Chapter 17 – The Chain Starts to Fracture
Steel met scythe, and sparks skittered across the blood-slick stones. Seryn dropped his weight, slid back two steps, and reset his grip. His forearms throbbed, but the sword stayed steady. Across from him, Varathul loomed—nearly three meters of obsidian bone-plate and simmering crimson veins. A B-class (beginner) commander: every swing lethal, yet not invincible if handled with discipline.
"Hold," Seryn murmured to himself. He flicked a glance at Elira—bruised, breathing hard, reattaching a charm to her wrist. Ardan stood, shoulder bleeding but eyes bright with focus, fingertips buzzing with a thin film of lightning. Lucien had snatched a short sword from a fallen legionnaire; he tested the balance once and moved forward without hesitation.
Up on the library ledge, Leon knelt over a new sigil, hands swollen and raw. His voice cut the wind in a single line: "Give me five seconds!"
"You'll get four," Seryn said, eyes locked on the commander.
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The second wave wasn't chaos; it was choreography. Abyssal Legionnaires advanced in shield-and-blade formations while Hellbinders floated behind, weaving suppression and protection in the same gestures. Their armor was veined black steel, their four crimson eyes cold and focused—their bodies refused to die quickly even after a killing blow.
On the western flank, Professor Kaelor circled a Bone Reaver, searching for angles. Each leap shifted the weight of his greatsword toward the creature's joints; every hit cracked another rib of bone armor, pale fluid seeping out as the monster shrieked. To the south, Archmage Seralis cycled rings of blue fire, dropping Shrieker flocks from the sky before their acid talons could rake the walls. The academy was no longer a campus—it was a battlefield with a dozen fronts.
In the courtyard center, Varathul set his scythe's butt to the ground. Obsidian plates glowed along their cracks. Two of his eyes fixed on Seryn, two on Lucien.
"I will remember you both," the commander said, voice like split iron. "The loudest deaths are often the simplest."
"Stop talking," Lucien replied, calm as a drawn line. He slashed low, then cut forward with all the speed he could muster.
Seryn moved at the same time. Different angles, same goal: Lucien for the left knee, Seryn for the scythe's reach. Ardan scattered a pod of Hellbinders with a quick arc of lightning; their focus-stones burst like overripe fruit. Elira clipped a weight-reduction charm to Varathul's aura, shaving a layer off the pressure that crushed their front line.
The scythe whispered across the air in a wide sweep. Lucien slid under it, taking a nick to the shoulder—armor flaked away. Seryn chopped at the shaft—not the blade, but the joint where bone fused to metal. It wasn't a killing strike, but it robbed the commander of rhythm.
"Now!" Seryn shouted.
Leon answered. A rope of lightning fell, Varathul tilted the scythe upright to ground the blast; the hit still spidered new cracks through the plating. Painful? Yes. Fatal? Not yet. B-class was durable.
"Elira!" Seryn called. "Ankle bind!"
Her circles lit the ground. Green chains snapped around Varathul's ankles; the scythe's tempo hiccuped. Lucien drove his short blade into the knee joint. Bone chattered. The commander's balance faltered.
All four crimson eyes narrowed. The scythe spun and grazed Seryn's vision—a shade away from taking his head. He flipped back and cut toward the colonnade.
"If we drop the arches, we shove him off the line!" he yelled. "Ardan—cut up top! Lucien—body-check!"
Ardan carved a lightning seam through the arch. Lucien slammed his shoulder into the commander's chest; the half-fallen arch toppled onto Varathul's upper arm, dust puffing across obsidian plates.
Varathul roared. One sweep and broken stone rose as shadow chains, whipping toward Seryn and Lucien. Seryn cut two, the third wrapped his wrist. Elira lashed an anchor sigil to the ground—the chain cinched tight and couldn't drag him away.
"Stay steady," Elira said, voice thin but controlled. "Resetting."
"Step by step," Seryn answered. "We win a long fight."
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Two figures sprinted across the east bridge. Seryn recognized them immediately—faces he'd only ever known from pages, now flesh and breath.
Mira Vale—shoulder-length light-brown hair, ice-blue eyes, water-and-barrier specialist with a healer's touch. C- for now, destined to become the party's unseen shield. And Rurik Stonehand—a dwarven exchange student; short, thick-forearmed, a blunt hammer in one hand and a stone-plated gauntlet on the other, built for aura-driven bone breaks.
"Are we late?" Mira called, hopping off the bridge and rolling to her feet.
"Perfect timing," Seryn replied. "Backline. Share Elira's load."
Mira pressed a palm to Elira's shoulder, and fluid sigils softened the cracked barrier. "I'll sponge the pressure. You focus on the binds."
Rurik barreled into the legion line. His hammer came up from below, clipped a knee—armor crushed. "They've got joint gaps! Hit on the cross!"
Lucien converted that advice instantly. Two quick chops to the same joint, Rurik's hammer underpinning the timing—the legionnaire folded. For the first time, Seryn felt something close to order in the chaos: a team. With support and structure, they could push the commander off center.
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Varathul gathered his aura into a single strike point. The scythe spun; a clean arc peeled the top layer off the courtyard stones. A B-class cut—one hit would bisect an unshielded human. Seryn logged the truth without flinching: no error margin.
"Leon!" Seryn shouted. "Conductivity gap between the horn base and chest plate. Aim there!"
"Got it!" Leon called back, breath ragged but clear. "Fifteen seconds!"
"Take them."
Ardan kept pinning the last Hellbinders. Thin lightning threads stitched their foci shut. Mira and Elira formed a double barrier loop—outer ring water, inner ring earth-toned green. With the load shared, Elira's breathing evened out.
"Lucien," Seryn said quietly. "Left knee—then right hip. Don't break tempo."
Lucien nodded once. They cut in on a cross. Seryn notched the scythe shaft again at the bone-metal weld; Lucien hit the joint; Rurik delivered a follow-up hammer drop. Varathul's weight sagged left.
"Now!" Seryn barked.
Mira slicked the stones with a narrow water lane; Varathul's foot slid. Elira's chains caught, Seryn carved the rib-line, Lucien punched the joint, Ardan traced a knife-thin bolt down the spine. The commander dropped to one knee for the first time.
A guttural hiss—Varathul's temper bled through. He flooded the shaft with shadow, strengthening it, then ripped free. One sweep shredded the chains; he rose again.
"We're wearing him down," Seryn said. "We're not breaking him. That's still a win."
The commander flexed his jaws and released a fear pulse from his chest. Without Mira and Elira sharing the barrier, the wave would have flattened the line. Seryn's golden eyes stung, but the Serpent King's lingering fortification gave him just enough mental ballast to ride it out. He recognized the fear and refused it.
Leon's voice cut in again: "Shot ready!"
"Target: horn base!" Seryn confirmed.
Lucien stepped in deliberately, drawing aggro. He accepted a block that nearly snapped his borrowed blade—buying time.
"Now!"
Lightning speared the horn base where obsidian plate met internal conduit. A sharp crack, then a red pop—the power channels shorted. The scythe's aura sputtered. Varathul hit one knee again.
"Finish it!" Lucien shouted.
"No," Seryn snapped back. "He's baiting."
The commander jammed the scythe into the ground; the shaft erupted into four shadow spikes. The barrier buckled but held. Rurik smashed one spike; shards rattled off his gauntlet.
Seryn jogged to the colonnade, fished a small ceramic vial from his pouch—label half-peeled: "Oily Flame – Short Delay." He lobbed it; the vial shattered along Varathul's rib crack and seeped into the plates.
"Leon, low voltage—spread ignition!"
A modest spark. The oil laced into the cracks and lit along a thin blue-orange line. Not a killing burn—a persistent drain. Exactly what a B-class commander hated.
Varathul snarled. Chains rose again, slower this time. Lucien used the window—low cut to the knee, Rurik followed on the same beat, the crack widened.
Seryn counted in his head: Three more clean exchanges. Then he retreats or calls.
A horn sounded from the west. Kaelor strode in, Bone Reaver split in half behind him. To the south, Seralis opened a corridor of flame; a handful of temple battle-priests sprinted through with spears rimmed in holy light.
"Reinforcements!" Mira shouted.
Varathul looked up; the rift shivered. For a heartbeat it narrowed, then stretched wider. The commander understood the field was shifting. He swept a repulse wave; Seryn, Lucien, Rurik, and Elira slid one step back.
"He's disengaging," Seryn said. "Not fleeing—repositioning."
Varathul fell behind a fresh legion screen and wove a shadow shell with the remaining Hellbinder residue. He raised the scythe toward the rift; huge, four-armed Gravemauls thudded down from above—heavy shield-hammer infantry, B- to C-peak brutes born to press lines.
"It never ends," Lucien muttered.
"It won't," Seryn answered. "But it's cracking."
Elira and Mira refreshed the barrier. Seryn handed out the plan quick and clean: "Leon, no big bursts—low and often to keep the oil alive. Ardan, Gravemaul head plates—drop a line there. Rurik, lock joints with Lucien's timing. I'll cut shadow spines."
"On it," Ardan said, snapping his shoulder back into rhythm.
For several minutes, the battle stabilized into a tactical exchange. With instructors reaching the courtyard, the humans finally found breathing room. Kaelor cleaved a Gravemaul's shield in two; Seralis burned a lane through the legion; the temple spears cut shadow threads with little arcs of sanctified light. For the first time, the balance tipped—slightly—toward the academy.
Varathul took the measure. He lifted the scythe; the rift flexed. No new demons poured out. Instead, he eased the pressure and stepped back—crimson lines in his chest flickering as he throttled his output. It was the commander's message in plain strategy: Hold position. Don't bleed. Return with the next wave.
"He's pulling back," Leon said, voice hoarse. "We can't drop him today."
"We don't need to," Seryn replied. "Making him stagger is enough."
Lucien swatted a half-hearted scythe feint aside; the blow was a test, nothing more. Varathul completed his rearward step, vanished behind the legion line, and his aura thinned. The rift steadied.
Silence touched the courtyard. Then came the groans of the wounded, the hiss of cooling stone, the soft rush of water magic.
Mira crouched beside Elira. "Pulse is steady. Sharing the load helps."
"Thank you," Elira said, tired but alive. "I couldn't have held alone."
Rurik scraped gore and grit off his hammer face. "Gravemaul joints—Lucien, your beat worked."
Lucien nodded, eyes still tracking the place where the commander had disappeared. "B-class. He'll be back."
"He will," Seryn said, sheathing his blade. His golden eyes stayed fixed on the rift. "But he stumbled once. That matters."
Professor Kaelor and Seralis reached the edge of the courtyard. Kaelor's armor was scarred and greyed with ash. "Students," he said, voice like a drum. "You held the line. Tonight, we live."
Seralis lifted a hand and sent a cool wind across the square. "This is only the first act. Medics—collect the wounded. Engineers—rebuild the barricades. Temple—refresh the sigils."
Seryn drew a long breath and turned to his circle—Lucien, Elira, Ardan, Leon, Mira, Rurik. Six faces in the smoke, a shape forming out of chaos. A team. In the book he'd read, these roles would exist without him; now, every line of fate lay scribbled over with his own hand.
Up above, the rift trembled once more. Varathul's voice rolled out like a low hum inside the stone: "The chain fractures. Soon it breaks."
Seryn didn't look away. "If it breaks," he said, "it breaks in our hands."
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Night did not end. Only a chapter closed. As the academy settled into a hush of blood and ash, they all knew: the second act would hit harder.
And for the first time, the chain—visibly—had started to crack.
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💭 Varathul will return. But now, he faces a team.