat now, morale might collapse…"
After a tense pause, his voice rang out:
"Advance! We can't let them escape untouched!"
Two hundred cavalry surged forward like a tidal wave.
"Steady! Spearwall formation! Ready yourselves!"
Officers shouted orders, their voices hoarse.
"Leo. See you on the other side."
"Likewise, Mark."
They shared a final nod.
Then the cavalry hit.
CRUNCH.
Steel met flesh.
Spears shattered. Horses fell, screaming. Men screamed louder.
Some riders were impaled instantly; others trampled soldiers beneath hooves. Blood painted the bridge and soaked into the cold earth.
Yet still, the line held.
Leo barely dodged a sword slash from above. He rolled, sprang up, and slashed at a horse's legs. The beast toppled. He drove his blade into the rider's neck.
Turning, he parried a blow meant for Mark. In a flash, he struck the attacker's wrist.
"Aagh!"
As the man screamed, Leo silenced him with a final cut to the throat.
But then—
"Mark! Are you—?"
"Ggh…"
Mark crumpled, his left arm severed and bleeding badly.
Leo dragged him behind a pile of corpses, desperate to shield him from view. Then, with fire in his veins, he rejoined the fray.
Armed with only a shield and skill honed by Ray-style combat, Rohan stood tall.
He and a handful of trained infantry pushed back the mounted elites with sheer tenacity—one-to-one, eye for an eye.
Behind them, Viscount Prell's survivors finally reached the bridge.
"Withdraw! Contain the cavalry!"
"Fall back, regroup inside!"
Commands were issued, but many soldiers—intoxicated by battle or deaf from the chaos—did not hear them.
As they retreated, the enemy's wrath surged once more.
Pursuing them was a wall of steel.
Leo, lungs burning, raced across the bridge. He turned—and saw his comrades cut down like wheat.
Trampled. Pierced. Screaming.
And then silence.
"Mark…"
He didn't need to check. He already knew.
A volley of arrows from the castle walls finally broke the enemy's pursuit.
"Ugh…"
"I'm alive…?"
Whether from exhaustion or shock, many simply collapsed.
Leo, covered in sweat and blood, fell to his knees.
I survived. And I'm not injured.
In a world where a small wound could mean death, avoiding injury was its own kind of miracle.
Inside the castle, things were little better.
The walls were cracked. Houses destroyed. Families huddled together in corners.
And yet—by some blessing—the people of Viscount Prell's domain did not appear to be starving.
Leo found a spot in the square and dropped to the ground, sharing it with fellow soldiers.
With jerky and flour too dry to swallow, he reluctantly chewed on a pemmican he had bought at a steep price.
"Ugh… tastes like grease…"
But the protein, fat, and preserved fruit inside made it survivable.
As he rolled the food in his mouth, his mind drifted back to the battle.
"Not bad."
He had fought. He had survived.
Perhaps the breathing technique he practiced while lying still had helped. Perhaps he had steeled his heart without realizing.
But when he thought of Mark…
"I need more time."
He could do nothing. Couldn't save Mark. Couldn't even ensure his own survival tomorrow.
"There's no guarantee I won't end up like him."
He wanted to go back. To look for survivors. But fear clung to him like frost.
He wasn't willing to throw away his life—not yet.
Then, a flash in his mind.
There was a notification…
He opened his skill list.
– Combat Breathing Technique (SN) / 100% Mastery
→ Passive effect enhanced.
→ New Active Skill Unlocked: Breath of Blessing – Restore all consumed stamina (usable once per week)
His eyes widened.
An active skill.
Unlike the passive boosts he'd earned before, this one could be triggered.
"If it restores stamina… could it mean healing, too?"
He dared to hope—but even he knew better than to expect miracles. Most likely, it referred to endurance, not injuries.
Still, in a world where stamina could decide life and death, it was a powerful blessing.
Then, his eyes drifted to another skill.
"Sword Defense… 94%."
It had soared during battle.
Now was the time.
He opened the Skill Synthesis window.
– Synthesizing: Combat Breathing Technique (SN) + Ray-Style Practical Swordsmanship (SN)
– Cost: 2 Ardan's Feathers
"The cost increased…"
Leo frowned. The higher the grade, the steeper the price.
"So higher-tier synthesis demands more resources… I'll have to find more feathers."
Still, there was no turning back.
He stared at the glowing synthesis button, closed his eyes, and whispered:
"Please… just this once, give me something good."
Then he pressed it.