With a single sweep of its blade-like arm, the foggy silhouette cleared the path before it and continue forward.

At the center of the fog, Lina stood unmoving. Her eyes were closed, her staff buried deep into the ground as threads of light pulsed from its tip, weaving through the mist like veins of living energy.

Her breathing was steady, her focus locked entirely on the invisible patterns of the ancient formation. She did not stir. She did not sense the foggy figure creeping toward her.

The figure's arm curved, forming a blade of condensed fog. It raised it high, ready to strike.

Just then, a chill crawled down its form, sharp as instinctual dread. Without thinking, the silhouette darted to the side.

Boom!

The ground where it had hovered erupted, shards of stone and dirt bursting outward like shrapnel. The mist rippled from the blast, thinning for an instant, just enough to reveal the figure standing within it.

The guard. The same man whose chest had been torn open. The same man whose head had been cleaved clean from his shoulders.

Now, he stood tall once more, calm and silent, holding his severed head loosely in one hand. His robes hung tattered but unstained, his face expressionless, as if death itself had never reached him.

Then, slowly, he lifted the head and placed it back upon the stump of his neck. The mist quivered as the body rejoined with a soft hiss. Bone fused, veins aligned, and skin knitted together seamlessly until not a single mark remained.

The hollow in his chest began to mend as well, flesh and bone reforming in reverse, drawn inward as though time had turned backward. Within moments, he was whole again.

The shadow stared, its amusement gone.

"You're not… alive." The words came out low, tinged with disbelief that curdled into disdain.

"A puppet." He said with a distain

At Emperor Sky Academy, the paths of ascendants were endless, swordsmanship, alchemy, formations, beast-taming, and countless others. Yet among these, there existed one rare and unsettling art: Puppetry.

Few dared to walk that path. It demanded impossible precision, endless resources, and a will unshaken by the lifeless eyes of one's own creations. But those who mastered it, those few, commanded a power that made even strong ascendants tremble.

For puppets were neither alive nor dead. They had no hearts to pierce, no blood to spill. They moved through the steady pulse of energy fed from their hidden cores, they were immortal as long as that energy flowed. Destroying one meant finding that core first, and that was no simple feat.

That was why most dismissed Puppetry as a novelty, until they met a true master. Under such hands, even death itself could be rewritten. Entire battlefields could become graveyards of immortal soldiers that refused to fall.

The figure's gaze flicked from the resurrected guard to the other one standing silently at Lina's side, equally motionless and cold.

"That one too…" it muttered under its breath.

That meant somewhere within this choking fog, hidden from even its keen perception, was the true enemy: the puppeteer pulling the strings.

Just then, the fog stirred, shifting unnaturally. Its edges began to thin, the once-dense haze now unraveling like silk threads tugged by unseen hands.

He felt a subtle disturbance in the web of energy around him.

"Tch…She's breaking it."

Without hesitation, his form flickered. The air shimmered, and it dissolved into smoke, retreating into the fogs before the last wisps of his control scattered completely.

The metallic echoes that had once filled the chamber grew distant… weaker… until they vanished entirely.

In their place came a heavy silence.

The veil of fog peeled away like torn fabric, revealing the devastation beneath.

Lina stood at the center, her staff buried in the ground, faint light still pulsing from its tip. Her eyes glowed softly, reflecting the fading runes that floated and dimmed around her like dying embers.

With one final breath, she lowered her staff. The tension in the air eased as the last traces of the ancient formation shattered, releasing a wave of stillness through the hall.

But the silence that followed was not peace.

When the soldiers finally saw what lay before them, their relief turned to dread.

There were bodies all around the floor. Armor gleamed faintly under the residual light, each corpse bearing the sigil of one of the three great empires.

Their banners, once symbols of pride, lay torn and bloodied beside them. Yet among the fallen, there were no enemies to be found.

No slain assailants. No blood trails leading away. Only their own dead.

Confusion rippled through the surviving ranks.

"Where… where are they?" one soldier whispered, his voice unsteady.

"Who were we fighting?"

"Did we… kill each other?" another muttered, his gaze fixed on the familiar insignia carved into a lifeless comrade's breastplate.

Jul's army had suffered the worst, ranks broken, banners collapsed, formation shattered. Their losses painted the floor crimson. And yet, not a single trace of whoever they fought remained.

Reynold's forces had fared better, but even they had lost men. Their bodies lay scattered among the fallen, faces twisted in disbelief, as if they had died without understanding what struck them.

Reynold exhaled slowly, scanning the carnage before him. They had finally regrouped with the main army.

"Lord Reynold!"

A voice rang out. A commander clad in white armor approached swiftly, saluting before stepping closer. His expression carried both relief and unease.

"Are you alright, my lord?"

Reynold nodded once. "I'm fine."

But the commander's eyes widened as he looked down. "Your arm… you're bleeding."

Reynold frowned and followed the man's gaze. His left arm dripped slowly, dark crimson pooling at his feet.

That wound… from earlier.

It should have healed. And yet, the skin beneath the metal pulsed faintly, a sickly shimmer crawling across the wound. As the blood touched the ground, it darkened, black as ink.

Reynold's pupils tightened. He focused his aura, channeling energy to his arm, probing deeper into the wound. The moment he did, a faint tremor answered from within his veins, a foreign vibration, crawling, writhing like a parasite feeding on his essence.