Aurafall: Fragments Of Power-Chapter 42: Countless Colors [7]

The forest was being ravaged by war. Multiple Aura Farmers had joined the battle to meet Hafgrim’s troop, intent on stopping them from entering the city to rendezvous with the rest of the Vikings.

That had been the brief plan an unknown entity had shared with them, strangely by speaking directly into their heads. It was terrifying, but the plan was sound, and they had no choice but to follow it. But who possessed the ability to speak into the minds of so many at such a great distance?

Following the command, the Aura Farmers split into groups. Although there were nearly a thousand of them within the city, most were of lower ranks; only a few elite masters led the way. These high-ranking farmers guided the various units through separate portals to intercept different factions of the Viking army.

The remaining Aura Farmers stayed behind to lead the civilians—the Banished and the Non-awakeners—toward the seaport. Among the fleeing crowd was a young girl with silver, reflecting eyes and ashen brown hair.

She stopped for a heartbeat and turned back, staring at the ruined city. The man holding her hand frowned slightly and knelt down.

"You’re Mirage Atlantis, right?"

The girl nodded with an innocent expression. The man had short brown hair, a mustache, and a stoic face. A brief, predatory grin flickered across his lips, but he immediately masked it with a cheerful smile.

"Jean asked me to come and get you," he said.

Mirage’s eyes widened. "Really? But what about Leo and Taren and... and Uncle Fang Rui?"

The man patted her on the head, his smile remaining fixed. "Don’t worry, they’ve also been saved. I’ll take you to them."

Mirage smiled. "Oh, really?" She stepped closer to the man, then suddenly spun with blurring speed. A precise kick landed squarely on the man’s face, sending him sprawling into the dirt.

Her expression immediately returned to a meek, wide-eyed look. "I’m so sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to."

The man didn’t hear her; he was already unconscious. In the chaos of the evacuation, no one paid them any attention as the crowd remained focused on reaching the ships. Mirage took one last look at the smoke rising from the battlefield.

"Be safe..." she whispered. Then, she turned and ran toward the ship.

****

The battle had shifted. What began as a devastating invasion that caught humanity off guard had evolved into a balanced struggle. The Vikings were resilient, their power rooted in sheer physical dominance, but the humans were holding their ground and making a slow comeback.

It finally resembled a true war.

In one sector, a shadow battled a red, giant Viking. In the skies, a flying green Viking clashed with a female Aura Farmer. Amidst the ruins of the city, a massive black snake entangled a golden Viking. Everywhere, soldiers poured their remaining strength into breaking the enemy lines.

One particular duel stood out, appearing premature given that the combatants were likely the youngest involved in the war. To the rest of the world, their fight was a small detail, but to them, it was everything.

Sparks flew as Leo and Sigurd clashed, their weapons weaving through the air as each sought to force the other into a fatal mistake. Maniacal grins stretched across their faces; their bloodlust grew with every passing second. In the midst of a world-ending war, they fought as if it were a spar—but a spar meant to end in death.

The metallic ringing of the [Yielding Spine] meeting the blue staff created a rhythmic beat against the roar of the battlefield. Leo and Sigurd moved in a frantic dance, their feet carving circles into the frosted mud. Every strike was a calculated risk. Sigurd would thrust with the staff, aiming for Leo’s throat, only for Leo to parry with the flat of his blade and counter with a low kick aimed at Sigurd’s shins.

They fought with more than steel and wood; they fought with their eyes. Each watched for a flicker of hesitation or a momentary lapse in speed. Leo could feel the heat radiating from his own soul, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. Adrenaline sharpened his senses until he could see individual sparks flying from the clashing weapons in slow motion.

Leo finally saw his opening when Sigurd overextended on a wide horizontal swing. Instead of backing away, Leo stepped into the strike, letting the staff glance off the reinforced shoulder plating of his [Shell of Dread]. The impact nearly numbed his arm, but it put him inside Sigurd’s guard.

With a guttural grunt, Leo shifted his grip and drove the point of the [Yielding Spine] forward. It was a raw, desperate thrust. The crimson blade pierced Sigurd’s light tunic and sank into the right side of his chest.

The maniacal grin on Sigurd’s face froze. He gasped, a spray of crimson hitting the white visor of Leo’s helmet.

For a heartbeat, they were locked together, the sword the only thing connecting them. Then, Sigurd snarled and kicked Leo’s chest-piece, using the momentum to wrench himself off the blade and leap backward. He landed unsteadily, his boots skidding through the slush.

Sigurd slumped, his breath coming in ragged hitches. He pressed his hand over the puncture wound, blood seeping through his fingers. But as he applied pressure, something strange happened. Instead of blood, a clear, viscous water began to flow from the wound, washing the crimson away.

The liquid didn’t drop to the ground. Instead, it crawled down his arm like a living thing and was absorbed by the blue wood of his staff. The staff began to hum, its azure glow intensifying until it was painful to behold.

The wound closed instantly.

Sigurd looked up, the light from the staff reflecting in his eyes and turning them into cold, bottomless pools. The grin was gone, replaced by a terrifying, hollow calm.

"I guess," Sigurd whispered, his voice turning dark and freezing as the glowing water fused with the wood, "it’s time to become serious."