Chapter 17: Whispers Before the Storm!
The hill crested, and through the low fog of early dusk, Amiel Racta emerged like a blade drawn from its scabbard—sharp-eyed and cold. His gaze swept over the battlefield below, scanning for threats, anticipating mediocrity. He expected to face mere stragglers—fighters barely breaching the 4th level of the Ocean Opening Realm.
But what he saw turned his spine to ice, and dispelled his confidence like dust to the wind.
"Impossible…" he muttered beneath his breath, masking the tremor in his voice with a hardened jawline. Six warriors in the 5th rank. And worse… one masked man, cloaked in the unmistakable aura of the 7th rank. That power… it rippled in the air like a phantom storm.
Still, his face remained unreadable, an empty mask for the crowd behind him. To falter now would be to spread panic like wildfire.
Beside him, Uzziah Bilu approached, grim and sharp-eyed. He had also noticed the same disturbing fact about the quality of the opposition strength.
"They're stronger than expected," Uzziah said in a low tone. "We do not have enough power to fight back on equal footing."
Amiel's reply was measured, like someone weighing each word on a scale. "We act fast, send word to Lord Balek. Now. Use the messenger eagle."
Without hesitation, Uzziah blew into the bone-carved horn at his side. The sound, haunting and hollow, echoed into the skies. Moments later, a great silver-winged eagle descended, its eyes glowing faintly with arcane light. A sealed parchment was secured in its claws, and with a beat of its mighty wings, it vanished into the clouds like a wraith.
"That should reach Lord Balek in time," Amiel said, stroking his black-and-silver beard thoughtfully. "We still have ten Level 5 Ocean opening realm martial artists to reinforce us. The over 5000 garbages are more than enough to stall. We hold them here. Reinforcements will arrive later while the battle commences… and I want Lord Balek himself on the battlefield. There's a Level 7 Ocean Opening realm among them, and he as a level 8 should be more than capable of handling him. We cannot afford a mistake."
Uzziah's brows furrowed. "And until then?"
"We throw the 5690 half-blooded, disloyal fools at them. Let them bleed while we wait."
A smirk tugged at Amiel's lips. Cold. Calculating.
---
Across the field, beneath the shadow of the broken obelisk, Josh Aratat, cloaked in his black-etched mask, stood flanked by Lola and Conrad Stan. The wind tugged at his robe like a whisper from the grave. Behind him, ten new warriors stood silent, bearing the unmistakable aura of death-bound loyalty.
He narrowed his eyes as he watched Amiel's forces shuffle into position. His mind, sharp as ever, was already five moves ahead.
"He'll send those 5690 like sheep to the slaughter," Josh murmured. "He thinks he can stall us. But his mistake is underestimating loyalty—and underestimating me."
His voice sharpened like drawn steel. "Conrad. Lola. You're close to the 6th rank. You'll follow me straight to Amiel Racta. Once he falls, the spine of their army breaks."
The rest gathered closer, eyes burning with quiet resolve.
"Adino, Shammah, Joab—take the east front. Crush their flank."
"Lino, Arroid, Baggon—west front. Draw their fastest."
"Eliphaz, Miko, Limro—shadow me. Naze, you're with me."
No battle cries. Just conviction.
Josh's masked face turned toward the field as the skies began to darken, thunder rumbling in the distance.
---
On Amiel's side, Uzziah Bilu's voice split the silence like a hammer:
"Soldiers—it is time to prove your worth! Stand and fight!"
But the mass of 5690 stirred uneasily, muttering among themselves.
"They want us to die first, throwing us out as soon as it pleases them."
"This… this is a trap."
"Why are we being pushed forward like meat shields?"
"They call us disloyal—but those two, Conrad and Lola, always treated us with dignity. And that masked warrior… he saved my life last wednesday."
"Maybe we chose wrong…"
The seeds of doubt blossomed rapidly into rebellion. Eyes turned not toward the enemy—but toward Amiel Racta and Uzziah Bilu. The battle hadn't begun, but the battlefield was already splitting at the seams.
None of them knew the masked warrior's identity. Josh Aratat was a ghost to them, a legend presumed dead. But something in his presence—his leadership—was igniting memory, loyalty, and fear all at once.
The wind picked up. Thunder roared.
And the war drums began.
---
The air was heavy, pulsing with tension—then Amiel Racta raised his hand.
Slowly, deliberately, he curled his fingers into a fist and extended a single thumb upward.
All eyes locked on him.
Then, in one sharp, deliberate motion, he turned the thumb downward.
The signal was unmistakable.
"Soldiers—ATTACK!" Uzziah Bilu's roar cracked across the battlefield like lightning splitting the sky.
With that, the army surged forward like a tidal wave. Dust exploded beneath their feet. The 5690 disloyal conscripts, many of them still dazed and confused, were pushed forward in a chaotic mixture with the seasoned warriors of Amiel's own retinue. Screams of uncertainty clashed with the disciplined roars of veterans. The battlefield trembled under the sheer weight of boots and wills.
---
Across the field, the masked figure of Josh Aratat stood firm atop a crag of shattered stone, his war robe billowing like a banner of vengeance. He turned to his warriors, his voice low and powerful, like a war hymn carved into stone.
"Don't die."
His words silenced even the clamor of war preparations.
"Choose only opponents you can match. I've already enhanced you… feel the power within you, stirred by the ancient song—'The Rise of the Blade.' Let it fuel your limbs, sharpen your senses, harden your resolve."
The first verse and the chorus of the song had already been sung before the arrival of Amiel Racta—a haunting, wordless melody that sank into their bones, awakening latent strength. Now it echoed in their souls like an oath remembered.
"Now show them why you are MY army."
A wave of fire swept through his forces—not literal, but emotional. Hearts surged. Eyes glowed. Every heartbeat was a drum of war.
"Soldiers—ATTACK!" shouted Conrad Stan, his voice a clarion call that stirred the winds.
They charged.
---
Like arrows loosed from a god's bow, Josh Aratat, Lola, Conrad Stan, and Naze surged forward, leaping into the air with impossible grace and speed. Their shadows streaked across the battlefield like comets.
They weren't heading for the rank-and-file.
They were aiming for the head of the serpent.
Amiel Racta.
Behind them, Eliphaz, Miko, and Limro flanked in a V formation, scanning for ambushes and offering mid-range support. To the sides, the others split—east and west—engaging flanks as planned.
From his high perch, Amiel's confidence fractured into panic the moment he saw the streaking figures slicing through the air toward him. Their speed was inhuman, their intent undeniable.
"Spears! Halberds! Stop them!" he roared.
Weapons rained through the air—obsidian spears, iron-forged halberds, enchanted blades spinning like death itself. But every single one missed.
Lola rolled mid-air gracefully, with her immaculate body movement she flipped between two halberds with a dancer's grace.
Naze twisted, spinning as a spear passed an inch from his shoulder.
Josh Aratat moved like wind incarnate—untouchable, unstoppable.
Amiel's heart raced. His confidence crumbled. His enemies weren't guessing his tactics—they were two steps ahead.
"They've read everything…" he muttered, sweat beading down his temples. "He's reading my entire strategy like a book!"
His voice cracked with panic.
"Don't let them through! Finish them! Finish them—NOW!!"
But every action they took seemed ineffective.
The storm had already breached his gates.
And the masked phantom was coming for his head.