MM - Chapter 246 - EPILOGUE

With Torune’s death and the surrender of DyingNight, the last vestiges of command and control were shattered; morale went with it. A thousand panicked shouts sounded as guilders scattered in all directions. A few surviving officers vainly attempted to restore order.

“Hold ranks! Protect the casters!”

“No! Prioritize the healers!”

“Retreat by rank!”

Not one order was adhered to. Unable to log out, fear bred like a sickness. Between Varak’s hardened classers and the flaming vision that was Alaric, any hope of forcing people into organized ranks, only to await slaughter, was a pipe dream. Raine sent out a command through the officer chat, “Leave DyingNight alone. Keep CronGate contained. Let them know that there is only one path of retreat.”

A fresh wave of Glacial Snap Grenades was sprinkled on the outer edges of the army. Raine swooped over the frozen enemies, clearing out dozens at a time. Whips of flame met ice, releasing a massive wall of hissing vapor that turned the panicked retreat away. Their only viable avenue of retreat became painfully obvious: the five nearby passes carved into the mountains.

“To the passes!” The call spread not as an order, but as a contagion of desperation that tore through the ranks. For the common soldier, the battle was no longer about victory or spoils; it was about escaping the monstrous figure wreathed in soulfire who would single-handedly dismantle them if given enough time. Instinctual terror drove them, a mob mentality that trampled the fallen and shoved allies aside.

Only a thin line of under-leveled fighters—a few hundred per pass—stood in their way. CronGate charged forward, tens of thousands of bodies turning the ground to a muddy slurry. Instead of instantly rolling over the meager opposition, they met the hardened, waiting defensive lines of Astra Infernum.

The soil itself presented the first obstacle. As the lead sprinters arrived, the small cut in the ground they’d spotted swelled in size. It was three meters wide and deep enough that the bottom was an abyss of darkness. Attribute-driven bodies leaped to clear the gap. Weapons were drawn mid-air, but they never got the chance to use them.

Hidden cleverly at just the right distance were the same Gravitic Amplifiers that had undone the Phoenix Elites. Before jumping, the unfortunate guilders felt nothing, but as soon as their feet dangled over nothing but darkness, gravity tripled, and they plummeted to their doom.

Lining the deep trench were a multitude of spikes that did not merely pierce, but detonated under the pressure of their landings, launching sprays of razor-sharp shrapnel that tore through armored legs and torsos. Those lacking armor at all fared the worst. Hundreds died upon taking that first catastrophic leap. Terrified, the rows yet to jump pumped the brakes, only to be cast into the trenches by those barreling forward from behind.

[Exploding Spike Trap: (Common Grey - Level 15) This rapidly deployable trap activates upon proximity or pressure, detonating in a 3-meter radial burst. Launches sharpened metal spikes in all directions, inflicting 500 piercing damage and 2,500 bleeding damage over 15 seconds]

As the lead waves’ momentum faltered, a series of heavy thumps sounded from behind. Hardened packets of death buried beyond the trenches released shards of sharpened granite that sliced through the throng.

[Stone Ricochet Mine: (Common Grey - Level 15) This buried explosive device triggers on the command of its layer, erupting in a 4-meter conical blast dealing 500 blunt and force damage. Targets in the direct blast are stunned for 2 to 6 seconds. Targets within 6-meters receive 20% reduced movement speed for 10 seconds. Additionally hurls 25 jagged stone fragments that deal 500 piercing damage. Each fragment is capable of penetrating through three victims]

Within the packed ranks, each mine felled dozens as the stone caromed from shield to helmet to bone with sickening cracks. From just up the slope, a constant hail of Glacial Snap Grenades continued their oppressive work. Each detonation turned a cluster of charging soldiers into a tableau of frozen statues who were summarily shattered by the press of desperate bodies behind. Their headlong charge toward freedom devolved into a stagnated, grinding slaughter that all too quickly filled in the deep trenches.

Astra’s people braced against the coming storm, and only seconds before the pitched battle began, Alaric’s visage rose high behind the enemy like a vengeful deity. His voice was loud and strong, filling every ear.

“Do not shy from death! This is your chance to reveal to the whole world the growth you've harvested in yourselves. Anyone who manages to kill fifty of Astra’s enemies will have the opportunity to learn a martial stance.” Eyes widened in shock. The very reason each and every one of them joined under Astra’s banner was finally at hand. Grips tightened on weapons, and snarls pulled at every lip. Raine released the full might of the soul flame, body turning to a skybound bonfire that rivaled the sun as he roared in their ears. “Never forget! We are Astra Infernum! We do not raise our swords wishing for an easy death! We do not turn from danger. We fear, but we do not relent!”

The lines met in a clash of jabbing spears and twisting iron. Screams filled the air. Healers did their best to keep their comrades alive, and casters hurled Blasts and grenades in equal measure.

In the first of five passes, a gateway to a realm of shadows was born. The air grew cold, and light shrank from the narrow canyon as though burned. Vendarkin stood at the center of her line, wading into the enemy with perfectly executed slashes of her dual swords. Yet, she no longer appeared as a mere woman, but as an avatar of twilight given form. Writhing tendrils of solidified darkness lashed around her with serpentine speed. CronGate’s guilders found themselves caught not by hands, but by cold, suffocating strands of nothingness. The shadows coiled around ankles and throats, silencing screams before they could fully form. There was no resistance, only a chilling loss of control as they were inexorably dragged from their feet to be put to rest.

Contrary to Vendarkin’s pristine martial stances, the regulars of Astra Infernum, people with little to no training, fought with the only stance they knew. Eyes were gouged, dirt was thrown, and jewels were kicked. Desperation fueled their every action. They would do whatever it took to survive just one second longer against their enemy's superior training. And survive they did.

At the second pass, chaos met discipline. BearlyAlive stood at the head of a small cadre of budding martials, a wall of interlocking shields that completely blocked the entrance. He had spent time each waking hour teaching those who asked it of him, drilling them in the fundamentals of stance, parrying, and coordinated strikes. 

They were nothing compared to the experts of the Phoenix Clan, but against this disorganized, fear-driven mob, they were grim reapers in the guise of men. Bear’s voice was a low growl that cut through the cacophony. “Brace! Strike as one! Pace back!” Wave upon wave of CronGate regulars crashed against their shields and full suits of armor. Frantic blows were first absorbed, and from the gaps in their wall, spears plunged and axes descended. The line held, retreating one step with each kill. There was no wasted movement, no flashy techniques. It was a brutally efficient rhythm of defense and offense.

They were a single, cohesive unit, methodically dismantling the enemy charge piece by piece, their calm efficiency a stark, terrifying contrast to the screaming pandemonium before them.

The third pass was not a battle; it was an extermination engineered by the very traps Raine created the blueprints for long ago. In the last minutes, Elana, Astra’s crafting lead, had been summoned back from her workshop along with twenty of her most skilled adepts. They transformed the narrow approach into a network of unseen threats.

Blinding flashes of white light and the high-pitched whine of capacitors discharging filled the pass. The air crackled with each detonation of arcing current. Entire groups of soldiers seized up, their bodies twitching uncontrollably as potent electricity coursed through them, leaving them helpless as Astra’s regulars cut them down.

[Spark Bomb: (Common Grey - Level 15) This compact bomb detonates via impact or timer, releasing a 5-meter spherical discharge that paralyzes all targets within its range for 5 seconds. Lowers Conductivity Resistance by 30% before dealing 1,000 Lightning damage]

As if the new bombs weren’t bad enough, thin filaments of shimmering wire had been strung across the pass at ankle and neck height. The invaders lacking in Acuity never even knew how they died. High-pitched zings of a taut wire were followed by the wet, sickening sounds of severed heads sliding free to hit the ground. For those lucky enough to duck in time, they found their feet no longer holding their weight. They fell, only to clutch desperately at limbs that were no longer attached.

[Vorpal Trip Wire: (Common Grey - Level 15) This taut wire trap causes 1,000 vorpal slashing damage upon contact. Severed limbs bleed profusely for an additional 500 bleeding damage per second until healed]

[Vorpal: Causes critical damage with high dismemberment chances mitigated by target's Physique]

Pressure at the fourth pass was immense. Constantine led the two thousand members of Ronexzera in a desperate bid to hold the line. They buckled almost instantly, their levels and gear underwhelming compared to Astra’s regulars. Celeste descended like a meteor, plunging into the thickest clump of soldiers. Her soul flame, while weaker than Raine’s, was still enough to instill terror and agony in a wide radius. Behind her came a cadre of skydrifters, the additional grenades sufficient to slow the tide long enough for Constantine to stabilize his people. Together, father and daughter held firm.

The fifth and final pass was a testament to the unnerving calm that came with experience. Richtor’s group led the core of Astra’s most disciplined 5-star regulars. Compared to the army of spiders and demons they’d faced, fellow humans were nothing. Their communications were single-word commands rife with confidence and certainty. Tanks deflected on cue before seamlessly stepping aside so casters could unleash a relentless barrage. Strikers came next, diving forward to shatter the enemy line before the shields charged back in, delivering concussive blows that sent bodies reeling.

Then, they stepped back, retreat covered by a blanket of ice across the steep ground. Each member knew their role, trusted the person next to them, and moved with the composure of a unit that had bled and triumphed together. At level 25 and armed with superior gear and tactics, Richtor’s team was more than capable of filling any gaps, beating back the desperate, low-level remnants of a shattered army. It was a slow, relentless grind, and of all the passes, they suffered the least losses.

Long before the sun began to dip below the horizon, casting long, bloody shadows across the battlefield, the last desperate cries of the invaders faded into silence. A profound quiet fell over the Central Silvergate Highlands, broken only by the whistling of the wind through the mountain passes. The five gateways to the north, once paths of retreat, were now choked with the loot of the fallen. CronGate’s forces were no more.

Raine was all business, not wanting his people to grow soft thinking that such victories would be the exception. Astra Infernum’s conquest of the Silvergate Kingdom had yet to truly begin. “Collect the loot! Resurrect the dead! Then we’re off to The Wall. It’s time you lazy bastards level up and get your classes! Then, the real fun starts.”

Astra Infernum responded with a roar that shook the mountains.

Torune of CronGate

- Carter City -

Torune awoke with a silent scream; the phantom sensation of searing heat striking his nerves was still fresh. He grasped at himself, fingers sliding over skin that still felt cooked away, but was not. Poking deep, he found healthy flesh despite his brain screaming that it should all be rendered to liquid. Lifting an arm, he saw the strength supplied by bones that, in the back of his skull, he knew should be naught but ash. 

The exquisite torture Alaric had inflicted upon him, he realized with a dawning, twisted sense of gratitude, had propelled him at least a year down his martial path.

That KongRu was ignorant of the way he gained mental strength was telling. All of Torune’s rivals in the Enshen Clan knew his path was paved with agony. To grow, he had to subject himself, not others, to pain. Each successive tempering required ever more potent mental energy to aggravate the cells into adapting, making Torune’s life a monument to self-harm. The nails embedded in the soles of his shoes, driven deep into his feet, the daily draught of acid that turned his gut to jelly—were nothing compared to what Alaric had so generously provided. 

ZionLine had presented a new, accelerated method for acquiring mental strength, and Torune could not wait to sprint down this thorny new road. Yet, even as KongRu had given him strength, he had also robbed him blind. All Torune lacked were the funds to purchase more vital nutrients—a cornerstone to the long, arduous restoration after each tempering. That portion of his dreams felt further away than ever. He was destitute after today’s losses.

Even as that reality set in, a path forward formed, and it did not involve the flight to safety that was suggested.

KongRu’s family had clearly not been among those captured and tortured, or Damian would have been crowing at the heavens already, and the man himself would surely have mentioned them. Luckily, Torune knew exactly where the insufferable upstart’s most precious assets resided: Belehorn Tower. A building that, by all rights, should already belong to him. It was time to take what was his, as he should have from the very beginning.

* * *

Torune arrived at the tower with his host of experts. After a few last-minute additions, their number swelled to three hundred. Against the seventeen thousand nobodies reported to be inside, they would be like reapers coming to harvest souls in the wake of a tsunami. Only the building’s armored exterior stood in their way. Torune scoffed. It might deflect flechette rounds, but it could not withstand the might of a peak master. With a single punch, he blasted a gaping hole in the side of the building. Amidst blaring alarms, his people readied themselves to pour into the breach.

A voice, stern and official, cut through the air from behind. “Master Torune of the Enshen Clan! You are under suspicion of breaking the Second Declaration! Surrender peacefully or you will be apprehended with deadly force!”

Torune spun, lips already set in a vicious snarl. What fresh mockery is this?

Nearly three hundred martials had appeared without making a sound. It should have been impossible. His domain and mental energy were pressed outward at full force; he should have sensed them coming. Yet, even looking at them mere meters away, he could not feel the intent from a single one. They were like holograms. At their head stood three recognizable officials from the Coalition of Masters, peak masters all. Leading them was a weathered old man with a gray beard that fell to his waist. Torune immediately recognized who he was supposed to be, but it did not matter. None of them were real.

He would not be fooled by another of KongRu’s plots.

Torune threw his head back and laughed. “Nice try, KongRu! Did you really think I would fall for such a ruse? That I would surrender to an illusion?” He gestured impatiently at his own men. “What are you standing around for?! Get in there and break every last bone! We’ll have them begging to return our equipment within the hour! Kill no one! We will bleed them dry before we grant them eternal rest!”

Before his soldiers could move, a hand clamped down on the back of Torune’s head. The grasp was absolute, inescapable. At the same moment, a killing intent thick enough to swim through crashed down upon his experts, driving every last one to their knees. A few wet themselves as the disturbing realization settled into their bones: the old man was quite real, and very much the grandmaster that he appeared to be.

“You’re not very bright, are you?” The ancient man’s voice was full of the vigor of youth, yet laced with disappointment. “I always knew little Pladius would make a shit mentor. Still, it’s good you’re here and have a bone to pick with the youngster inside. He’s long overdue for a lesson in respect, daring to negotiate with my little Vought. Only eight days left to update his martial registration, then, I’ll let you have a go at him.”

One of the peak masters behind coughed lightly. “KongRu has nine days remaining to update his martial registration with the local authorities, Grandmaster Malakar.”

The old martial—one of the most famous on the planet, the very man who had created the Coalition of Masters and trained Vaught—looked back with a single curled brow.

The color drained from the official’s face. He coughed lightly into a fist, his mind changed as thoroughly as his tone. “My mistake, Grandmaster. Eight days. Eight days indeed.”

Malakar ran a hand through his long beard, the other still easily holding Torune captive, “Odd. I swear it was seven, or was it five days. Yes. That sounds right. Five days sounds like plenty of time for a little troublemaker to meet justice.”

Here ends Return of the Martial Messiah Book 6, Thank you for reading!!