Chapter 49: Ein Mentaler Krieg
A/N: yeah this whole chapter is basically M for the beating someone's boutta take
February 11, 4:21 PM
"No casualties, no injuries, I fixed my relationship with Zoe, I'm gonna see everyone else again… life is good right now," Lars mused, his hands behind his head as the Magic Knights approached the Royal Capital.
"I wouldn't say our relationship is fixed," Zoe replied, her arms crossed. "I'd rather say we've reached a temporary truce due to our shared experiences."
"It's getting somewhere, I guess," Theresa sighed. "And I got a brand new spell, too!"
"It's been a good three days," Fani smiled. "I'm glad I got to travel with all you people."
"Me too, Fani. I hope I helped you in some way, and I'm glad you're coming out of your shell," Lars smiled, prompting a slight blush from the hair mage. "29 attacks in the last 3 days, yet we survived, and with minimal injuries. Good job, everyone."
Inside, Lars was feeling tired, yet wary. He had only deactivated his Infinite Thought Shield once, because he had been fighting Alecto. The other times, the invisible, almost infinitely dense telekinetic barrier had been there either protecting him or protecting the palanquin. He hadn't slept a wink for the past three days, wary of attacks by enemies that may still have been after Cedric's head, and insisted on taking night duty simply because he believed that his passive defensive capabilities were higher than anyone there's, except maybe Fani, and he didn't want to worry her. He was fighting a mental war between sleep and vigilance.
As the servants of Lord Cedric struggled under the weight of the palanquin, Lord Cedric was strangely silent, a nice contrast from the pompous and talkative noble that Lars was used to being around.
Lars trudged along with the group as the walls of the Royal Capital came into view, their imposing spires reaching for the heavens.
I think, when I get home, I'll get some new clothes. Maybe Lucia can help me pick them out, the mind mage thought, his mind drifting to the redhead.
As they neared the gates of the capital, a strange stillness fell over the group. Lars's senses prickled, and his hand instinctively hovered near his naginata. The hair on the back of his neck stood on it happened.
Out of nowhere, a spear of blood-red magic tore through the air, its trajectory as swift as it was deadly. Lars's eyes widened in horror as the spear found its mark—Theresa.
The young mage staggered back, a look of shock on her face as crimson spread across her chest. She collapsed into Fani's arms, who screamed in panic, her trembling hands trying to stop the bleeding.
"Theresa!" Lars shouted, rushing to her side, his boots skidding slightly on the bloodied earth. His heart pounded as he assessed the injury, the gash across her side bleeding heavily. His mind raced, calculating, strategizing. The wound was deep but not immediately fatal—if they acted quickly.
Zoe was already at his side, her paintbrush in hand, its bristles glowing faintly with a protective light. Her sharp grey eyes scanned the encroaching shadows, her body tense like a coiled spring. "We're under attack," she growled, her voice low but seething with readiness. "Whoever did this isn't gone. They're waiting."
"We need to retreat," Lars said firmly, his voice steady despite the chaos threatening to overwhelm him. His gaze shifted to Fani, who knelt by Cedric, trying to rouse the unconscious knight. "Zoe, Fani—take Theresa and Cedric. Get them out of here. Now."
Zoe spun on him, her expression a volatile mix of disbelief and anger. "Are you out of your damn mind? I'm not leaving you here to fight alone!" Her words carried a sharp edge, but there was fear in her eyes—fear for him.
"Zoe, we don't have time for this!" Lars snapped, his tone cutting through her protest like a whip. His jaw tightened as he rose to his feet, his naginata flashing in the dim light. "I need you to protect them. That's an order!"
For a moment, Zoe hesitated, her grip tightening on her paintbrush as anger flashed in her eyes. But the urgency in Lars's voice left no room for debate. With a frustrated growl, she sheathed her brush and moved to Fani's side, her movements sharp and angry. Together, they hoisted Theresa between them.
"You better not die, Mertens," Zoe hissed as they prepared to retreat. Her voice cracked slightly, betraying the emotions she was trying to suppress. "Because if you do, I swear I'll kill you myself."
A faint smirk tugged at Lars's lips, devoid of humor but brimming with grim resolve. "Noted, Madam Halcourt," he replied, his voice steady even as his stomach churned.
Zoe gave him one last look before retreating into the darkness, Fani and Cedric in tow. As their forms disappeared, the clearing grew deathly quiet. The air thickened, becoming suffused with an oppressive weight that seemed to press down on Lars's chest. He adjusted his stance, gripping his naginata tightly as his bright blue eyes scanned the treeline. Every muscle in his body tensed, every nerve screaming at him to run—but he stood his ground.
Then, from the shadows, the assailant emerged.
The man moved with unsettling grace, his crimson robes streaked with streaks of white that glistened like fresh scars. His face was hidden behind a black iron mask, leaving only his glowing amber eyes visible. Those eyes burned with cold malice, their gaze piercing and unrelenting, as if they could see through Lars's very soul. He carried himself with the air of someone who had already won, his every step deliberate and predatory.
"Well, well," the man said, his voice smooth and mocking, the sound cutting through the silence like a blade. "Ellion's boy. Just as I hoped."
Lars's jaw tightened, his chest tightening at the mention of his father. He forced himself to remain calm, to focus. "Who are you, and what do you want?" His voice was steady, though his mind was already working overtime to anticipate the next move.
The man chuckled, the sound low and guttural, sending a shiver down Lars's spine. "What I want, boy, is simple. I want to see you broken. To watch as everything your father built crumbles around you, piece by pathetic piece."
Lars's fingers curled tighter around his weapon. "This was all a setup, wasn't it?" he said, his voice low and sharp. "The bandits, the bounty on Cedric's head—it was all to lure me out."
"Very good," the man sneered, tilting his head slightly, his tone dripping with mockery. "You're smarter than you look. Yes, every detail of this mission was orchestrated with one goal in mind—to end you. And, as a bonus, to send a message to your darling Coral Peacocks."
Lars forced himself to exhale slowly, keeping his composure. "A lot of trouble for one knight," he said, grimacing. "You could've sent a letter."
"Oh, you're more than worth the effort," the man replied, his tone darkening. "Breaking you will shatter your squad. And as for that girl—what's her name again? Ms. Moreau? Yes, I wonder how she'll react when I bring her your head."
The blood mage's words hit like a physical blow, but Lars refused to flinch. Instead, he shifted his stance, his naginata glowing faintly as he began to channel his mana. His bright blue eyes met the man's blazing amber ones with unflinching resolve. "You'll regret that."
The man laughed, his amber eyes blazing with cruel amusement. "Oh, I doubt it," he said, his tone dripping with venomous certainty. "After all, this is just the beginning."
The tension between them crackled like a live wire, the air heavy with the promise of violence. Lars knew he was outmatched—he could feel it in the way the man moved, in the suffocating weight of his magic. But retreat wasn't an option. Not now. Not when lives were on the line.
The blood mage raised his hand, and blood-red magic began to swirl around his fingers, alive with malevolent energy. Lars steadied his breathing, his grip firm as his naginata began to hum with power.
Failure wasn't an option.
"Blood Magic: Crimson Sabre," the man said, creating a long red sword in his hand that converged out of the magic swirling around it. He threw off his robes, to reveal a blood-red military style tunic with gold buttons beneath it, and his large white boots were now visible, along with a sadistic grin that spread across his face like blood dripping down.
Lars, on the other hand, readied his naginata. "Mind Magic: Tiefe Analyse," he whispered, as the pink visor appeared over his eyes, giving him information that, ironically, he was too scared to take in.
Before Lars could fully process the threat, the man was on him. He moved with the speed and precision of a predator, his crimson sabre slicing through the air with lethal intent. Lars barely managed to react in time, swinging his naginata to meet the attack head-on. The clash sent a shockwave rippling through the clearing, but Lars quickly followed up with a spell.
"Mind Magic: Resonant Concussion!"
The familiar pink energy radiated from his weapon, intercepting the man's attack and forcing him back. Seizing the moment, Lars stepped forward, aiming a decisive counterstrike. But the man was already a step ahead. He snapped his fingers, and his body liquified, dissolving into a stream of blood that slithered through the air.
Before Lars could track his movement, the crimson fluid solidified behind him, reforming into the masked figure. A sharp pain tore through Lars's back as the blood mage's sabre cut deep, the strike aimed with surgical precision. The force sent Lars staggering forward, his teeth clenched against the searing agony radiating from the wound. Blood seeped into his tunic, but he refused to fall.
Gritting his teeth, Lars twisted around, raising his naginata just in time to block another strike. "Mind Magic: Resonant Concussion!" he roared again, releasing another blast of mental energy. The shockwave knocked the blood mage back a few paces, creating just enough space for Lars to regain his footing.
His mind raced, calculating his next move. He plunged the butt of his naginata into the trembling earth. "Mind Magic: Stress Output!" Lars shouted, his voice resonating with both fury and determination. The ground responded immediately, cracks splintering outward in jagged lines. Each fissure radiated pink, pulsing with the raw force of his magic. The battlefield quaked beneath the weight of his spell, the energy seeping into the earth like a living thing.
The blood mage paused, his amber eyes flickering down to the glowing cracks that now spread across the ground like veins. One of them snaked directly beneath him. For the first time, he faltered—his boots slipping slightly against the shifting, unstable terrain.
But even as the earth betrayed him, the man's posture remained relaxed, his confidence unshaken. He looked down at the crack beneath his feet, then back at Lars, a cruel chuckle rumbling from behind his mask. "A clever trick," he mused, his voice carrying an edge of amusement. "But clever tricks won't save you."
Lars didn't waste time with a response. He surged forward, his naginata humming with energy as he swung it in a deadly arc. The blade glowed with pink mana, leaving trails of light in its wake as it hurtled toward the man. Sparks flew when it met the crimson sabre, their weapons colliding with a force that rattled the air.
For a moment, Lars felt the upper hand. His grip tightened around the naginata's haft, his muscles straining as he pushed with all his strength. The energy from Stress Output pulsed beneath them, sending tremors through the ground and fueling Lars's confidence. He gritted his teeth, leaning into the clash with everything he had.
The blood mage, however, remained unshaken. His amber eyes burned with something darker—amusement mixed with disdain. "Not bad," he remarked, his voice calm and patronising despite the struggle. "You've got skill, boy. Passion. Even a hint of raw power."
Lars's jaw clenched, his voice rough with determination. "I'm not going to let you hurt them," he growled, his arms trembling as he pressed harder against the sabre. "Not while I'm still standing."
The blood mage's lips curled into a smile that was almost serpentine in its malice. "Ah, and there it is," he said softly, his tone both mocking and sinister. "That desperate little spark. That hope you cling to." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper that sent chills down Lars's spine. "But you're still fighting like you have something to lose."
The man's words struck like a physical blow, his calm, condescending tone igniting a flicker of doubt in Lars's mind. But he shoved the thought aside, doubling down on his resolve. His blue eyes blazed with defiance as he let out a fierce shout, pouring every ounce of his strength into the clash.
The ground beneath them quaked violently, the glowing cracks pulsing faster as Stress Output reached its peak. Lars thought, for a brief second, that he saw a flicker of unease in his opponent's eyes. He pushed harder, his naginata glowing brighter, a war cry building in his chest.
But just as victory seemed within reach, the blood mage shifted. With an almost imperceptible movement, he twisted his sabre, redirecting Lars's force just enough to unbalance him. Lars stumbled, his focus wavering for a fraction of a second—and that was all the blood mage needed.
"Unfortunately for you," the man said, his tone icy as the grin beneath his mask widened, "hope is a fragile thing."
And with that, he surged forward, the balance of the fight tipping back into his control.
Before Lars could react, a surge of blood-red energy exploded from the sabre, sending him staggering back. The man liquified into a blur of crimson once more, his body reforming just as a sharp slash tore across Lars's chest. The pain was immediate and searing, stealing the breath from Lars's lungs as he crumpled to one knee. Blood seeped through his fingers as he clutched at the wound.
"You're predictable," the man continued, circling Lars like a predator toying with its prey. "You telegraph your moves. Fight with desperation, fear. And do you know what fear makes you?"
Lars looked up, his breathing ragged, his vision swimming. "Weak," the man answered for him, his tone laced with venom. "It makes you weak."
The words struck a nerve, but Lars forced himself to his feet, his legs trembling beneath him. "I'm not weak," he said, though his voice betrayed his exhaustion. "I'm still standing."
The man chuckled, low and menacing, his glowing amber eyes narrowing with sadistic glee. "Good. Let's see how long that lasts."
With a burst of speed, the man attacked again. Lars barely managed to raise his naginata in time, the force of the sabre's impact reverberating through his arms. Each clash of their weapons sent a jolt of pain through his body, and each strike pushed him closer to the brink. He tried to counter with Resonant Concussion, the familiar pink energy rippling outward, but the man dissolved into blood once more, reappearing behind Lars in a flash.
A searing pain erupted in Lars's leg as the sabre slashed across it. He cried out, dropping to one knee again. His weapon felt heavier in his hands, his movements sluggish. Every breath burned in his chest. Desperation clawed at his mind as he realised how outmatched he was.
"Do you feel it?" the man taunted, his tone almost gleeful. "That creeping despair? The realisation that no matter how hard you try, it's not enough?" He stepped closer, his sabre raised. "Let me show you what it feels like to lose everything."
Lars gritted his teeth, his mind reeling. Images of Theresa, bleeding out in Fani's arms, flashed through his mind. He thought of Zoe, her fierce determination barely masking her fear. He thought of himself, battered, broken, and failing.
The sabre descended, a streak of blood-red light carving through the air toward him. Time seemed to slow as Lars braced for the blow. But then, something within him shifted, snapped - not in fear, but in icy, unwavering clarity.
His breathing slowed. The pain receded, not healed but muted, distant. His thoughts sharpened to a single point, cutting through the chaos like a blade.
There was no fear.
No doubt.
Only focus.
There are two ways for a mind magic user to fight at full potential. The first, to give into their emotions, their carnal instincts, and let them guide them through battle. The second, to forsake their emotions in order to achieve the most efficient fighting style possible.
Lars's fingers tightened around his naginata as he rose to his feet.
Absolute Rage. And Absolute Detachment.
A wave of chilling calm enveloped Lars, silencing the roaring storm of pain and panic that had gripped him moments before. His breath steadied, his heartbeat slowed, and the world around him seemed to shrink until only he and his opponent remained. The pink visor materialised over his eyes, its glow unwavering and resolute, cutting through the suffocating darkness. It wasn't just a tool—it was a manifestation of his determination, the embodiment of his mind sharpening to a deadly edge.
His body moved with unnerving fluidity, almost mechanical in its precision, as though his very being had become an extension of his thoughts. Every step, every motion was deliberate and exact. Lars's exhaustion, the searing pain of his wounds, the blood soaking his uniform—all of it faded into insignificance. His mind was in control now, detached and calculating, unburdened by fear or hesitation.
The blood mage sneered, his amber eyes blazing with cruel amusement as he raised his sabre. "Let's see if you've got anything left, boy!"
The crimson blade descended in a deadly arc, but Lars moved. Not with desperation, but with a grace that seemed almost unnatural. He sidestepped the strike at the last possible moment, the tip of the sabre slicing harmlessly through the air where his neck had been. Before the blood mage could recover, Lars's naginata was already in motion, a silver blur carving upward with deadly intent.
The blade connected. A shallow cut opened across the man's chest, forcing him to stumble back, his footing momentarily faltering. For the first time, Lars's opponent showed something other than disdain: surprise.
Lars didn't hesitate. He pressed forward, his movements a seamless cascade of attacks. His naginata became a living thing, slicing through the air with blistering speed. Each strike was calculated, precise, and merciless, as if the weapon itself were an extension of his will.
The blood mage parried and dodged, but he was no longer in control of the fight. Lars's assault left no room for retaliation, no opportunity for a counter. Every time the man raised his sabre, Lars was already a step ahead, his naginata finding its mark with brutal efficiency.
The clash of steel against blood echoed through the shattered clearing, mingling with the blood mage's snarls of frustration. His amber eyes, once filled with cruel confidence, now burned with disbelief. He had toyed with Lars, breaking his body and crushing his spirit—or so he thought. Yet here he was, forced onto the defensive, his carefully constructed dominance unravelling before his eyes.
"What is this?" the blood mage spat, his voice edged with venom and disbelief. He deflected another strike but staggered under the force of it. "You… you're different."
Lars said nothing. His silence was more unnerving than any taunt or battle cry could have been. He advanced relentlessly, his face devoid of emotion, his blue eyes cold and unfeeling behind the visor. His focus was absolute, his every movement the result of pure calculation. He wasn't fighting out of anger or fear. He was dismantling his opponent, piece by piece, with a calm precision that bordered on inhuman.
The blood mage's frustration mounted as Lars drove him back step by step. Each swing of the naginata was a masterstroke, designed to exploit a weakness, to corner and confine. The predator had become the prey, and the shift was unmistakable.
But then, as the blood mage's back hit the cracked ground, he stopped retreating. For a moment, Lars thought it was out of desperation—a final stand against the inevitable. But then he saw it: a grin. Slow and deliberate, it spread across the man's bloodied face, his amber eyes gleaming with malice. It wasn't the grin of someone who had lost control. It was the grin of someone who was exactly where he wanted to be.
"Perfect," the blood mage whispered, his voice dripping with a venomous satisfaction that sent a chill down Lars's spine. "The higher you climb, the harder you'll fall."
Lars stood over him, his naginata poised for the finishing blow. His stance was unwavering, his grip firm. Yet, for all his unyielding control, something about the man's grin made him hesitate. It was too confident, too knowing. It was the grin of someone who had planned for this, who had baited the trap and was now revelling in its success.
The naginata trembled slightly in Lars's hands, a subtle betrayal of the conflict warring within him. His mind, still cold and detached, urged him to finish it—to strike now, before the man could recover. But that grin… it gnawed at him, a silent warning that this was far from over.
The blood mage's voice broke the silence, low and taunting. "You think you've won, don't you? You think you've turned the tide? Let me show you just how wrong you are."
In an instant, crimson tendrils of blood erupted from the ground, wrapping around Lars's legs and arms like living chains. He tried to move, to slash them away, but the bindings tightened, immobilising him. The blood mage rose to his feet, his grin widening as he loomed over Lars.
"You've got fire, boy. I'll give you that," he said, his voice mocking. "But fire burns out. And when it does…" He leaned closer, his amber eyes locking onto Lars's. "...all that's left is ash."
The blood mage suddenly kicked at Lars, hitting his chest squarely with his boots. He stumbled back, coughing up blood, but the older man reformed behind him.
"Blood Magic: Crimson Rend," he said, slashing simply yet brutally across Lars's back. The Coral Peacock roared in pain, but grit his teeth, using Resonant Concussion to knock him back and gain some semblance of reprieve from the assault.
Lars thrust his naginata into the ground, his body trembling with exhaustion. His breath came in ragged gasps as he struggled to stay on his feet. Blood trickled from the gashes on his back, staining his tattered uniform. Across from him, the blood mage stood tall, his crimson sabre gleaming in the evening light, his masked face betraying no hint of fatigue.
The mind mage's newfound detachment, his supposed ace in the hole, was waning. He had fought harder than ever before, channelling every ounce of his strength into the battle. And yet, it wasn't enough. His mind was razor-sharp, detached from fear and pain, but his body was faltering, betraying him at the worst possible moment.
"Still standing?" the blood mage mocked, his voice smooth and venomous. He twirled his sabre lazily, as if the fight were merely a game. "Impressive, boy. But this... this is where it ends."
Lars's fingers tightened around the shaft of his naginata, his knuckles white. "Not... yet," he rasped, forcing himself upright. His legs felt like lead, his vision blurred, but he refused to fall. He had to stand—if not for himself, then for the others. For Theresa.
The blood mage chuckled darkly, stepping forward with deliberate slowness. "Ah, that stubbornness. Just like your father. Always refusing to kneel, no matter how hopeless the situation." His amber eyes glowed beneath the mask, gleaming with sadistic glee. "Let's see how long it lasts."
Before Lars could respond, the blood mage darted forward, his movements a crimson blur. Lars barely had time to react, raising his naginata in a desperate attempt to block the incoming strike. The sabre clashed against the weapon with a deafening clang, sending a shockwave through the air. The force of the blow knocked Lars backward, his grip faltering.
The blood mage didn't let up. "Blood Magic: Crimson Binding."
Tendrils of blood erupted from the ground, wrapping around Lars's ankles and wrists, binding him in place. He struggled against them, his muscles straining, but the bindings only tightened, biting into his skin.
"You've fought well," the blood mage said mockingly, standing over him. "Better than I expected, even. But this? This is the end of the road for you, Ellion's boy."
The crimson sabre descended, aiming for Lars's heart. He twisted his body at the last second, the blade missing its mark but plunging deep into his shoulder. A searing pain exploded through his body, ripping a scream from his throat. Blood spurted from the wound, soaking his uniform and pooling beneath him.
The blood mage grinned beneath his mask, twisting the blade cruelly. "That's it. Scream for me," he whispered. "Show me the fear you've been hiding."
Lars bit down hard, forcing himself to stay silent despite the agony coursing through him. But his silence only seemed to amuse his tormentor. The blood mage yanked the sabre free, sending another wave of pain through Lars's body. He collapsed onto his knees, his vision darkening at the edges. His naginata lay discarded a few feet away, just out of reach.
"You think you're strong, don't you?" the blood mage sneered, his voice dripping with contempt. He grabbed Lars by the hair, lifting his head to meet his gaze. "You think detaching yourself makes you invincible? Let me show you how wrong you are."
Without warning, the blood mage slammed Lars's head into the ground. The impact sent a jolt of pain through his skull, stars exploding in his vision. Before he could recover, the blood mage did it again. And again. Each blow was more brutal than the last, the sickening sound of flesh and bone meeting dirt echoing through the forest.
"Fight back, boy!" the blood mage roared, his voice reverberating with malice. "Where's that fire? Where's that resolve? Show me!"
Lars's body convulsed weakly with each strike, blood dripping from his temple and mixing with the dirt beneath him. Tears streaked his face, unbidden and uncontrollable, as the last remnants of his strength slipped away. He wanted to fight, to stand, but his body refused to obey. His mind, once sharp and unyielding, was now a haze of pain and despair.
After what felt like an eternity, the blood mage released his grip, letting Lars's head slump to the ground. He stood over the mind mage's broken form, his amber eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "Pathetic," he spat. "You're nothing without your magic. Nothing but a weak, broken child."
With a wave of his hand, a crimson sigil appeared above Lars's chest, pulsating with dark energy. The blood mage's voice dropped to a menacing whisper. "If you won't break now, I'll take away the one thing that defines you. Let's see how strong you are when you're nothing."
The sigil descended, latching onto Lars's chest. A wave of dark magic rippled through his body, severing the flow of mana to his mind. The blood mage watched as the blue in Lars's eyes flickered and died, a cruel smile spreading across his face.
"Blood Curse: Shackles of the Void," he said with finality. "Your magic is gone, boy. You're magicless now. Let's see how long you last like this."
Satisfied, the blood mage turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving Lars to bleed out outside the Royal Capital.
Minutes stretched into eternity. The forest was shrouded in an oppressive silence, broken only by the faint rustling of leaves as the wind stirred the branches. Then, a voice shattered the stillness, raw and trembling with desperation.
"Lars! Where are you? Answer me!"
Zoe burst through the treeline, her paintbrush already in hand, the glow of its magic barely visible against the oppressive gloom. Her grey eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were wide with panic, darting in every direction as she searched for any sign of him. When her gaze fell on the figure crumpled on the forest floor, her breath hitched, the sight rooting her in place.
"No…" she whispered, her voice a fragile tremor. Her brush slipped from her hand, clattering to the ground as her knees gave way beneath her. "No, no, no…"
Lars lay sprawled amidst the dirt and scattered leaves, his uniform a tattered ruin soaked in blood. The bright crimson stain spread across his torso like a cruel mockery of his own vitality. His face, once so animated with determination and wit, was deathly pale, his features slack. His blue eyes—always blazing with a fierce, stubborn resolve—were closed, his expression unnervingly serene. Zoe's heart clenched at the unnatural stillness of his chest, as though even the air had abandoned him.
She dropped to her knees beside him, her trembling hands hovering over his broken form. There were too many wounds, too much blood. She didn't know where to start. "Lars," she choked out, barely able to force the word past the lump in her throat. "Wake up. Please."
Her voice cracked, raw and desperate, as she reached out to him. She pressed her hands against the jagged wound in his stomach, trying to stem the relentless flow of blood. Warm, sticky crimson seeped through her gloves and between her fingers, and the metallic tang filled the air, sharp and nauseating. "Don't do this," she pleaded, her voice a thin, trembling thread. "You can't do this to me. To us."
There was no response. His body was limp, his breathing so faint she had to strain to detect it. Panic clawed at her chest as her thoughts spiralled. His mana—the lifeblood of a mage—was gone, utterly drained. Without it, there was nothing to sustain him, no reserves to draw on for healing. He was fading, slipping away before her eyes.
"You idiot," she whispered, her voice breaking into a ragged sob. "You said you'd come back. You promised me."
Tears blurred her vision, hot streaks running down her cheeks as she leaned over him. Zoe wasn't one to cry, especially over someone who she often quarrelled with like Lars—anger, yes, defiance, always, but not this. Not this hollow, helpless grief. She shook him, gently at first, then harder, her voice rising with every syllable. "Wake up, Lars! Damn it, wake up! You don't get to leave like this!"
Still nothing. The oppressive silence of the forest seemed to mock her, each second dragging her closer to the unbearable conclusion that it might already be too late. Her hands trembled as she pressed harder against his wound, willing the blood to stop, willing him to fight. But Lars remained motionless, his face devoid of the life and fire that had always defined him.
Zoe's breaths came in short, ragged gasps as her mind raced. What could she do? Who could she call for help? The Royal Capital wasn't far, but she didn't know how much blood he'd lost. She was alone. Alone with his fading light. The crushing weight of that realisation pressed down on her chest, threatening to suffocate her.
"I'm not letting you die," she hissed, her voice cracking. She clenched her jaw, her grief twisting into something sharper, angrier. "You hear me, Mertens? You're not allowed to die. Not like this. Not after everything."
Desperation fueling her movements, she slid her arms under his shoulders and hoisted him onto her back. His body was heavier than she expected, his dead weight dragging at her already shaking legs. She staggered, nearly falling under the burden, but forced herself upright. Her knees buckled, and a sharp pain shot through her ankle, but she didn't care. She couldn't care. If she stopped now, he wouldn't make it.
Each step felt like an eternity. The forest loomed around her, its shadows stretching long and dark, as though mocking her efforts. The wind whispered through the trees, carrying phantom voices that seemed to taunt her with cruel promises of failure.
Zoe's breaths came in harsh gasps, the strain of carrying him sapping her strength with every agonising step. She bit down on her lip until she tasted blood, using the sharp pain to keep herself grounded. "You're not dying here," she muttered through clenched teeth, her voice barely more than a growl. "Not here. Not like this."
Her pace slowed as exhaustion crept into her limbs, but her resolve burned like a stubborn ember. She didn't dare look back at Lars, didn't dare acknowledge the eerie stillness of his body. Instead, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on the faint, flickering hope that if she could just keep moving, there might still be a chance.
But beneath her fierce determination, a gnawing dread clawed at her. The image of his pale face, his lifeless eyes, haunted her every step. No matter how hard she fought, the truth loomed like a shadow over her heart: even if she made it in time, there might be nothing left to save.
A/N: