CHAPTER 26: MATHES AND THE STORM

Back at the border near Aetherthorn, Mathes and his men were being pushed back—hard. The enemy was more numerous than expected. The Night Stalkers were relentless, their fangs and claws flashing in the chaos, and to make matters worse, the infamous White Fang had joined the assault. The alpha’s sneak attacks alone had already cost Mathes four of his best Goldhair warriors.

"My lord, we need more help!" one of the elves shouted, his body soaked in blood—some his own, most from the beasts he’d slain. Though they had fought bravely, the sheer tenacity of the Night Stalkers had dragged the battle far longer than expected.

"I know," Mathes growled through clenched teeth, barely evading two charging Stalkers before retaliating with a sweeping wind blade that carved into their flanks.

"This is my fault... I underestimated their numbers. But what matters now is survival. Sound the retreat. Get everyone back to Aetherthorn!"

It’s important to note that the total population of elves living in Runewood numbered fewer than a thousand. And of those, the majority were non-combatants—women, children, the elderly, artisans, and caretakers. Peaceful lives bound to the forest. If war came to their doorstep, there would be little to shield them.

In truth, across all three tribes—Goldhair, Silverleaf, and Verdantthorn—the number of those who could actually wield a weapon or hunt for survival barely reached two hundred. Rangers, battle-mages, elemental archers, and a few martial warriors trained in elven combat arts... and even among them, only a small percentage had seen real bloodshed. This wasn’t just a fight. It was a gamble with extinction.

Amid the chaos near Aetherthorn’s border, Mathes stood at the eye of the storm. Each swing of his staff, each chant from his lips, held purpose. While he incanted another spell, his irises glowed a radiant teal—his [Observation] skill active and sweeping through the battlefield like a second set of eyes.

His gaze locked on the enemy. And in that moment, Mathes’ expression grew grim.

Five.

Not one. Not two.

Five full packs of Night Stalkers.

Each pack typically held between five to eight of the beasts. But what stood before him now wasn’t just a pack—this was a war host. Dozens of Night Stalkers prowled between shattered trees and broken stone, moving with uncanny coordination. They weren’t just rampaging. They were being led.

And at the heart of them—like a general amidst disciplined soldiers—was the White Fang.

The beast didn’t charge in like the others. It didn’t roar in frenzy. No, it stood tall and eerily composed, its bone-white fur rippling like smoke in the wind. Its piercing blood-red eyes flicked from one elf to another, and each time it growled or snapped its jaw, the rest of the pack adjusted—flanking, surrounding, pushing. The creature was leading them. Strategically.

"This... isn’t just a hunt," Mathes realized, feeling a cold chill ripple through his spine. "They’re coordinated. This is a siege."

He narrowed his eyes, gripping his wand tighter. "I need to get rid of that Alpha. Without it, they’ll lose cohesion... But right now—"

The thoughts flashed through his mind like lightning, but he had no time to hesitate.

"Everyone, fall back!" Mathes suddenly roared, his voice rising above the sound of growls and spells clashing.

"Activate your Wind Run—leave them to me!"

With no time to waste, Mathes slammed the butt of his wand into the ground and muttered a quick incantation. Wind gathered at his feet in a furious swirl, kicking up leaves, ash, and shattered bark. The air exploded beneath his boots—tiny spiraling tornadoes formed around his legs, lifting his body with unnatural lightness. The very air seemed to cradle him. His cloak fluttered like a banner in a storm as the familiar green aura of the Wind Run skill enveloped him, painting streaks of emerald in his wake.

This spell was not just for speed—it reduced gravity, allowing his body to cut through the air with near-zero resistance, much like Micha’el’s specialized elven technique. To the untrained eye, he seemed to blur—phasing like a streaking arrow.

Five Night Stalkers lunged at him with gaping maws and dagger-length claws, but they met only wind.

Mathes had already vanished.

He darted between their attacks like a ghost on the breeze, slipping through the gaps of their formation with the grace of a leaf in a storm. One beast snapped at his cloak—too slow. Another raised its paw to strike—too late. Mathes reappeared a dozen meters away, his boots skidding on the bloodied earth with a swirl of dust.

Though hesitation flickered in the eyes of his soldiers, they obeyed.

The order had been given.

One by one, they activated their own Wind Run skills, emerald light wrapping around their legs and arms. Their movements grew faster, lighter, guided by instinct and desperation. Their breath was heavy, but their feet never faltered.

"Go! Go!" one of them shouted as they weaved past snarling Night Stalkers, who—confused by the sudden burst of speed—began to break formation, chasing the retreating goldhairs through the trees.

The forest echoed with growls and shouts as the escape began in full.

And then... silence.

Mathes stood where they had left him.

Alone.

He stood like a wall of iron in the midst of a writhing storm, his wand gripped tightly in one hand. Wind rustled his cloak, and blood trickled down from a wound at his brow. All around him, beasts howled. But he did not budge.

From the corner of his serious eyes, he saw the White Fang prowling closer.

And then—

A voice.

A deep, guttural voice echoed inside his head.

’You think you have what it takes to stop us?’

Mathes’s eyes widened in shock. That voice didn’t come from outside. It was in his mind. The White Fang... had spoken to him. Telepathically.

"This is new," he muttered, heart thundering.

Only monsters that had evolved—those that had ascended to the higher stages—could use telepathic communication.

This is bad.

Before he could process further, several Night Stalkers charged and launched Air Wave attacks at him, howling as they sent jagged pressure blasts his way.

PING!—PING!

His enchanted rings flared. A golden shield of energy shimmered around him, etched with glowing runes of ancient protection. The airwaves struck, but the barrier held strong, reverberating like metal on stone.

Inside the dome of golden light, Mathes stood perfectly still. The shimmering barrier around him flickered with arcane symbols, runes pulsing faintly with each strike that crashed against it. Dust swirled in the air, and the sharp scent of burning bark and beast blood seeped through the cracks in the chaos.

He closed his eyes.

The world outside was noise—roars, howls, the hammering of claws against his shield like war drums. But within this glowing sanctuary, he was a statue of calm.

A low rumble stirred above him—subtle at first, like a dragon murmuring in its sleep. Then it deepened, rolling through the forest floor like a warning drumbeat from the heavens. The skies above began to shift, clouds swirling unnaturally, twisting and tightening into a spiral of gathering doom.

But then... the White Fang moved.

Its body pulsed with dark energy, and in a blink, the other Night Stalkers leapt away in panic. They knew what was coming. They’d seen it before. And they knew—it wouldn’t matter whether they were friend or foe.

To block the alpha’s path was to sign one’s death warrant.

The White Fang’s maw opened wide as its power surged while channeling its power through its mouth and then...

[PRIMAL ROAR]

The sound was overwhelming—like standing in front of a mountain of dynamite going off at once, only it wasn’t an explosion. It was the roar of the beast, and it hit like a shockwave straight to the skull.

A hellish shockwave exploded outward in a massive fan-shaped cone. Trees bent, splintered, and snapped. Rocks cracked and split open. Beasts caught in the blast were hurled aside like rag dolls. Some flailed midair before hitting the ground with a wet thud, their eyes wide, blood oozing from ears, nose, and mouth.

The shockwave reached the fleeing Goldhairs too, albeit weaker in force. But even then, it was enough.

Several of them collapsed just before the gate of Aetherthorn.

"What the—?!"

One by one, they checked their Divine Frames and gasped in horror.

[Status: Paralyzed][Status: Internal Bleeding][Status: Spell Nullification][Status: 50% Overall Stat Reduction]

"This is crazy!" one of them shouted, clutching his ribs. "I... I can’t move!"

Depending on their constitution, some resisted the effects quickly. Others were left trembling in helplessness. The debuff was real—and lethal.

Even in the forest itself, the damage was catastrophic. Leaves stripped from trees. Squirrels and magical birds fell from their perches. A wide circle around the White Fang had become a wasteland of broken terrain.

The roar carried far.

All the way to the viewing hall of Aetherthorn.

"Mother!"

"W-What was that?!"

Panic erupted. Children ran to their mothers. Weaker elves collapsed from the sheer spiritual pressure that echoed through the air like a drumbeat of death. The joyful festival atmosphere vanished in an instant.

Micha’el staggered to his feet, holding his chest, his face pale. Robert and Marissa—watching from their seats—leapt up in alarm, eyes full of worry.

Back at the battlefield, Mathes stood alone.

His robes were in tatters. Blood streamed from his nose and eyes. His legs shook, but he remained standing.

Three enchanted rings had guarded him. Two were shattered—smoking ruins now. Only one held. It was his most precious treasures but now they are gone.

But still... he stood and his mind was deep in his thoughts.

’The Queen is away... and I’m the only one she left in command’

Mathes thought grimly, gritting his teeth as he steadied his stance against the pressure of the battlefield.

’Everything rests on me now. Her trust, her orders, the safety of our people—all of it sits heavy on my shoulders.’

He drew a deep, ragged breath, summoning every ounce of strength left in his body. His limbs ached, and his mana was already running thin, but there was no room for weakness now.

’and I can’t let the queen mother down!’

His grip tightened around his staff until his knuckles turned white. His eyes flared with determination.

’Even if it costs me my life, I will stand here and hold the line.’

His eyes sparked with energy. Lightning danced in his irises.

Mathes raised his wand as he smiled towards the White Fang.

"My turn."

His wand flared to life, casting a brilliant beam of light straight into the sky—piercing through the thick clouds above. And in the next heartbeat...

[TEMPEST’S WRATH]

RUMBLE...

In a blinding flash, the skies split open as a furious cascade of lightning bolts descended from above—like spears hurled by vengeful gods. Dozens of them rained down with unrelenting fury, each strike crackling with raw elemental power, searing the battlefield with flashes of blinding white and electric blue. The air itself trembled with every impact, and the scent of ozone thickened like smoke after a cannon blast.

This was no ordinary spell.

[Tempest’s Wrath]—a signature technique granted only to those who bore the title of Stormsong Mage, a rare and elite class known for commanding both wind and storm. A class forged not just in talent but in discipline, resilience, and centuries-old knowledge passed through bloodlines and battlefields. And Mathes... he was the last of them.

KRAKABOOM!

KRAKAKOOM!~

The bolts landed with explosive force. The ground shook while beasts screamed.

Some of the Night Stalkers were electrocuted mid-charge. Others burst into flame where they stood. Chain lightning arced from body to body, extending the destruction across entire flanks.

The storm grew.

With each bolt that landed, another two followed. Thunder roared like drums of war.

Their snarling faces twisted into fear. In the middle of their chase, they turned their tail and ran for their lives.

Burned. Broken. Limping.

Their hunting instincts overwhelmed by panic.

The once-confident predators were now prey—fleeing for their lives.

All except one.

The White Fang stood firm across the chaotic rain of destruction.

Its fur smoldered. Its skin crackled with static. But it did not run. It didn’t even flinch.

Its eyes locked onto Mathes. Its lips curled back to reveal a chilling grin, sharp fangs glinting beneath the moonlight.

’Interesting...’ the beast’s voice echoed in Mathe’s mind.

Back at Aetherthorn, Micha’el finally recovered from his shock and turned to the Goldhair council.

"Elders, our leader Mathes needs help. We have to send reinforcements—now!"

One of the elders, who had been tending to his wounds, offered a calm smile.

"You need not worry. This is Mathes. What beast could defeat him? Unless it’s Vulkris himself, we have nothing to fear."

"He’s facing the White Fang!" Micha’el said, panic rising again.

"It’s just a White Fang," a soldier muttered with a cocky smirk.

"You don’t understand!" Micha’el took a deep breath and steadied himself. "It’s the White Fang—with at least thirty Night Stalkers supporting it."

"...Oh."

Everyone froze.

They knew how dangerous a single pack of Night Stalkers could be—minimum of five and ten at most. But thirty?

And with the White Fang leading them?

Near the border?

That was a nightmare.

Before anyone could respond, more lightning shattered the night.

Bolts screamed through the sky in rapid succession. The forest trembled. From afar, even without being there, they recognized the spell.

Tempest’s Wrath.

Only one person could cast that spell and they knew it was Mathes.

And the last time he had done so... was during the war with Vulkris three centuries ago.

The hall fell into horrified silence.

Could it be...?

Could it be that a threat as great as Vulkris had already arrived?

If that were true, then this wasn’t merely a skirmish.

This was the beginning of all-out war—a full-scale clash between the Night Stalkers and the united Elven tribes.