School Transmigration: I, Chosen as the Saint by Dragons at the Start-Chapter 92 --The Ward is Broken

If Owen could hear their thoughts, he would surely understand them.

In the land of Novalia, the chasm between races is an intrinsic inequality that no talent can bridge.

A genius from a disadvantaged race might only appear slightly stronger to an average individual of an intermediate race.

And the genius of an intermediate race? Barely worthy of notice by an ordinary member of an advanced race.

Hidden within bloodlines is an invisible divide, a profound gap.

This is the strict, unspoken boundary between races.

Rare are those who manage to cross this line, very rare indeed.

The two companions were filled with mixed emotions, yet they felt a certain relief.

Following Owen, their future seemed somewhat more promising.

Stanbeck was released, and his fellow sea race members also calmed down.

Their attention returned to the well.

Now, emerging from the well were enormous ghosts, large in size and few in number, maintaining a respectful distance from each other, displaying a sense of decorum.

Unlike the earlier ghosts, which swarmed out without any sense of boundary.

Interestingly, these formidable ghosts were followed by a small group of weaker ones, trailing behind like loyal servants.

Observing this, Owen understood.

The ghosts that appeared later were of higher rank and power.

Like humans, the strong always have followers.

Fortune favored Owen and his group; these entities weren’t as keen as the sixteen-eyed creature, posing little threat to them.

Some ghosts even ignored Owen and his companions completely, resembling unleashed pet dogs, wildly frolicking towards the grassland.

Once they had all dispersed, the well fell silent.

At this moment, the ward created by Quincy began to weaken.

Stanbeck had grown weary of staying with Owen.

"Quincy, it seems like the ghosts have cleared out."

Quincy shook his head, speaking softly, "Let’s be cautious and wait a bit longer."

Stanbeck, looking uneasily at the composed Owen standing there, felt as restless as if sitting on pins and needles.

He was seething inside, believing his defeat was due to Owen’s dishonorable surprise attack.

If they had been at a distance, taken their stances, and fought a fair battle, he was convinced he wouldn’t have lost to Owen.

The well had been quiet for a while, with no ghosts appearing.

But everyone dared not make any movements, all waiting for Quincy to speak.

For some reason, Quincy had become the backbone of the group.

Owen, too, didn’t try to take the lead, leaving professional matters to the professionals – a lesson he had learned throughout his journey.

Quincy’s expertise, evidently from his study of the well, was apparent.

While everyone stood, Quincy was busy, using a nearby branch to draw a magic array on the ground.

The array was large, encompassing everyone within it.

Berkeley’s eyes sparkled as he intently studied the magic array.

"This is interesting. This magic array is almost at level 6."

Quincy’s hand hesitated for a moment as he drew, then continued.

His slight movement did not escape Owen’s notice.

Owen narrowed his eyes, his mind whirling with thoughts.

What was Quincy implying? Did Berkeley’s recognition of the magic array disrupt his plan? Or was Quincy surprised by the presence of Berkeley, an arraymancer, by Owen’s side?

Owen leaned in and whispered to Berkeley, "What’s the purpose of this magic array?"

"It seems like a summoning array."

"Does it have any imprisoning function?"

"I can’t tell. This magic array is quite advanced. I didn’t expect Quincy to have such a skill. It’s rare to see such a young arraymancer."

Berkeley shook his head in admiration, his eyes filled with respect.

The class of an arraymancer is one that demands time first, then talent.

Typically, a level 5 arraymancer is over sixty years of age.

Berkeley himself, being in his forties and already a level 5 arraymancer, was once a sensation.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have needed to hide from assassins in a border city.

Catching Owen’s suggestive glance, Berkeley intuitively stepped forward and asked, "Mr. Quincy, your magic array is of the summoning type, isn’t it?"

The display of Quincy’s prowess had altered the way Berkeley addressed him.

"Correct," Quincy stood up, brushing the dust from his hands, "Just to be safe. Since nothing else seems to be emerging from the well, we should prepare..."

Before he could finish, the calm surface of the water exploded without warning, as another group of ghosts emerged.

It was an army of ghosts.

Among them were infantry with swords and shields, and cavalry with spears on horseback. They appeared with a surge of murderous intent.

Even from several yards away, Owen felt a chill up his spine, his skin prickling.

He prided himself on his ruthlessness, but facing this army, his own murderous aura seemed like a mere puddle compared to their oceanic presence, overwhelming and suffocating.

These ghosts didn’t appear stronger than the others.

In fact, many soldiers seemed rather gaunt.

Some had quivers with arrows fletched in a mishmash of colors, as if made from random feathers.

Others wielded battle-axes with notched blades. Most wore battered armor with evident signs of repair.

Their eyes were as fierce and cruel as wolves on the prairie.

The weakest among them, when running, displayed a relentless, fearless momentum.

The members of the sea race, upon witnessing this army, all hung their heads low, daring not to look more than necessary.

These were master-tier warriors, generals in their own armies, yet now they couldn’t even bring themselves to meet the gaze of a mere foot soldier in the ghost army.

What they faced was a sharpness forged through relentless trials, a keenness honed in the thirty-year seclusion wars of Luminous Ancient Kingdom.

These ghosts were unlike any they had encountered before.

Owen clenched his fists, looking up.

This army, though composed of ghosts, commanded respect and evoked envy.

If the dragons had such a fearless army, what difficulty would they face in conquering the land of Novalia?

Finn, with his mouth agape, whispered: "This must be General Hope’s personal army, the Ambition Army."

Indeed, the appearance of a flag-bearer confirmed his thoughts.

This ghost, riding a chestnut-hued demonic steed, held high a large flag. On the bright red fabric were two bold characters:

Ambition.

This was the genuine Ambition Army, a legendary force shrouded in mystery.

Owen could hear the heavy breathing of those around him, their spirits evidently stirred by the ghost army.

He widened his eyes, eager to catch a glimpse of the legendary General Hope.

Unfortunately, amidst the vast throng, his eyes blurred, and he couldn’t spot his target.

To everyone’s dismay, Quincy’s loud voice suddenly announced: "Everyone, be aware, the ward is about to collapse."

The group’s attention, previously captivated by the Ambition Army, now shifted back to the ward, which indeed looked as if it were swaying in a tempest, on the verge of collapse.

The golden light barrier flickered unsteadily, like a faulty light bulb, flashing intermittently.

Owen’s temples throbbed as he drew a deep breath: "Quincy, can’t you hold it together a bit longer?"

They were facing the Ambition Army, after all.

He was certain that no one present had the courage to confront them, even in their ghostly form.

Whether in life or death, killing for the Ambition Army was likely just a mechanical motion of swinging a sword.

Quincy didn’t even bother to respond to Owen.

After all, if there was any way to sustain the ward, he wouldn’t want to complicate matters unnecessarily.

He was here on a mission, after all.

Finn was also in a state of panic, his eyelids twitching uncontrollably: "What do we do now?"

This time, Quincy responded: "Prepare for battle and cherish the opportunity to breathe while you still can."

The sea race warriors, in their preparation, had already formed a protective circle around Phyllis and Stanbeck.

Stanbeck, now calm, called out loudly: "Everyone, just hold on for a dozen breaths or so, and the Ambition Army should leave."

Though intended to boost morale and reduce panic, Stanbeck’s words made a lot of sense.

The vigor with which the Ambition Army had emerged had already diminished considerably, lacking their initial overwhelming momentum.

The sea race warriors couldn’t imagine what else, besides the Ambition Army, could make an appearance as the final act in the Luminous Ancient Kingdom’s temple.

This surely had to be the last wave.

Gathering their courage, everyone took a deep breath just as the ward popped and broke.

The golden glow wavered weakly, as if squeezing out its last drop of arcanergy, before it finally faded away.

Everyone’s heart tightened, and they silently swallowed.

Standing still, holding their breath, they hoped the ghosts wouldn’t detect them.

No matter how formidable the Ambition Army was, now they were merely ghosts.

Unable to sense the presence of the living, they shouldn’t linger for long.

At this moment, a small detachment of the Ambition Army emerged from the well – a commander leading a dozen or so cavalrymen.

They had just flown out about five meters when the ward shattered.

Gulp—

The sound was faint, but a member of the sea race couldn’t help swallowing nervously.

Defying the laws of physics, the group of ghost cavalrymen came to an abrupt halt.

The commander turned sharply, his gaze falling on the sea race member whose nervousness was betrayed by the audible swallowing.

With a swift maneuver, the commander’s demonic steed performed a graceful pivot, its head now directly facing the group of sea race warriors.