The portal shimmered open at the center of the yard, light spilling out in jagged bands. The sight silenced the fort — even the wolves lowered their heads, uneasy at the weight of it.

One by one, the freed made their choice.

Twenty went through first, led by Holt and the sergeants, carrying bundles and broken tools. They weren't fighters, but Harold knew their worth. Farmers, blacksmiths, a brewer, a stonemason, a formation student, even a woman with the markings of a mid-tier Enchanter — all skills his mountain settlement desperately needed. They crossed the threshold with wide eyes and held breath, vanishing into the light toward the safety of the valley.

Thirteen more stayed, stepping forward to stand with the platoon. Scarred men and women, ex-pit fighters, a dwarven miner with forearms like stone, a wiry hunter whose Dao flared faint in the torchlight. They looked exhausted, but there was steel in their eyes. They would fight.

The rest… turned away. Muttering, whispering. Led by the same gaunt man who had spat before, they gathered their few belongings and slipped into the night, choosing freedom on their own terms rather than gambling on a young Calamity's promise.

Harold watched them go, jaw tight, but said nothing. He wouldn't use conscripts to fight but they have their own part of play in what he planned. What surprised him was the elf.

She stood her ground as the others vanished into the dark, her cloak still torn, her face bruised, but her chin high. "I'll fight," she said simply.

Daran's eyes flicked toward her, narrowing, his jaw set with a tension Harold didn't miss. But he said nothing, returning to sharpening his blade.

When the last of the refugees had chosen, Harold raised his hand. The portal pulsed again, brighter this time.

"Olrick," he said quietly.

The old man stepped through, his face carved with lines of worry. At his side, a clutch of children led by brenns oldest trailed hesitantly, wide-eyed as they crossed into the fort. Their laughter and shrieks were gone now, replaced by silence and nerves. Meala stood there threatingly with her spoon daring Harold to let something happen to her son.

The soldiers stiffened. Holt's lips pressed tight. Even the wolves bristled uneasily at the scent of innocence in a place built for war.

But Harold only nodded. "The timeline moved up. We act now. They'll come in force too soon. I need to divert them and give them another loss."

He looked to Jerric, whose kobolds stood like shadows behind him. "You've got your orders. A column of Bloodnights is moving, and their honor will drive them right into what I've planned for them."

Then to the platoon. "You'll march. You'll fight. And when they come, you'll bleed them dry."

The children huddled together, their small faces pale in the torchlight, aware of the role they were about to play in luring predators to their doom.

The fort came alive under torch and moonlight, the yard echoing with shouts as men and wolves formed into columns. Holt paced along the line, checking crossbows and shields, barking orders until the refugees-turned-fighters looked more like a squad than a rabble. Off to the side Kelan was Branding the dwarven miner that also had the dao of stone. His coterie of builders was getting bigger.

Jerric stood apart, kobolds crouched low around him, their glowing eyes unblinking as they waited for his signal to move.

At the gates, Harold gave a final check — the packs were loaded, every piece in motion. He raised a hand to signal their march.

And then he saw them.

Off to the side, just beyond the torchlight, Daran stood with the elf woman, his posture rigid, his voice sharp. She was unarmed save for a short knife at her belt, her torn cloak hanging loose, her bruised face pale but unbowed.

"You don't have a fighter's class," Daran said, low and fierce. "No steel, no training. Your Dao isn't made for this — it's… what, an emotions based one? You'll get yourself killed in the first clash."

The woman's jaw tightened. "I know what my Dao is. And I know it better than you. Maybe I can't cut a man in half, but I can steady one when he's bleeding, rally the fearful, push courage where it's faltering. You don't get to tell me where I belong."

"You belong alive," Daran snapped back. "And the best way to do that is to stay here, keep these people from breaking when we're gone. Let the fighters fight."

Her chin lifted, eyes hard. "I'll help how I choose. Not how you choose. And you're not going to stop me."

For a moment, Harold thought Daran might actually reach for her arm, but he stopped himself, fingers twitching against the hilt of his broadsword. His face was carved from stone, but his eyes betrayed him — narrowed, searching, unsettled.

And Harold caught it.

Daran, the man who had wandered for decades without anchoring himself, who had sharpened his Dao against stone, steel, and blood, now stood rooted — not by something sharp, but something soft. His Dao of Sharpness strained toward her, drawn by the unfamiliar.

Harold lingered at the edge of the torchlight, silent, watching the rare fracture in his composure.

The elf woman moved closer and placed a hand on his rough cheek, her voice quieter but iron in its core. "You've spent your life carving yourself sharper, haven't you? Maybe it's time you learned there are other edges in this world."

Daran's jaw tightened, his silence saying more than words.

The column waited, wolves pacing, torches sputtering in the night air. Harold exhaled, stepping forward to break the tension.

Harold's boots crunched softly in the dirt as he closed the distance. The fortyard quieted in his wake, though torches still hissed and wolves padded restlessly near the gates. He stopped beside the pair — the elf standing firm, Daran rigid with frustration — and for a long moment, he simply studied them.

Then Harold nodded once at the elven woman. His hand came up and clapped down heavy on Daran's shoulder.

The brand on his hand flared — but nothing happened.

Not at first.

The system's restraint pressed back at him like a wall of iron. [Target not Branded. Dao Vision cannot be applied.]

Harold's jaw clenched. Mana surged through him, but the restriction held fast. He could feel the skill resisting, refusing to bend.

No. Not this time.

He ground his teeth, pulling deeper. Freedom Qi swelled inside him, raw and wild, wrapping around the chains of the system. It burned, searing like a forge pressed against his skin.

I use what I want. On who I want.

The system buckled. The weight pressed heavier, nearly snapping his concentration, but he forced more mana through, his Freedom Qi splitting the threads that bound the skill. There was no skill involved, just pure brute force demanding he not be denied. . The brand blazed, a searing pain racing up his arm as the Vision cracked open — not whole, but enough.

It hit Daran like a hammer strike.

He staggered, eyes widening, a choked breath escaping as the half-forged vision rammed into him. The clarity wasn't complete — fragmented, blurred at the edges — but it was enough.

In that moment, he saw the edge of his Dao refracted differently.

Not endless sharpness honed on blood and slaughter, not the lonely edge ground against stone until it gleamed, but purpose forged in the softness beside it. A blade, yes — but one that cut for something.

The elf woman stood there, bruised and unarmed, refusing to bow. Her voice had been steady, her eyes unwavering even when his had flared with frustration. She was no warrior, no duelist, no wielder of steel — and yet she had defied him as though she had every right. That refusal struck through his core like a whetstone drawn along steel.

Sharpness without restraint is just destruction. Sharpness without direction is meaningless. But sharpness that cuts for something greater…

Her Dao was not violence. It was emotion, unyielding and raw, the unseen current that moved men to fight, to hold, to stand. Daran had always dismissed such things as weak — softer than steel, less true than the bite of a blade. And yet, here she was, wielding it without armor or class, and he felt his own Dao respond.

He saw decades of wandering reflected back at him. The long roads where he'd sought sharper things: stones harder, blades keener, foes stronger. All his searching, all his restraint in leveling, holding himself back so his Dao could grow before he advanced… and here was the truth: he had been sharpening endlessly, yet aimlessly. The edge was real, but it cut nothing that mattered.

The elf woman's defiance, her sheer refusal to be set aside, was purpose incarnate. Not sharp, but steady. Not violent, but unbreakable.

And his Dao resonated.

It did not dull. It did not soften. It lifted.

The sound was like steel ringing true on an anvil. Something cracked inside him — the ceiling he had pressed against for years, the invisible restraint that had kept him circling at the peak of Knight. It shattered, and in its place rose something higher. His Sharpness Dao surged, clearer than it had ever been, the edge honed not just on foes, but on the meaning behind the cut.

A blade without purpose was nothing but a killer. A blade with purpose became a truth.

Something cracked inside him. Then rose.

Qi rushed through his meridians, sharper and brighter than before, climbing past the ceiling he had pressed against for decades. The lines of his aura hardened, bladed edges snapping into place. A storm formed around him as he absorbed the qi in his surroundings and tried to stabilize himself as the qi raged through his body.

He was no longer Peak Knight.

He had crossed.

Harold released him, arm trembling, sweat slick down his chest. Blood ran in thin streams from cuts across his arms and shoulders — not wounds from any blade, but slices carved by the storm of qi that had raged uncontrolled around Daran's advance. Simply standing near had been enough to tear him open. His health pulsed at the edge of his vision, dipped past half and still falling.

The brand on his hand smoldered faintly, weaker than before. The system's rebellion had left scars in his core, Freedom Qi burned raw to force what should have been impossible.

But it was done.

Daran blinked, his breath ragged. His hand clenched tight on the hilt of his broadsword, and the air hummed faintly around him — the subtle resonance of an unsheathed edge. His gaze turned toward the elf woman, eyes wide, unsettled, yet alight with something new.

Harold stepped back, voice low but edged like a whetstone. "See her as she is. Not what she lacks."

The elf frowned, not understanding the exchange, but she could see it — the shift in Daran's aura, the undeniable surge of power, and that somehow it had tied back to her. Her spine straightened, her jaw setting firm.

Daran stood silent, but the silence had changed. His aura was different now. Sharper. Heavier. Alive in a way it had not been an hour ago.

Then his eyes flicked back to Harold — and widened. For the first time, panic cracked his voice. "Lira! Help!"

Harold smirked faintly through the blood dripping down his arms, the sound of it pattering in the dirt. "Don't worry about it, Daran. Save her mana. She's going to need it."

At the gates, Holt's bark cut across the night. "Form up! We march!" Wolves snarled low, the platoon shifting into motion, the yard alive with steel and discipline.

Harold exhaled, steadying himself as he turned away. Every breath burned, every cut still stung, but he had forced the impossible. Daran would not march into this fight as the man he was before.

The march wound on into the night, torches swaying in the hands of soldiers, wolves padding silent and watchful at the edges. The freed and the fighters kept close together, shepherded by Holt's barked orders and the steady rhythm of boots on dirt.

Elira walked in the center, her cloak frayed, her face still bruised from her last master's hand. Each step was weary, but her mind refused rest.

Her eyes kept finding Daran.

He walked near the front, sword slung casually across his shoulder, his frame cutting a silhouette against the torchlight. Before tonight, he had been a wall of iron — cold, unflinching, honed to a lethal edge. But now, after whatever Harold had forced into him, he radiated something else. The air itself seemed to hum around him, sharper, heavier. Like a drawn blade held just shy of a strike.

It should have terrified her.

Instead, it stirred something she didn't want to name.

Elira had spent years feigning attraction, weaving words and emotions she did not feel, because that had been her trade. Courtesan, comforter, liar with a smile. She had forced connection, played the role until it sickened her, bending herself into what others wanted until she could no longer tell what was truly hers.

And yet now, walking behind him, watching the sharp line of his jaw as he turned his head to scan the treeline, she felt her emotions roil unbidden. No coaxing. No mask. No play.

It infuriated her.

Every time she told herself to look away, her gaze slid back. He hadn't spoken since the gates, but his silence pressed against her all the same. That sharp, disciplined aura of his cut through her thoughts like a blade, leaving her restless, heated, unsettled.

Mostly, he just pissed her off. Who was he to tell her what she could do?

But she couldn't take her eyes off him.

Daran crouched low behind the lip of the ridge, broadsword balanced across his knees. Below, the basin waited, its shallow bowl shaped by Kelan's careful hands, his new brand helped exclaiming about how much he felt closer to the stone and he could influence it better — loose soil shifted, roots weakened, hidden channels carved to funnel the unwary. Ferin had paced the lines earlier, using the wind itself to carry sound and mark ranges. Auren had walked the rise and set markers with careful hands, every post and notch lining up into clean arcs of fire.

Stolen novel; please report.

And now the wolves' report had come back true.

A forty-man patrol moved below, boots and hooves shaking the ground. A disciplined line of retainers, steel glinting faint beneath the moon. At its head rode two knights in heavy plate, their presence thick as a stormfront. Vampires. Tier 4 Barons.

Daran's jaw tightened. They're mine. One at a time. Hold the other until I come.

He rose just enough to glance across the ridgeline. Crossbows waited, straining against drawn strings. Rysa's firebombs sat ready, shadows hiding their faint glimmer. Wolves slunk in silence, circling the far side of the patrol, waiting for Hal's command. And deeper in the trees, the kobolds crouched low, claws twitching, their eyes shining faint in the dark.

"Wait," Daran murmured through clenched teeth. "Wait."

Then it began.

From the treeline, children burst into the open.

Brenn's eldest boy was first, small legs pumping as he barreled into the field, his voice shrill with practiced terror. "Help! Please! Somebody help us!" His cry cracked the night like glass. Behind him, four more children stumbled and screamed, their voices high and frantic, the sound cutting deeper than any wounded soldier's cry could.

The effect on the vampires was immediate.

If it had been men or women fleeing, they might have slowed, might have held formation. Adults could be deserters. Bait. Cowards leading them into a trap. But children? The patrol faltered. Honor struck like a hammer — unspoken, but shared among them all. Their charge faltered only long enough to confirm what they were seeing.

And then the kobolds came.

They erupted from the brush, hooting and screeching, jagged blades flashing. The scene was brutal in its simplicity — monsters descending on children, who shrieked and flailed and called for help.

"Help us! Please!" Brenn's boy screamed again, just as a kobold lunged, grabbing his arm and dragging him toward the treeline. The others stumbled, wailing as smaller kobolds swarmed around them, yanking at their hair and cloaks, pulling them back.

The patrol snapped.

A roar went up from the knights at the head, and the line broke into a charge. Armor clattered, weapons lifted. Whatever suspicion lingered drowned beneath the demand of their vows: protect the helpless, defend the innocent. Even if it meant charging blind into the dark.

From the rear, one retainer archer loosed an arrow, clean and precise, cutting through a kobold and dropping it before its blade could fall on a child. The boy ripped free, sobbing as he bolted deeper into the field — away from the vampires, not toward them.

That was when the unease began to creep in.

The column slowed, knights barking orders, confusion rippling down the line. Children weren't supposed to run deeper into danger. Not toward the woods, but into them.

From his position on the ridge, Daran could see the tightening of the knights' jaws, the flicker of unease in their stares. They knew something was wrong, but the screams dragged them forward anyway.

"Ha!" One of the axe brothers snickered from the rear of the ambush, elbowing his sibling. "Look at Brenn's boy go. Yelling like the world's ending. Oughta Brand him just for the lungs."

The other snorted, barely containing his laugh. "Never thought I'd see the day a brat dragged vampires by the nose."

Their chuckles were low, wicked, but carried. Even in the tension, it eased some of the men around them, the absurdity of the ploy grounding the nerves before the strike.

And below, the trap closed tighter with every step the vampires took.

The patrol surged after the children, their armored knights spurring warhorses down into the uneven ground. The basin funneled them toward the treeline, where shadows thickened and branches closed in overhead.

The children screamed louder, their shrill voices echoing off the trees.

"Help us!" "They're going to kill us!"

Every note pulled the column farther in, until the horses stumbled and slowed, hooves catching on roots and loose soil Kelan had loosened with his Dao. The retainers cursed as their line compressed, riders forced to dismount, boots slamming against the earth as they pressed forward on foot.

"Form tighter ranks!" one knight barked, his voice sharp. "Shields forward!"

Another vampire, eyes narrowing at the dark, turned in his saddle toward a robed figure marching near the rear. "Scry ahead. Tell me what lies in the trees."

The mage lifted his staff, words forming on his lips as mana shimmered in his palm. His eyes unfocused, his voice low and steady—

—then two arrows cut the night.

One whistled like a breath of wind, the other struck like the snap of a bowstring.

Both found their mark. One breaking on some kind of Mage armour blocking the wind blown arrow. The second powered by the Hunt.

The arrow punched through his chest, sprouting from his back. His scry shattered, mana scattering like glass, his voice choking into silence as he toppled from the saddle.

The patrol froze, a ripple of shock and fury running down their line.

And then the woods erupted.

The patrol froze, a ripple of shock and fury running down their line.

And then the woods erupted.

The first thing they saw wasn't fire or steel, but white.

A massive frost bear, its hide rippling with icy armor, roared as it thundered from the treeline. Breath plumed from its jaws in a freezing mist, the ground hardening where its paws struck. It smashed into the flank of the formation like an avalanche, scattering retainers and crushing a knight beneath its bulk.

Jerric staggered, blood running from his nose as the summoning drained him, but the kobolds howled in answer, emboldened by the beast's arrival.

Then the fire came.

Clay pots arced overhead, shattering into gouts of flame that rolled across the vampires' compressed ranks. Horses screamed, men shouted, and shields came up too late to stop the chaos.

Crossbows snapped in rhythm, bolts raining down from the ridges. Retainers dropped in staggered lines, shields jerking as quarrels hammered into them.

From above, Ferin and Auren loosed in deadly tandem — arrows guided by the wind and the Hunt, each one finding captains, mages, anyone barking orders. One man raised a horn to his lips to sound the alarm; Auren's shaft punched through his chest before he drew breath.

Hal's howl split the chaos, long and savage, rolling through the basin. His pack surged with him, ash and frost flowing like rivers of fangs. They slammed into the rear of the column, tearing retainers down and dragging them screaming into the brush. The shadow wolf blinked into being, dragging one shrieking man into the dark where his cries ended in silence.

The children vanished into cover, retreating toward the wolves' lines, their cries dying off as the trap shifted into slaughter.

At the front, Daran didn't wait.

He vaulted the ridge, broadsword gleaming in torchlight, and crashed into the foremost vampire knight. Their blades met with a thunderclap of qi, sparks spraying as the Baron bared his fangs. The two of them locked, the shockwave sending nearby retainers sprawling.

To the side, Kelan and Lira engaged the second Baron.

Stone armor cracked as Kelan's guard absorbed a hammer strike, his feet gouging furrows in the earth as he held. Lira's whip lashed in arcs of death-qi, biting into steel and flesh, but each time the knight barreled through, driving them back. They were punching above their weight, every strike costing blood and breath.

And then order returned.

A commander's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding. A woman, tall and iron-eyed, lifted her shield high. "Form ranks!"

The patrol obeyed. Despite the bear's charge, despite the wolves ripping into their flanks, the retainers dragged themselves together. Shields slammed into place with disciplined force, locking tight. Lines reformed.

Then the shimmer of a mana-shield rose above them, a translucent dome crackling as it locked into place, muting the firelight against its surface. The chaos dimmed, contained, as the commander pointed her blade outward.

"Push!" she shouted.

The vampires braced, ready to weather the storm.

Steel rang like thunder.

Daran's broadsword met the Baron's longsword in a storm of sparks, each strike a shockwave that rattled the basin. The vampire pressed with brutal force, his High Baron Dao of blood crashing like a tempest against Daran's newly risen edge. And yet, Daran held. His Low Baron aura wasn't as heavy, but his decades of skill turned every parry into a lesson, every deflection into an insult. He fought low and tight, slipping into openings the Baron didn't expect, turning defense into threat with maddening precision.

The vampire snarled, fangs flashing. "You're not enough."

Daran's blade answered for him, drawing a crimson line across the knight's cheek. The knights own Dao of blood sealing the wound.

Elsewhere, Kelan staggered beneath the weight of his foe. The Baron's strikes hammered down like boulders falling from the heavens, each blow enough to cripple lesser men. Stone armor cracked and splintered, shards bursting outward with every impact. But the earth answered his call — reforming, reinforcing, flowing back across his body with each breath. He was being battered apart, but he would not fall. His stats allowing him to keep up but not get ahead.

His fists could not pierce the knight's guard. His stone blows landed heavy, but against a Tier 4 and blackened steel they were little more than echoes. He grunted with each strike, sweat pouring, his eyes burning with fury and desperation.

Beside him, Lira's whip lashed in lines life mana and qi, her strikes burning through armor where Kelan's couldn't. One lash bit deep, life qi burning across a vampire's shoulder. He reeled back with a hiss, his sword arcing toward her throat in rage.

Kelan roared, throwing himself into the path. The blade split his stone cuirass in half, driving into his body and him to his knees — only for the armor to reform again, holding by threads of will and qi. He rose, teeth gritted, his body screaming in defiance. Lira spared a moment to flash a hand and healing at kelan as he got up.

Every strike threatened to break him. He could feel it in his bones, in the cracks spreading through his stone flesh faster than he could knit them back together. Each time the Baron's blade came down, it wasn't just armor shattering — it was him.

And still, the earth answered.

Stone reformed, plates knitting back across his chest, his shoulders, his arms. His Dao of Stone held him upright, though his body screamed to stay down.

Kelan knew he wasn't winning. He wasn't even close. His blows landed like rain against a mountain. Every time his fist struck home, the Baron barely shifted. Every defense was just buying another heartbeat, another breath.

But he refused to yield.

Because if he fell, the strike meant for him would cut into Lira. If he faltered, the line behind him would break. And so he stood, knowing the cost, knowing he couldn't win, and stood anyway.

That was what it meant to be stone.

The Baron's blade hammered down again, and Kelan felt the stone of his cuirass explode, shards biting into his own flesh. His knees buckled, breath ragged, blood in his mouth.

Stone…

The earth answered, plates reforming across his chest, sealing the gap as if the world itself refused to see him fall. He gritted his teeth, fists shaking as he drove back into the fight. His blows were heavy, but they struck like stones thrown at a mountain. The Baron barely felt them.

And that was when the truth cut into him harder than any blade.

Stone breaks. Stone erodes. Stone is carried away.

But a mountain—

A mountain endures.

It doesn't fall because someone strikes it. It doesn't shatter because someone wills it. It takes every storm, every flood, every fire — and it remains.

Kelan roared, the sound ripped from his chest as he planted his feet deep into the soil. The ground trembled faintly, qi pouring from him in surging waves. His armor no longer simply reformed; it thickened, flowing down his legs like roots anchoring him to the basin. His fists struck harder, the weight behind them no longer that of a man, but of something older, larger.

He wasn't a mountain yet — not fully. But he felt it stirring inside him, the promise of it, the fury of it.

And for the first time, when his blow landed, the Baron staggered.

The frost bear crashed against the retainers' shield wall, claws tearing through steel, icy breath blanketing the line in frost. Retainers screamed as they shoved back, shields braced, spears thrusting into its chest. The bear roared and swiped, breaking men even as the formation held.

Then the knights called, and the Tier 3s surged forward. Blades and halberds stabbed and slashed, biting into the beast's flanks. The bear bellowed, staggered, and crashed to its knees beneath the relentless weight.

But the kill cost them.

Arrows whispered from above. Ferin's shafts found throats, Auren's wind-guided arrows buried themselves in hearts. Part of the retainer force who stepped from formation to finish the bear was punished — struck down mid-swing, left gasping in the dirt.

At the ridge, Holt barked for order. "Crossbows away! Spears and shields — form up!"

The platoon answered, sheathing their bows and locking into line. Sergeants moved among them, correcting grips, barking orders. A second shield wall formed — human against vampire, their wolves retreating to get ready to fight again. Hal raced to reinforce Kelan as the female Ashen wolf duo controlled the pack.

Across the basin, a new Dao unfolded.

It spread like a steady drumbeat, a ripple of iron that stilled the chaos. One of the vampire captains had stepped forward, aura blooming wide. A Dao of Steadiness. Panic ebbed from the retainers, fear driven from their eyes as the aura pressed down. They slammed their shields back into place, their ranks tighter, stronger, voices rising in unison.

The twenty-eight who remained were bloodied, but far from broken. Their healers moved quickly, hands glowing with life and shadow, dragging the wounded back into line, sealing cuts, stitching flesh.

The same captain stepped forward. "Punish this Calamity! These monsters will not find us wanting! We are the Bloodnights! And the Night fears us!"

The line roared, shields striking shields, their formation hardening under the pulse of his Dao. The air itself seemed steadier, more certain, as though even fear had been banished.

Daran's duel raged on. Kelan bled through his teeth. Lira whipped and burned with every strike.

The Baron's sword came down in a scarlet arc, blood-qi flaring from the ground at his command. The crimson pooled at his feet surged upward, shaping into jagged blades that lashed for Daran's throat. Another wound sealed across his arm, the crimson stitching itself shut as if the fight itself bent to his will.

Daran's lips curled. "Tricks."

His Sharpness Dao flared outward, the air itself humming with edge. The blood constructs shattered under the weight of it, scattering into mist. The Baron snarled, lunging, only for Daran's blade to turn the strike aside with casual precision.

The vampire tried to withdraw, blood rising to veil him, but Daran's edge cut straight through the shroud, parting it clean. His broadsword hammered into the knight's longsword, and with a twist of his wrists, Daran sent the weapon spinning from his grip. The Baron staggered, wide-eyed, retreating as his blood surged desperately to defend him — but the aura of sharpness cut every trick apart.

"You've been sitting pretty in your compound for too long," Daran said, voice low, each word sharp as steel. "I bled on battlefields while you fattened yourself here."

The Baron hissed, his claws lengthening, trying to lunge bare-handed. Daran's blade answered in a storm of sparks, carving crimson lines across armor and flesh. He was the lesser Dao, yes — but his level, his stats, and his mastery of edge made the fight brutally one-sided. The new power of his Dao not enough to finish it quickly but it would let him finish it.

The knight of blood faltered, forced onto the defensive.

And then the field erupted as the shield walls clashed.

Holt roared, and Harold's platoon crashed against the Bloodnight retainers. The first impact was brutal. The steadiness of the enemy line held firm, driving the humans back a pace, shields splintering as spears thrust into gaps. Men grunted, wolves snarled, and for a moment, it seemed the line would break.

Then the fire came again.

Clay jars arced overhead, bursting against shields and helmets. Fire washed over the vampire formation, disrupting their cohesion, forcing their healers to split focus between burning flesh and torn wounds.

The new recruits surged in from the edges, striking at the faltering flanks. Kelan's dwarf brand roared, his warhammer swinging in wide arcs, every strike sending men sprawling with crushed armor.

The brothers hurled their throwing axes into the line, whooping as they charged in bare-handed after them, grappling retainers in mad fury. Their recklessness tore gaps the others could exploit.

An agility Dao user darted in and out of the melee, his movements fluid and precise. Strikes lashed at ankles, wrists, and throats — never staying in one place long enough to be struck back.

And then the howls rose again.

From the rear, the wolf pack struck, led by the Ashen pair. They ripped into the retainers from behind, their howls carrying through the night. It wasn't Hal's spine tingling fury, but still the sound sent shivers down spines, chilling even the most disciplined men.

The shield wall wavered, chaos spreading through its ranks as steel clashed, fire burned, and fangs tore.

The basin was no longer an ambush. It was a battlefield, and blood was being paid for every inch.

The captain's Dao of Steadiness faltered under the strain, its iron heartbeat drowned by fire, howls, and steel. The formation buckled. Then it broke.

"Punish them!" Sergeant Holt bellowed, her shield snapping forward to crush a retainer's jaw. The cry tore through the human line, and discipline gave way to ferocity.

Pairs and singles split off, the clash scattering into duels and skirmishes. Daos flared like storms colliding — each one twisting the earth, the air, the very flow of the fight.

The lava Dao user's hands blazed red, streams of molten fire erupting across his arms. He seized a vampire by the chest and drowned him in fire, the scream choked off as blackened steel melted. Without hesitation, he turned, his molten fists already reaching for the next.

The girl with the Balance Dao moved like a pendulum, every step impossibly precise. She vaulted from shield to shoulder, the world seeming to pivot around her as she spun mid-air. Her spear thrust down in a perfect arc, piercing clean through a retainer's throat just as he raised his blade toward the axe brothers. She landed as if the earth itself had shifted to catch her, eyes cold, already searching for her next step.

The brothers roared with laughter, their recklessness a weapon of its own. One slammed his axe into a retainer's helm, the other bowling another man over with nothing but brute force. They covered each other like wolves in a brawl, their joy as wild as it was terrifying.

Wolves darted in and out, ashen and frozen forms blurring in the melee. Snarls and howls mingled with steel-on-steel as they dragged men down screaming, only to vanish back into the chaos.

Crossbowmen turned melee fighters now drove their spears into gaps, their shouts rising above the din. It was no longer lines and orders. It was fury. It was blood.

And in the center of it all, the Calamity's chosen fought like demons, their Daos ripping into the Bloodnights one heartbeat at a time.

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