Rosalyn steps forward, eyes fixed on the cloaked figure standing before the dark waters of the River Caelbrath.
"You have nowhere to go," she says evenly. "Surrender."
The river roars behind the figure, moonlight flashing over its restless surface.
The cloaked figure remains silent.
Major General Abel steps forward, his heavy boots grinding against gravel. Fighting energy erupts from his body, spreading outward in a suffocating wave. The coercion of an Earth Knight rolls across the riverbank like invisible pressure, bending grass flat and forcing even the surrounding knights to steady themselves.
"Girl," Abel says coldly, "why are you talking nonsense with a criminal? He killed my generals. Even if he surrenders, he is dead."
A low chuckle escapes from beneath the cloak.
"Killing some beasts makes me a criminal?"
Rosalyn's expression hardens.
"Unauthorised killing makes you a criminal," she replies. "Even if they were evil. Inside the kingdom, only Her Majesty the Queen and the court can grant death."
There is a faint pity in her tone.
"You should have informed the authorities of their crimes instead of taking matters into your own hands."
The figure laughs again, but there is no humour in it.
"Why do you think I waited eight years?"
The voice rises suddenly, sharp and breaking.
"I waited eight years to find proof of their crimes. Eight years. They erased everything. Every witness. Every record. So I took matters into my own hands."
Major General Abel sneers.
"Proof? Proof of what? You found none because they were innocent."
His voice rises, carrying across the riverbank.
"You are a rebel. Falsely accusing heroes of the kingdom to weaken its morale."
Clive, standing behind the knights, raises an eyebrow.
The blatant cover-up is almost insulting.
Abel lifts his hand.
"Enough talk. Attack."
Rosalyn immediately counters, her voice cutting through.
"Capture him."
Five knights surge forward at once.
The figure does not retreat.
The first knight swings his sword downward in a brutal arc.
The figure moves.
Like a shadow detaching from the earth.
Steel clashes.
The cloaked figure's blade flashes, deflecting the strike with effortless precision.
Another knight thrusts from the side.
The figure pivots, cloak swirling, sword flicking sideways to redirect the blade past his ribs.
A third attack comes from behind.
Without even turning, the figure steps aside, the sword trailing behind him to catch the incoming edge with a ringing metallic note.
He moves like a ghost.
Fluid.
Controlled.
Unhurried.
The knights press harder.
Sparks burst as blades collide repeatedly.
Steel rings against steel, echoing over the river.
Clive steps back further.
The fluctuations of fighting energy intensify, whipping the air in chaotic currents. Even stray waves of force could crush an ordinary person.
The battle escalates.
"Do we need to capture?" Major General Abel shouts. "Kill him!"
Rosalyn frowns but says nothing.
Her jaw tightens.
The knights adjust immediately.
Their movements grow sharper, deadlier.
Killing intent seeps into their strikes.
The cloaked figure shifts his stance.
Three more swords slide free from their sheaths at his back.
They do not fall.
They float.
Suspended in midair.
Clive's eyes widen.
The figure now fights with one sword in each hand.
The remaining two hover at his sides, blades angled like loyal guardians.
The five knights hesitate for a fraction of a second.
That hesitation costs them.
The figure lunges forward.
His right-hand blade parries one strike.
His left-hand blade lashes outward, forcing another knight to retreat.
At the same time, one floating sword darts forward like a living serpent, intercepting a thrust aimed at his blind spot.
The second floating sword whirls around and slashes toward a knight's flank, forcing him to leap back.
He is fighting five knights,
And controlling four swords.
Perfectly.
The riverbank erupts with steel flashes and shockwaves.
A knight swings low.
The figure vaults lightly over the strike, cloak fluttering, and lands behind the attacker. One floating sword strikes the knight's wrist, knocking his blade from his grip.
Another knight charges from the front, blade glowing with fighting energy.
The figure crosses both hand-held swords before him.
The impact explodes outward.
Wind tears across the riverbank.
Gravel scatters.
The floating blades strike from the sides simultaneously, forcing two knights into defensive positions.
Major General Abel's face darkens.
"This is your rebel?" he mutters. "A coward hiding behind tricks."
But there is tension in his voice.
The five knights begin coordinating.
Two attack high.
One thrusts low.
Two circles.
The figure spins.
Steel flashes in a brilliant arc.
One floating sword blocks a descending blade.
The other intercepts a thrust aimed at his ribs.
His own blades twist, redirecting force with minimal motion.
The sound of clashing steel becomes a continuous roar.
Clive watches with narrowed eyes.
The figure is not merely skilled.
He is precise.
Disciplined.
Every movement is calculated.
No wasted effort.
The knights begin to show strain.
Their breathing grows heavier.
The figure's cloak ripples as he steps between them like smoke slipping through fingers.
One knight overextends.
In a blur, the figure's sword strikes the knight's shoulder guard, shattering the metal plate and sending him stumbling backwards.
Another floating sword smashes against a second knight's blade, cracking it near the hilt.
The battle's intensity spikes.
Fighting energy explodes outward in violent waves.
Rosalyn clenches her fists but remains still.
Major General Abel's aura thickens.
The Earth Knight's presence presses down heavily upon the battlefield.
Yet the figure remains composed.
Steel arcs again.
The floating swords spin like silver comets.
The five knights, trained and powerful, are being pushed back.
Clive inhales slowly.
This is no ordinary avenger.
This is someone who has waited.
Planned.
Endured.
The river continues roaring behind them.
Moonlight glints off blades.
And the balance of the battle is shifting.
Clive narrows his eyes as he watches the cloaked figure weave between the five knights.
The swords.
The control.
The precision.
It does not resemble any of the five orthodox alchemy ways.
Not Stone and Iron.
Not Nature.
Not Life.
Not Steam.
Not Flesh and Blood, at least not in any conventional form.
The floating blades are controlled by no visible steam mechanism.
No rune arrays flickering in the air.
No elemental manifestation.
Is it a new alchemist way?
An unknown branch?
Clive's thoughts flicker toward his Master.
If Master Kaelan were here, he would immediately know.
He would analyse the aura, the fluctuations, the structure of power.
He would tell whether this was innovation or heresy.
Clive forces his attention back to the battlefield.
Major General Abel's patience snaps.
"You all are a waste!"
He steps forward and slams his palm outward.
Fighting energy surges violently from his body.
Behind him, a massive black wolf image materialises, its eyes burning, its form made of condensed earth-aspected fighting energy.
The wolf snarls.
And then it launches.
The pressure is overwhelming.
The cloaked figure freezes for a fraction of a second.
Too brief.
Too costly.
The wolf crashes into him.
The impact detonates like thunder.
Rosalyn instinctively leaps aside as the figure is blasted backwards.
He slams into a tree trunk with crushing force.
Wood splinters.
The floating swords clatter lifelessly to the ground.
The figure collapses.
And does not rise.
The battlefield falls silent.
The knights lower their weapons cautiously.
Major General Abel strides forward.
Rosalyn approaches as well.
Clive follows carefully.
They turn the body over.
The hood falls back.
There is no face.
Only smooth flesh where features should be.
Major General Abel curses violently.
"Bloody useless!"
Rosalyn's expression hardens.
"It's a clone."
Flesh and blood clone.
Formed through the Flesh and Blood Alchemy way.
An expendable vessel.
The real culprit is still alive.
Still somewhere nearby.
Abel roars, "Find him! He must be close. He needs proximity to control the clone!"
The knights scatter into the forest.
They search the riverbank.
The trees.
The underbrush.
But nothing.
No aura.
No trace.
No hidden operator.
After nearly an hour, they are forced to withdraw.
Back in Mariopoll, tension simmers thicker than before.
Clive walks beside Rosalyn for a short distance.
"Miss Rosalyn," he says calmly, "you return first. I have something to do. I will come back later."
She studies him for a moment but does not question it.
"Be careful."
Clive nods once and separates.
He moves through darker streets until he reaches a quiet building.
Dustin White's former residence.
Dustin White lived alone.
His home and office occupied the same structure.
With no relatives, the property reverted to the court after his death.
Rumours of haunting quickly followed.
No one dared move in.
The building now stands silent.
Clive slips inside.
Dust lingers in the air.
Furniture remains undisturbed.
Ledgers stacked neatly.
Nothing visibly chaotic.
He begins searching.
Drawers.
Cabinets.
Loose floorboards.
He moves methodically.
Then,
A voice speaks behind him.
"What are you searching for? I may help you."
Clive turns.
In the doorway stands Dustin White.
Leaning casually against the frame.
Alive.
Composed.
Watching.
Dustin tilts his head slightly.
"You don't seem surprised that I am still alive."
Clive's eyes sharpen instantly.
Without hesitation, he casts.
Shadow energy erupts from the floor beneath him, forming into a spear that launches toward Dustin White's chest.
The spear tears through the air.
Dustin moves.
Like mist.
Like something unreal.
The shadow spear pierces only empty space.
Dustin appears in front of Clive in a blink.
Too fast.
Too close.
Before Clive can retreat,
Dustin raises a finger.
And taps Clive lightly on the forehead.