Chapter 202: Ulrich Against Valdris [5]

BOOOOM!!

A tower of flame exploded upward beneath him, swallowing Valdris in a roaring column of red and gold. The blast tore apart the grass around the stream. Stones shattered. Water flashed into steam. The heat struck the camp in a violent wave, forcing nearby knights to raise their arms over their faces.

The flame climbed high into the night.

For one second, it looked as though a crimson pillar had been driven from the earth toward the clouds.

Hermione cried out.

Airam pulled Esther close against her chest, turning the younger girl away from the explosion. Esther still tried to look over Airam’s arm, tears running down her cheeks as the light painted her face red.

Even the battle around the tents faltered.

Rubenhart knights and Valmorian soldiers alike looked toward the stream.

The pillar of fire burned bright enough to turn the trees into black silhouettes.

Then it collapsed.

Smoke poured across the clearing.

Ash drifted over the water.

A dark figure burst from the smoke.

Valdris landed hard on the far bank of the stream, one knee striking the ground. The remains of his black coat flew from his shoulders in scorched strips. Fire clung to part of the fabric before dying in the wet grass.

He rose slowly.

The left side of his face had been burned.

Red marks covered his cheek and jaw, reaching toward his ear. His hair had been singed near the temple. The right sleeve of his coat had burned away from elbow to wrist, exposing skin marked with dark burns beneath the blood from Ulrich’s earlier cut.

Valdris looked at Ulrich.

His expression was twisted into a furious and ugly grimace.

The calm was entirely gone.

So was the confidence he had carried into the camp.

"How?"

Ulrich said nothing.

"How did you hide a spell of that rank from me?"

His voice rose slightly.

The question was not one of simple curiosity. Valdris needed to understand. The Formula Ring beneath him had held too many runes to be formed without preparation. It had required careful placement, proper geometry, and enough mana to remain stable until release. A spell of that size should have produced a clear magical presence.

He should have felt it.

The anti-magic blade should have reacted to it.

Yet it had remained beneath his feet until Ulrich chose to trigger it.

Ulrich’s mouth moved.

"The heat from your cinder cloud," he said. "The steam from my water spell. The pressure from your enhancement aura."

Valdris’s eyes narrowed.

Ulrich continued.

"You filled the clearing with fire remnants. I let the remaining traces settle into the ground. The spell’s outer ring copied the same pattern. Its mana signature blended with yours."

Valdris did not speak.

"The Formula Ring was not fully charged," Ulrich said. "I built it in pieces whenever our swords met. Each time your blade shattered my reinforcement spell, the fragments fell around us. I used them."

The commander’s gaze moved toward the torn ground between them.

Ulrich had hidden the ring inside the chaos of the battle.

The residue from the shattered reinforcement spells.

The steam from the mist wall.

The fire mana lingering from Valdris’s own attacks.

The broken pieces of the earth and grass beneath their feet.

Ulrich had used everything.

He had built the spell slowly, placing parts of the formation beneath the ground whenever their fight shifted over the stream. The formula had remained dormant until the last moment. No charged mana had flowed through it. No strong magical presence had existed to sense.

It had waited.

And Valdris had stepped directly into it.

"You concealed the ring inside my own mana residue," Valdris said, speechless.

Ulrich did not answer.

Valdris’s face tightened.

"I underestimated you."

The words were difficult for him to say.

He reached into the inner pocket of his burned coat and pulled out a small glass vial. A pale green liquid moved within it. Healing Vial.

Ulrich saw it.

His eyes sharpened.

Valdris removed the stopper and raised the vial toward his mouth.

The ground beneath him moved suddenly.

Roots burst upward.

No, vines.

Thick earthen vines tore from the soil around Valdris’s boots. They rose with unnatural speed, twisting around his ankles and calves before he could step away. Their surfaces looked like roots at first, but they were covered in rough, stone-like bark. Sharp thorns pushed through the vines as they tightened.

"What...!"

Valdris’s eyes widened.

The vial stopped at his lips.

Another Formula Ring glowed beneath the earth.

This one had been hidden farther from the first.

A second Rank 3 spell.

The vines wrapped around Valdris’s legs and dragged him down into a half-kneeling position. Their thorns pierced through cloth and into skin. Blood ran down his boots.

"Ughh!! Don’t underestimate me!!"

Valdris tried to burn them.

Fire flared around his hand.

The vines blackened, but they did not release him immediately. The earth magic had been woven with enough strength to keep growing through the destruction. One vine burned away, only for another to rise from beneath the soil and wrap around his knee.

Ulrich moved.

His air spell activated beneath his feet.

He shot across the ground toward Valdris.

His expression had changed.

The restraint was gone.

Only cold intent.

Ulrich had a ruthless, murderous glint in his dark red eyes, which said a lot about what he was about to do.

He raised his sword.

The crimson reinforcement around it brightened.

Valdris was still bound.

His left hand burned through another vine, but his legs remained trapped. The healing vial had slipped from his fingers and fallen into the grass.

Ulrich closed the distance.

One more step.

His sword came down.

Danger struck him from the side.

Ulrich felt it before he saw it.

He turned sharply and raised his blade.

Something hit him.

The impact felt like being struck by a charging warhorse.

A black-armored knight crashed into him from the side, his body strengthened by the serum and surrounded by unstable mana. Ulrich’s sword barely caught the man’s weapon before the force drove him away from Valdris.

The collision sent Ulrich flying.

He struck the trunk of a tree hard enough to crack bark from the wood. Pain tore across his back and through the wound beneath his ribs. For a moment, his breath disappeared.

The black-armored knight rushed forward, trying to finish him before he could recover.

Ulrich planted one foot against the tree.

He kicked off.

The movement drove him away from the trunk before the knight’s sword could reach him. He twisted in the air, landed in the mud, and slid several paces before catching himself on one knee.

His sword remained in his hand.

He looked up, blood trickling down his lips.

Valdris had freed himself.

He had burned through the last of the earth vines. Charred fragments lay scattered around his boots. He had retrieved the healing vial and drank the contents in one swallow.

Pale green light spread across his body.

The burn marks on the left side of his face began to fade. The damaged skin closed slowly, though the process looked painful. The wounds on his forearm stopped bleeding. Fresh skin formed beneath the torn sleeve.

Valdris lowered the empty vial.

Around him, black-armored knights gathered.

Ten of them.

They formed a line between Ulrich and their commander, weapons drawn. Some carried swords like Valdris’s, though none of their blades possessed the same oppressive darkness. Others held spears or heavy shields. Serum-enhanced mana flickered around their armor, leaking from the seams like dark smoke.

Ulrich looked past them.

The rest of the camp came into view.

Hendrick stood near the tent, fighting three Valmorian knights alone.

Blood covered one side of his armor. One enemy pressed him from the front with a spear while the other two circled from either side. Hendrick’s sword moved rapidly, knocking away the spearpoint before turning toward the swordsmen. He had been forced back almost to the tent entrance.

Only three Rubenhart knights remained standing near him.

They fought together against a single black-armored soldier, and even three against one, they were struggling. One of them had fallen to the ground with a wound across the thigh. Another held a broken shield in front of her body while the third tried to keep the enemy from reaching the tent.

The others lay scattered across the clearing.

Rubenhart knights.

Men and women who had traveled with Ulrich for years.

Some lay near the fire. Some had fallen beside the stream. Some had died with weapons still in their hands, their blood darkening the grass beneath the night sky.

Ulrich’s gaze did not leave them for long.

Then he looked back at Valdris.

He stared at him through the gap between his soldiers.

The healing potion had removed most of the burn from his face, but it could not erase the fury in his eyes.

He did not raise his voice.

He did not need to.

His lips formed two words.

"Kill him."

The ten black-armored knights moved toward Ulrich.