Published at 19th of September 2025 7:34 am

Book 5: Chapter 33 Rocks and Hard Places

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Though reliable accounts of elven spellcraft are rare, the common consensus holds that the elder race do not tap Mana from within themselves, as a disciplined Magister might, but rather from the ambient Mana of the natural world. At first glance, this would seem an immense advantage, given the abundance of Mana all around us. Yet in truth, an elven Spellsinger typically binds themselves to a single strand of Mana, rendering them vulnerable when that strand is scarce.

Consider an elf tuned to Water who ventures into the sun-scorched deserts of the Whispering Wastes—he will find that what once seemed boundless power now slips through his fingers like sand, his powers as weak as a newborn babe.

- Attributed to Master Betrand of the University of Quas.

Rebellion and civil disobedience can take many forms, yet none so brazen as the one unfolding before my very eyes. The famous Dust Dervishes of Al-Lazar were thought untouchable, their mastery of hidden war-arts unleashed only if the great Holder Houses were threatened. This skirmish—this tremor of conflict—was dismissed by the highborn of the city as nothing more than a nuisance, their faith placed on high walls and paid swords.

But the new Sultanate found itself trapped, unable to force compliance without revealing its own fragility. I, its supposed enforcer, stood powerless to protect the fledgling Sultana, for I had been double-crossed and compelled into a conspiracy. Now a council of traitors holds the city in its grip, with my loyalty twisted by oath and blackmail, my blade turned against my will.

Curse these primitive feudal ways.

Amid the dust and din, I ducked beneath a wild blow aimed at my helm and drove Bellringer into a Mer’s shrieking face, crushing bone and snuffing out that alien life. The Mer, blue-skinned and fierce, looked identical in their fury. Yes, Gilgamesh had grown powerful, but he could not be everywhere at once, a lesson I was learning with each passing heartbeat.

It did not help that I was juggling three roles at once: stalwart defender, brutal damage-dealer, and occasional healer. Whenever I could spare a moment, I tore through the enemy to heal a fallen soldier. It sapped my Mana and wasted precious time I could have used to slaughter more foes, but I could not simply let good soldiers die at my feet. As deadly as I had become, I was learning a hard truth: no individual, however strong, can hold ground alone. A melee, even a small one like this, breaks the notion that enemies line up in neat rows to be slain.

I needed to be more efficient.

Why was I even bothering to guard myself? These pitiful creatures could not truly harm me, their desperate thrusts barely scratching my armor. I endured the occasional sting—no more than a handful of points shaved from my Health—only for it to be replenished by my regenerative abilities. With a snarl of contempt, I dismissed my Mimic Shield, seized Bellringer with both hands, and made a bloody game of slaughtering them. Our enemies had hoped for a swift raid, but I turned it into a siege of attrition, which suited me perfectly. I, who thrived on drawn-out battles, had found my element.

Suddenly, I saw them in the distance: the Seven Snakes, bounding forward like heralds of doom. As we sought to hold the Mer here, so too did they hope to trap us beyond our own walls. Unlucky for them, they had me to contend with, and I had prepared a few hidden aces—one in the form of a certain Chaos Mage.

I kicked a Mer in the chest, feeling ribs crunch as I ended its pathetic life. My gaze rose just in time to catch sight of an approaching wing of eagles and their riders in the distance, eager to wreak havoc. I was not the only one who saw the danger.

“Gil!” Larynda’s voice rang out. “It’s about time, isn’t it?”

“Do something!” I roared back, hacking my way toward the lumbering Xaruar upon which Larynda and the Wind Mages were perched. I carved a path of carnage like an Adamantine whirlwind until I vaulted onto the Xaruar’s howdah, causing the creature to groan and shift. Docile by nature, the Xaruar was never meant for war, and the tumult tested its every nerve.

I hooked my hammer back into its sling and drew my bow. “Remember your duty,” I warned the Anemancers.

They spoke in eerie unison, voices echoing unnaturally: “The one who hears the Voice of the Wind clearer than we approaches on great wings… even joined, we may not be enough.”

I sneered at them. “Just do what you can. My fangs can reach them, but they’ll need your guidance. Keep them true.” Two could play the game of enigmatic poetry.

Saba bowed her head, trembling with both fear and resolve. “I shall try. The wind is a wild colt, and you are a heavy rider.”

I ignored the trembling in her voice. The eagles would soon be upon us. Their flight was hindered by a conjured gale, but still, they sped closer with every breath. No more hiding this weapon from the elven aerial scouts. The time had come to reveal my hand.

I drew my first arrow, feeling the bowstring protest beneath my grip. Saba readied her magic, and I loosed, the arrow vanishing from sight, aimed at the eagle riders overhead.

Two of the birds squawked in alarm, veering clumsily out of formation.

I exhaled sharply. I had missed.

“You must aim better,” Saba hissed through gritted teeth, her voice trembling with strain. “I can only nudge and guide your arrow so far.”

Pathetic, more damanable excuses. I need results, not impotent whines.

Nadim, barely holding back some hidden sorcery in check, chose that moment to groan in despair. “Their Magister fights against me, bending the Wind to his will. Every gust I conjure, he counters. I can’t outmatch him for long.”

“Larynda!” I bellowed over the roar of clashing weapons and dying screams. “Can’t you do something about that?”

She shot me a glare, her green eyes hard as steel, her lips moving in the half-whispered beginnings of a spell. “Snakes or eagles,” she snapped. “I’ve only so much magic in me. Pick one.”

“Focus on the Hydras,” I growled. “I’ll deal with the eagles somehow, or at least convince them they’re not welcome here.”

The Anemancers would have to find a way on their own.

With a grim nod, I turned back toward Saba. “Again!” I commanded, risking a quick glance at the swirling melee. The Al-Lazarian soldiers would have to fend for themselves for the moment.

Drawing back my bow, I loosed another arrow. This time, it found its mark—piercing a great eagle’s wing. The mount and its rider plummeted from the sky in a mad spiral, crashing into the white sand below.

You have slain unknown. 332 experience gained.

You have slain unknown. 234 experience gained.

You have learned Bows (lvl.5)

I felt a cold satisfaction rise in my gut. One more kill, perhaps, and I learn Improved Bows.

Steadying myself, I slowly unleashed more arrows into the flock of aerial foes. Although I only felled another eagle and its rider, the remaining elves scattered and wheeled away, unwilling to face my bow any longer. A small mercy—my Stamina was no bottomless well.

Now the main threat lay before us: the serpent cavalry and, looming at the edge of vision, the Hydras. In a land where fickle Divines claim dominion over mortal destinies, their favor is rarely granted. In short, Fate was cruel. A swirl of purple smoke rose from the city walls—the signal for us to retreat.

“Finish them off, quickly!” I roared, waiting for an order to fall back that never came. Cursing under my breath, I fired another shot into the thick of the battle, hoping to skewer more Mer than our own men. “We need to disengage, Larynda. Something’s happened in Al-Lazar. The Hydras are nearly upon us—help me crush these dogs, and let’s be gone!”

Where was Tikirit? Why had he not ordered a retreat?

She spat an oath. “You want me to do this, do that, do this! Choose, damn you!”

“All of them, if possible, but do something,” I growled, my patience long since spent.

Her face twisted with frustration as she stood, gripping both her staves. She unleashed a spell from within herself, her voice rising into a power song and drawing power from the element of Water itself—water ripped from the very bodies of the Mer—she caused their skin to shrivel under the desert sun. I watched their once-fierce eyes sink in as they stumbled, easier prey for our forces. But it was not enough.

From atop the Xaruar’s howdah, I surveyed the battlefield. My stomach turned to ice. The second prong of the enemy forces had circled around, severing our path to the city. We were effectively cut off.

Then came the music. Soft, lulling, eerily serene amid the clash of steel against Coralith and cries of the dying—a melody of surrender and false hope. For an instant, I felt my spirit waver. Wouldn’t it be easier to yield to that promise of peace, to end the struggle here and now?

No. The defiant voices inside me howled against the enchantment. There was still a prophecy unfulfilled, an ending yet unwritten. If I had to burn the world around me to break free, so be it.

Burn the world! How sweet would be the music of the final flames?

My gaze traced the music to its source: a blue-skinned Mer with golden tattoos all over his body. I saw him with a set of living pipes pressed to his lips, playing a hateful song. Hatred flared white-hot in my veins as I nocked an arrow. I conjured Sage’s Sight, letting the mystical force help better my vision. The shaft of steel flew true—and burst in a spray of sparks against a shimmering barrier. I saw with my magical sight that the barrier was formed by layer upon layer of translucent wards. Wards that shielded the Battlesinger. To my chagrin, I saw that the first barrier I had successfully pierced was already reforming.

A traitorous whisper in my mind called it hopeless. I clenched my fist, striking my own helmet hard enough to rattle my senses, trying to break the lure of despair. I loosed arrow after arrow, each one detonating against that maddening shield. It was not enough, the wards reformed faster than I could destroy them.

Then a small dart, spat from some blowgun, lodged in my cheek. With a snarl of rage, I tore it free, hurling it blindly into the melee. No matter who it struck, friend or foe, I cared little. My bloodlust had reached its boiling point.

It was this last bit of damage that was enough to put me back on the path of carnage.

“My skill and Strength have no equal,” I murmured, and felt the truth of it surge through my body.

A vision of Enkidu flickered at my side, smiling in silent approval, though he had long since passed. Memories of his quick hands and lethal aim guided me. A lifetime ago, I had watched him nock and draw multiple arrows in fluid motion, loosing them with impossible speed. Now, I had the Dexterity, the Strength, and most of all, the will to emulate him and do the same.

It would be a simple thing.

Grabbing a fistful of arrows, I let Sage’s Sight guide my armored fingers. Like the comanche of old, I let loose a storm. One after another, they streaked toward the Battlesinger’s barrier, each striking like a thunderous blow. Sparks and sharp shrapnel flew with every hit. The wards slowly buckled beneath the relentless hammering of my assault. For the final arrow, the coup de grace, I channeled my Mana, invoking Inferno Bolt and overloading the spell with raw power. The missile flared brilliantly, flying true and smacked against the last barrier, cracking it. Globs of molten metal splashed against the hapless Mer in a cascade of fiery ruin.

You have slain a Mer Battlesinger 563 experience gained.

You have learned Inferno Bolt (lvl.4)

You have learned Overboost (lvl.2)

A savage grin split my face, sweet with the taste of victory—until a giant, scaled tail lashed out of nowhere and hurled me from the howdah. I slammed into the ground, stunned. My last glimpse was Larynda, encased in a swirling haze of purple chaos, toppling into the fray beside me as men and beasts shrieked in agony.

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