Chapter 1005

The rain fell harder. The mud shook under golem footsteps. The imperial reserves advanced behind their commanders. Lionfang’s fighters pulled back in bloody layers, dragging wounded, carrying the half-conscious, refusing to leave anyone they could still lift.

They had been unstoppable a moment ago. Now the enemy had changed the shape of the fight. That did not make Lionfang defeated. It simply made the day worse. Arslan rolled his shoulders, raised his sword, and stepped toward Orleandul.

The imperial commander slowed slightly when he saw him coming.

Arslan’s mana burned beneath his skin, hot enough to turn rain to steam along the edge of his blade.

“You wanted the field,” Arslan muttered.

Ahead, Orleandul lowered his spear.

To the side, Kharnek’s roar collided with Armandis’s first swing like thunder meeting iron. Behind them, runic golems tightened the noose. Arslan smiled without humor.

“Now choke on it.”

Arslan decided that if the Empire wanted to bring fresh enemies onto the field, then the least he could do was welcome them properly.

With all his might. He stopped. Only for a moment. Only long enough that every instinct in Darnell’s body probably started screaming insults at him from across the battlefield.

Mud sucked at Arslan’s boots. Rain slid down his face and soaked into the cuts along his cheek. Around him, Lionsguard squads pulled back in layers, shields locked toward the flanks, wounded dragged between them. The runic golems continued closing from both sides, their heavy steps making the ground tremble beneath the battlefield’s ruined skin.

Ahead, the remains of the first imperial army were still there. Broken, but not gone. Enough men remained to slow the retreat. Enough spears remained to stab the wounded. Enough shields remained to give Orleandul and Armandis a clean road forward.

Arslan could not allow that. Mana gathered in his sword. At first, it was just heat. Then light. Then the blade began to burn. Not with ordinary fire. Ordinary fire was a hungry, stupid thing. Useful, yes, but also prone to eating furniture, allies, and plans with equal enthusiasm.

This flame was mana-shaped. Crude mana-shaped flame, admittedly. Arslan was not a mage.

He was not Ludger, who could stare at a spell for three seconds and then invent three unpleasant variations. He was not Maurien, who could make wind kneel and call it technique. He was not even Viola, who had spent hours in training yards learning how to pull elemental force through a blade until the weapon became less steel and more declaration.

Arslan had only seen her do it a few times. A few.

Mostly while pretending not to watch too closely because Viola had been proud, young, and extremely unwilling to admit she liked being studied when it was for something she was good at.

He had watched anyway. The stance. The draw. The way mana gathered along the edge instead of inside the grip. The way the release came from the whole body, not just the arm. He remembered Ludger correcting her once in that flat little voice of his.

You’re swinging fire like a sword. Stop. Fire doesn’t care about your sword. Use the sword to tell it where to go.

Viola had threatened to throw him into a pond. Then she had improved on the next attempt. Useful family, children. Terrible for a man’s pride. Arslan raised his sword. The fire climbed higher. Steam exploded from the blade as rain struck it and died. Imperial soldiers ahead saw the light and hesitated. Wise of them. Not wise enough to move.

Arslan inhaled. His ribs hurt. His shoulder burned. His mana channels protested the rough handling. He ignored all of that and swung. Flames roared from the sword. A wide, brutal wave of fire tore across the battlefield, low and fast, skimming over mud and corpses and broken shields. It was not elegant. It did not have Viola’s clean cutting arc or Ludger’s disgusting precision.

It was a war cry made visible. The blast swallowed the remains of the first imperial line.

Men screamed as fire rolled over them. Shields glowed red. Wet cloaks ignited despite the rain. Spears became black silhouettes inside the wave before collapsing into the mud. The front ranks vanished beneath heat and light, not because every soldier died instantly, but because their formation did.

That was enough. The survivors broke away from the retreat path, stumbling aside, throwing themselves down, rolling through mud to extinguish burning cloth. A handful of mages tried to raise barriers too late and were thrown backward as their spells shattered under the force.

The fire kept going. Weaker now.

Rain and distance chewed at it. Mud dragged heat away. The first victims took the worst of the blast, leaving the wave thinner and less focused as it surged toward the final forces of the Empire.

A welcome. A warning. A very unsubtle refusal. Then Orleandul charged. The imperial commander moved with frightening speed. His pale armor flashed through the rain, horse abandoned behind him or simply irrelevant now. He crossed the mud in a straight line, spear lowered at first, then rising. Enchantment lines crawled along the weapon like silver veins beneath glass.

He did not dodge the fire. He ran into it. Arslan’s eyes narrowed. Orleandul swung his spear. The motion was clean. Too clean.

No wasted strength. No dramatic flourish. No anger. The spear cut across the front of the flame wave, and pale light burst from its edge in a crescent arc.

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For an instant, fire and light collided. Then the flames split. Not blocked. Not endured. Dissipated.

The wave came apart around Orleandul as if someone had cut the spell’s spine. Fire scattered into harmless ribbons, hissing out in the rain before reaching the elite troops behind him. Heat rolled past in weak gusts. Smoke curled. Mud steamed.

Orleandul emerged from the fading flames untouched. His cloak fluttered once, then settled. Behind him, the imperial reserves continued advancing. Arslan clicked his tongue.

“That,” he muttered, “was annoying.”

Because it was impressive. He hated that it was impressive. The attack had lost power along the way, yes. It had spent itself on the remains of the first army and been weakened by distance, rain, and Arslan’s own imperfect control.

But still.

For Orleandul to cut through it that easily meant the man was more than a decorated commander standing behind banners and dead soldiers. He understood mana flow. He understood spell structure. Or had gear that did. Possibly both, which was even more annoying.

Arslan rolled his wrist once, feeling the strain crawling up his arm. The sword’s edge still glowed dull red, but the fire had thinned to wisps.

He had copied a technique from memory, under battlefield pressure, while exhausted, wounded, and surrounded.

It had worked. Mostly. Viola would be proud.

Ludger would probably say something like, adequate for a first attempt, which was child-speak for you didn’t embarrass everyone completely.

Arslan found that thought more comforting than it deserved to be. Orleandul slowed several dozen paces away. Close enough for both men to study each other. Far enough that neither had to commit immediately.

His spear remained angled at his side. Rain slid off the pale barrier around his armor without touching him. The man’s face was visible beneath his helm, calm, sharp-featured, with eyes that carried neither hatred nor pleasure.

Professional. Somehow, that made Arslan dislike him more.

“A crude technqiue,” Orleandul called.

His voice carried through a spell woven into his collar.

Arslan raised an eyebrow. “It killed enough of your men.”

Orleandul glanced at the burning wreckage of the broken formation.

“Men already spent.”

“Convenient way to mourn them.”

“They fulfilled their role.”

Arslan’s grip tightened around his sword. Behind him, more Lionsguard fighters passed through the breach in the barrier wall. Good. Every breath Orleandul wasted speaking was another body closer to the gate.

“I see,” Arslan said. “You are one of those.”

“One of what?”

“The kind of man who calls murder resource management because he owns clean gloves.”

Orleandul’s expression did not change.

“That judgment is strange coming from a frontier rebel who marches children into war.”

Arslan smiled. It was not a pleasant thing.

“Those children are pushing back your adults.”

A flicker moved through Orleandul’s eyes. Small. There. Arslan saw it and tucked the information away. Pride, then. Or irritation. Useful either way.

At the side of the field, cannons boomed again. Golem fire hammered into retreating shield lines. Arslan heard Darnell shouting. Heard Kharnek roaring as he met Armandis with enough force to make nearby fighters stumble. Heard Sigrid’s colder commands cutting through the chaos.

Orleandul lifted his spear slightly.

“I had heard much of you, Arslan,” he said. “Adventurer. Guildmaster. Father of the boy monster.”

“People do love titles.”

“I expected more.”

Arslan’s smile widened by a fraction. That was bait. Clumsy bait, from a man who likely believed anything said calmly became clever.

“Good,” Arslan said.

Orleandul paused. Arslan raised his sword again. Mana gathered, but this time lower. Tighter. Not flame. Reinforcement.

“If you expected enough, you might have sent someone competent.”

For the first time, Orleandul’s face hardened. There it was. A hairline crack. Arslan stepped forward. Orleandul charged.

The spear came in like a line of pale lightning.

Arslan shifted aside just enough, not trying to match speed directly. The spearhead passed his ribs close enough that the enchantment scraped heat across his armor. He brought his sword down toward the shaft.

Orleandul twisted. Steel met reinforced haft with a sharp crack, and the impact jolted up Arslan’s arms.

Strong. Very strong.

The commander used the momentum to pivot, sweeping the spear toward Arslan’s legs. Arslan jumped back, boots skidding through mud as the spear carved a glowing line across the ground.

The mud split. Not deeply. Enough. Arslan’s eyes sharpened. Cutting property. Mana edge projected along the spear. Possible anti-barrier application.

Very annoying.

He advanced again. This time, he did not swing for Orleandul’s body.

He swung for the spear. Orleandul parried, smooth and precise, guiding the sword aside rather than meeting force with force. His weapon moved like a brush painting death in pale lines. Thrust. Withdraw. Sweep. Feint. Backstep. Counterthrust.

Arslan was better in raw sword pressure. Orleandul had reach, technique, and that infuriating spear. Their weapons clashed again and again, each impact sending sparks and rainwater flashing into the air.

Behind Orleandul, the imperial reserves spread wider.

Trying to envelop. Behind Arslan, Lionsguard forces continued withdrawing toward the gate.

Time. This fight was time. Arslan did not need to win quickly. He needed Orleandul here. Unable to command the encirclement personally. Which meant he needed to be just insulting enough. Fortunately, fatherhood had trained him well.

Orleandul thrust toward his throat. Arslan leaned aside, let the spear graze his collar, and punched the shaft with his left hand. Pain burst through his knuckles. The spear dipped.

He stepped in and slashed. Orleandul retreated half a step, but Arslan’s blade still scraped across his chestplate. Not broken.

But touched. Orleandul’s eyes narrowed. Arslan glanced at the fading scorch marks from his earlier flame blast.

“Your defense is better than your soldiers’,” he said.

“They were not chosen for defense.”

“Clearly.”

The spear came faster. Arslan blocked, slid, and turned with the impact. The force still drove him sideways. His boots tore through mud. His shoulder screamed.

Another exchange. Sword against spear. Fire-warmed steel against pale enchantment. Rain turning to steam where Arslan’s mana leaked from his skin. Mud churning beneath their feet.

The battlefield around them had become a collapsing machine. Golems tightening. Reserves advancing. Lionsguard retreating in bloody order. Northerners refusing to withdraw without taking enemies with them.