CHAPTER 76: NOT YET WORTHY

Silver lightning tore through the air. Kaelor’s aura erupted from him like a dying star, arcs of power whipping outward as he planted his feet and faced the green-haired killer. Blood darkened the Swordmaster’s side, but his stance remained unwavering, blade held in the Iron Gate position that had been drilled into Soren since his first day of training.

"Run," Kaelor growled without turning, the command meant for those behind him. "Get the nobles out. Now."

Sylas regarded the wounded Swordmaster with something like professional curiosity. "Admirable," he said, voice still conversational despite the chaos surrounding them. "Most would have fled by now."

"Not done with you yet," Kaelor snarled. The silver lightning of his aura intensified, crackling along his blade and spiraling up his arm.

Soren struggled to his feet, the shard burning against his chest as Valenna’s presence surged forward. Through the haze of pain and pressure, he watched as Kaelor launched himself at Sylas, blade moving in the complex pattern of the Sevenfold Strike, a technique Soren had only seen demonstrated once, when the Swordmaster had been in his cups and feeling nostalgic for his tournament days.

Sylas met each strike with minimal movement, his blade intercepting Kaelor’s with precision that bordered on prescience. The green-haired killer wasn’t just defending; he was studying, analyzing, learning his opponent’s patterns with each exchange.

Behind them, Lord Ashgard’s voice cut through the chaos like a blade through flesh. "Form ranks! House Dravien, secure the eastern retreat! Trescan, cover our flank!"

Nobles and knights scrambled to obey, some from courage, most from terror. Soren saw Harrick reappear from wherever he’d hidden, face pale as milk as he grabbed the reins of the nearest horse.

The Lanther lord was shouting something about abandonment and treachery as his remaining knights formed a ragged line.

Kaelor’s silver aura flared brighter as he drove Sylas back three steps with a barrage of strikes that blurred in the darkness. For a heartbeat, hope flickered in Soren’s chest. Then Sylas sidestepped the final blow and countered with a single, economical stroke that opened a fresh wound across Kaelor’s shoulder.

"Predictable," Sylas remarked. "You telegraph your intentions."

Kaelor staggered but didn’t fall. Blood now soaked his left side and right shoulder, yet he raised his blade again, silver lightning dancing along its edge. "Still standing," he grunted.

The pressure of Sylas’s aura intensified, forcing Soren back to his knees. Around him, the camp dissolved into fragmented images of desperate retreat. A Dravien knight dragged his lord toward the horses, abandoning dignity for survival. Two Trescan nobles fought over a single mount, their earlier camaraderie forgotten. A Karvath captain stood his ground, covering the retreat of his house, only to fall as a thrown dagger found his throat.

Through it all, Kaelor fought on. His movements grew slower, his strikes less precise, but his stubborn refusal to yield bought precious seconds for the retreat. Silver lightning arced from his blade with each parry, momentarily illuminating the scene in harsh, strobing flashes.

Sylas moved like water flowing downhill, each strike leading inevitably to the next. He opened a cut along Kaelor’s thigh, then another across his forearm. Not killing blows, deliberate, measured strokes designed to weaken rather than finish.

"You have heart," Sylas acknowledged as their blades locked once more. "More than these cowering nobles deserve."

Kaelor’s response was a headbutt that caught Sylas by surprise, connecting with the bridge of his nose. The green-haired killer stepped back, a trickle of blood marring his perfect features. For the first time, something like genuine emotion flashed across his face, not anger, but mild surprise.

"Interesting choice," he said, wiping the blood with the back of his hand.

Kaelor pressed the momentary advantage, his silver aura coalescing into a final, desperate attack. His blade became a whirlwind of light, the ancient pattern of the Tempest Guard unfolding in the darkness between them.

For a breathless moment, Sylas gave ground, parrying strikes that came from impossible angles. Then his expression shifted from surprise to cold calculation. He stopped retreating. His own blade moved with surgical precision, finding the pattern within the chaos, the vulnerability within the strength.

Steel met steel with a sound like a death knell. Kaelor’s blade shattered mid-strike, the silver aura dissipating like mist in morning sun. The Swordmaster stared at the broken hilt in his hand with something like disbelief.

"A worthy attempt," Sylas said, blade poised for the killing stroke.

But the broken sword had served its purpose. Behind them, Ashgard had managed to organize a fighting retreat. Horses galloped into the darkness, carrying nobles and knights away from the slaughter. Those without mounts ran, terror lending speed to their flight.

Sylas paused, his attention shifting from Kaelor to the retreating figures. Then, inexplicably, his gaze found Soren still kneeling at the edge of the ruined camp. Those inhuman green eyes locked onto him with terrible focus.

The shard against Soren’s chest went from burning hot to deathly cold in an instant. Something brushed against his mind, not Valenna’s familiar presence, but something alien, probing, curious. It felt like fingers sifting through sand, searching for something buried beneath the surface.

Sylas tilted his head slightly, his expression shifting from deadly focus to something more contemplative. The pressure of his aura changed, becoming less crushing and more... evaluative. The corner of his mouth lifted in what might have been a smirk.

"Not yet," he said, the words so quiet Soren wasn’t sure if he’d actually spoken or simply projected the thought directly into his mind.

With a casual flick of his wrist, Sylas sent Kaelor crashing to the ground with a final blow to the chest. The Swordmaster collapsed in a heap, blood pooling beneath him, but his chest still rose and fell with stubborn persistence.

Soren waited for the killing stroke that would end him next, but it never came. Instead, Sylas turned away, dismissing him as one might dismiss an uninteresting insect.

The green-haired killer walked unhurriedly toward the edge of the camp, pausing only to cut down a fleeing Lanther noble who had the misfortune to cross his path.

The body fell without ceremony, blood darkening the earth. Sylas continued without breaking stride, disappearing into the treeline as casually as he had emerged.

Silence descended on the ruined camp. The pressure that had filled the clearing evaporated, leaving Soren gasping like a drowning man suddenly returned to air. His limbs trembled with exhaustion and the aftermath of terror.

The shard against his chest pulsed with Valenna’s presence, neither hot nor cold now, but somehow... alert.

Across the clearing, Kaelor groaned, one hand pressing against the worst of his wounds. The Swordmaster lived, though blood darkened the ground beneath him.

From the edge of the camp came the sound of returning horses. Lord Ashgard appeared from the darkness, leading a small contingent of survivors back to assess the damage. His face remained impassive as he surveyed the carnage, those steel-gray eyes missing nothing.

"Gather the wounded," he commanded, voice steady despite the horror surrounding them. "We retreat to the ridge."

Knights moved to obey, their earlier panic replaced by the numb efficiency of those who had survived catastrophe. Soren forced himself to his feet, legs threatening to buckle as he staggered toward Kaelor.

The Swordmaster’s single eye fixed on him as he approached. "Still breathing," Kaelor grunted, attempting to rise before pain forced him back down. "Bastard could have killed me. Why didn’t he?"

Soren had no answer. He helped two Ashgard knights lift Kaelor onto an improvised stretcher, the Swordmaster cursing weakly as the movement reopened his wounds.

The camp that had bustled with life hours before now lay in ruins. Bodies sprawled where they had fallen, blood black in the moonlight. Abandoned banners fluttered in the night breeze, their proud colors meaningless in death’s democracy.

As they prepared to depart, Soren felt the weight of eyes upon him. Lord Ashgard stood nearby, those steel-gray eyes studying him with unsettling intensity.

"He saw something in you," Ashgard said, voice pitched for Soren’s ears alone. "That’s why we’re still breathing."

Before Soren could respond, the lord turned away, barking orders for the retreat. The survivors mounted up, the wounded secured to horses, the dead left where they lay. No time for proper burial, no time for ceremony. Only survival mattered now.

As they rode into the darkness, the shard against Soren’s chest pulsed with sudden clarity. Valenna’s voice whispered through his mind, cold and certain.

"You’ve been chosen," she said, her presence sharp as a blade against his thoughts. "Whether to rise... or be cut down."

Soren looked back at the ruined camp one last time, the implications of her words settling over him like a shroud. Sylas could have killed him with the same casual efficiency he’d displayed against knights with years of training. Instead, he’d been... evaluated. Measured. Found neither worthy of death nor dismissal, but something in between.

The horses carried them into the night, leaving blood and broken steel behind. But Soren couldn’t shake the memory of those inhuman green eyes locked on his, searching for something hidden beneath the surface.

Something even he didn’t know was there.