The battlefield was still, save for the quiet remnants of fading magic. The Abyssal Cage that had once held dominion over this place flickered and groaned as its own instability began to consume it. Like a beast that had devoured more than it could handle, the formation fractured under its own weight.

  Eo stood, absorbed in thought, his mind dissecting the intricacies of blood and formation structures. His recent experiments had given him much to consider, but his focus was suddenly pulled elsewhere. The Abyssal Cage—his own creation—was collapsing.

  He turned his gaze toward the disintegrating prison.

  Thin cracks veined the dark mist-like walls, and the eldritch fangs that once encased the battlefield began to crumble. The conflicting energies within—mist, lightning, and molten fire—fought against each other rather than reinforcing the structure. Without a stable foundation to sustain it, the entire formation was eating itself alive.

  A sharp crack split the silence. Then another.

  The once-imposing walls caved inward, swallowed by their own chaotic energy. The mist lost its oppressive grip, dispersing into nothingness. Lightning flickered one last time before vanishing, and the streams of molten earth hardened, lifeless and dull. In mere moments, the Abyssal Cage was gone, leaving only ruins behind.

  But its presence had not faded entirely.

  The air was still thick with lingering killing intent—an unseen force pressing down on the battlefield like the weight of an executioner’s blade. It did not dissipate alongside the formation; rather, it clung to the land, a remnant of Eo’s unleashed power. Even an Adept Mage, if exposed to such a potent aura for too long, would find their mind unraveling.

  Aelith and Thorne felt it the most.

  The moment the Abyssal Cage collapsed, so too did the constraining force Eo had reflected onto them. Yet, instead of relief, despair took its place. The sheer weight of the remaining killing intent bore down upon them, stripping away the last vestiges of their defiance.

  Aelith, who had remained steadfast despite exhaustion, felt her hands tremble. The suffocating air clawed at her mind, whispering of futility, of insignificance. For the first time, she questioned if resistance had ever mattered.

  Thorne, the mercenary, who had endured battle after battle, felt his resolve fracture. His sword, once held with unwavering determination, felt like dead weight in his hands. His instincts screamed at him that he was prey—that he had never truly stood a chance.

  The fight was gone from them.

  And yet, amidst this overwhelming presence, a figure moved.

  A faceless man ran forward, his body trembling—not from fear, but from unrestrained fervor. His breath came in ragged gasps, yet a wild grin stretched across his featureless face. He muttered to himself as he rushed toward the creature standing at the heart of the destruction.

  Then, two meters before Eo, he threw himself to the ground, groveling as if in reverence.

  Frid.

  Caelum, who had hesitated at first, stood frozen. The air was suffocating, pressing down on his lungs like iron chains. His body screamed at him to stay still—to not take another step. Yet, watching Frid, watching the utter submission in his posture, something inside him shifted.

  He clenched his jaw.

  With sheer force of will, he pushed his body forward, stepping into the killing intent that sought to crush him. Every step burned, his nerves screaming in protest. But he did not stop.

  By the time he reached Eo, his knees buckled. He fell beside Frid, his breath ragged, his forehead pressing against the scorched ground.

  Eo, snapped from his contemplation, turned his gaze toward them.

  He expected Frid’s reverence. The faceless man had shown signs of deep admiration even upon their first meeting. But Caelum?

  A noble stripped of title, a man who once held pride as a weapon—now kneeling in the dirt, groveling as if before a higher existence.

  A flicker of amusement crossed Eo’s mind.

  Then, a shift.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  A ripple in the atmosphere.

  His senses sharpened instantly.

  Something was approaching.

  Not from Aelith or Thorne. Not from Caelum or Frid.

  Something else.

  Eo turned his gaze toward the far edge of the battlefield. Beyond the ruins, beyond the silence, something stirred.

  A presence.

  Faint. Distant. But undeniable.

  This was not over yet.

  ---

  The town of Alderwyn lay just a few miles from the Abyss, a settlement built on the edge of danger yet thriving in cautious prosperity. It had been spared from the more violent conflicts that plagued the continent, protected by its strategic location and its association with the Holy Church. Traders, mercenaries, and even scholars frequently passed through its well-maintained roads, unaware of the darkness that loomed so close.

  Yet tonight, the town slumbered in blissful ignorance.

  Inside a grand stone lodging at the town’s center, a group of figures sat in relaxed leisure, their golden robes shimmering under the glow of enchanted lanterns. They bore an air of effortless authority, their movements sharp yet composed, their very presence demanding reverence.

  These were the Holy Scouts, an elite force directly under the Holy Church’s command. Each of them had undergone rigorous training, surpassing even high-ranking knights in speed, agility, and tracking abilities. Their sole purpose was to act as the eyes and ears of the Church, ensuring that no disturbance—mundane or supernatural—went unnoticed.

  And now, their attention had been drawn to the Abyss.

  At the head of this unit was Veylan Rhyse, the Commander of the 7th Battalion of the Holy Scouts. A man of precision and absolute loyalty, his reputation was known far beyond the Church’s influence. Unlike the pompous knights who relished in empty displays of strength, Veylan and his scouts prided themselves on efficiency—infiltration, subjugation, and elimination when necessary.

  The Saintess Tasha had issued a direct order: monitor the Abyss.

  Rumors had spread—whispers of unnatural occurrences, of forbidden forces awakening beneath the endless void. The Church had dismissed such concerns for years, yet Saintess Tasha herself had seen an omen. A great disturbance was coming.

  And so, the 7th Battalion moved swiftly to the region, reaching Alderwyn in record time.

  But rather than rush immediately into the unknown, Veylan had decided to wait. Observe. Gather information. His scouts had been pushing themselves to their limits, and exhaustion would only hinder them. Besides, the Abyss had been silent for decades. What were a few hours of rest?

  With goblets of spiced wine in their hands and plates of seasoned meat before them, the scouts allowed themselves the brief indulgence of respite. Conversations drifted between idle banter and speculation, but none of them carried any real urgency. They were the Holy Scouts. No matter what horrors the Abyss might hold, they had never failed a mission.

  Then the world trembled.

  A pulse of raw, unrestrained force rippled through the earth.

  The wooden beams of the lodge groaned in protest. Glass shattered. The very ground beneath their feet lurched, as though the fabric of the world had buckled under an unseen weight.

  Veylan’s goblet fell from his grip, crashing against the table, spilling deep red wine like fresh blood.

  The air changed.

  For the first time in his life, he felt an unknown presence, something vast and unfathomable. It was not divine. It was not demonic. It was beyond either.

  For a man who had served the Holy Church his entire life, it was utterly alien.

  “Commander—!”

  A scout stumbled forward, breathless, his face drained of color. “The tremor—it came from the direction of the Abyss.”

  Veylan was already moving.

  His instincts screamed at him that this was not natural. Not an earthquake, not a mere shift in the land.

  This was power.

  And it was unlike anything they had ever encountered.

  “Move,” he ordered sharply, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. “We leave immediately.”

  The scouts obeyed without hesitation. The room that had once been filled with laughter and arrogance was now a storm of motion. Cloaks were gathered, weapons secured, and within moments, the Holy Scouts of the 7th Battalion vanished into the night, moving with the precision of ghosts.

  They traversed the miles between Alderwyn and the Abyss with frightening speed, their enchanted boots allowing them to glide across rough terrain effortlessly. The further they moved, the more oppressive the air became. The presence—**that presence—**grew stronger.

  Veylan’s mind raced.

  This is not normal. This is not magic. This is something else.

  Then, at last, they reached their destination.

  And they saw it.

  The ruins of a battlefield stretched before them, silent yet alive with unseen energy. The air itself was thick with killing intent, so potent that it sent shivers down even the most hardened scouts’ spines. This was not the aftermath of an ordinary battle.

  It was carnage.

  Veylan’s sharp eyes immediately took in the scene. A priestess base on her tattered golden robe, a pale man who is sweating buckets, a shrivelled old man , all kneeling as if weighed down by an invisible force. Their expressions were devoid of hope, their bodies stripped of resistance.

  Then, at the center of it all, a figure stood.

  Not human. Not beast.

  Something else.

  The very air bent around its presence.

  And kneeling before it, in absolute submission—

  Two humans.

  Veylan’s breath hitched.

  His mind screamed at him to understand what he was seeing, but no amount of training, no amount of divine faith, could prepare him for the reality before him.

  For the first time in his life—

  He felt something unfamiliar.

  Doubt.