Paradoxically, at the eye of this demonic whirlwind stood a solitary young magis—holding his ground like a lone, defiant army. Yet, the defensive threshold of the flying blades was perilously low. Surrounding the Peppershots, the Nightshade assassins stood as a lethal guard—and these executioners were far from sluggish.
The moment a blade successfully culled a Peppershot or a Jackbloom, a flurry of leaf-armaments surged in a brutal counter-offensive, shattering the mageia-steel. Their utility reached a terminal end in that very heartbeat. The Nightshades leaped into the void, intercepting the airborne legion and hacking the blades into worthless fragments without a shred of hesitation. In a mere blink, the vast majority of the blade-storm had been reduced to scrap.
The art of blade-manipulation was a formidable mageia, yet it bore a singular, demanding constraint: it required the presence of physical steel to host the weaving of the mageia. It was a tethered discipline, and thus, a craft eschewed by the majority of the magis caste.
The Barkguards paid no heed to the flying knives. Within the floral hierarchy, they were the ironclads; only the Amberguards, the sovereign sentinels, possessed a defensive threshold superior to theirs. Thus, the light blades of the armada found no purchase against their reinforced carapaces.
Amidst the swirling cacophony of the lightless vault, the Barkguards and Sawgrazz warriors coordinated their assault, levelling their blades and serrated saws from both front and rear in a pincer of steel. Simultaneously, the surviving Peppershots maintained their relentless, coal-red barrage.
[Kra-pum-pum-pum-pum!]
The staccato of the peppercorn-ordnance and the shriek of metal shearing the atmosphere was ear-splitting. A hundred demonic saws brought their serrated weight down upon the human; the massive Greatwood trunks obstructing their path were hewn asunder as effortlessly as soft sponge.
"Flamus Circulus!"
"Flamus Ictus!"
"Flamus Impetus—Exa!"
The young magis detonated a composite of three fire-tier incantations, his face a mask of frozen composure.
[ROO-OOOAR!]
Triple-streams of thermal energy fused into a pillar of flame resembling a nascent dragon. The atmosphere roared like the breath of a mythical beast; the mageia struck with such concussive force that the surrounding foes were hurled aside like mere motes of dust.
Though he stood amidst a deluge of violence that hammered at him like a desert sandstorm—his heart thundering like a war-drum, his every movement a dance upon the very edge of a blade—he understood a singular truth: the only anchor in this raging current of darkness was his own mageia and the cold precision of his spells.
The tidal wave of fire surged outward in a scouring radius, with the young magis at its absolute epicentre. The thermal pressure consumed and incinerated any Raffbloom within reach, crushing them backward as if they had been struck by a falling monolith.
The torrent of the flaming whirlwind surged toward the apex of the thorny dome. The nascent dragon of fire let out a subterranean roar, yet it eschewed any further assault upon the host; it ignored the Raffblooms entirely.
Its singular purpose was to incinerate and batter the arboreal vault that choked the sky, seeking to breach the cage for its master. The thunderous impact of the spell drew the frantic gaze of every demon—and Princess Bloomy herself.
The Raffblooms refused to permit such an egress. Even the Queen unleashed her own caustic venom-bursts in a desperate bid to dissolve the fiery conduit.
"Every last one of you—obliterate that fool this instant!" Princess Bloomy barked, her command laced with vitriol.
At her word, the Raffblooms surged, throwing themselves into the fused arcana with mindless ferocity.
Yet, while his blade-manipulation relied upon physical steel that could be shattered, the majority of Seraph's mageia was composed of pure elemental essence and spiritual energy. There was but one definitive path to unravelling such power: the execution of the magis himself.
'New breed or no, they cannot escape the truth that they are mere demonic infants, scarcely two months into their existence...' Seraph mused, his intellect dissecting their capabilities with cold precision. 'If they could overcome me so easily, the vast archive of mageia within my mind would be utterly worthless.'
A shadow of a smirk played across his lips amidst the gloom. He pivoted his offensive trajectory the moment he discerned a minute fracture in the swarm's cohesion.
"Flamus Aura!"
"Flamus Blaszblade!"
"Flamus Multitelus!"
The energy waves were saturated with high-tier fire-essence. The young magis unleashed a continuous barrage of long-range incantations, directing his fresh volleys through the lightless corners.
He struck from a blind spot the Queen had failed to secure, all while she remained preoccupied with the fire-dragon that continued to lash against the dome, sending tremors through the entire structure.
Lines of fiery crimson mageia lashed out beneath the dome. A dozen flamus blades swept through the air, carving arcs of heat into the enemy flanks. The Barkguards struggled, heaving their four swords in a desperate parry to shield their kin, yet they could not forestall the inevitable. The screech of steel and the frenzy of the assault echoed within the vault, the cacophony so absolute it left the young man's ears ringing in a numb haze.
[Clang! Sunder!]
The roar of the flamus blades Split the very air, cleaving the demon warriors in twain.
Whether Peppershot or Sawgrazz, none escaped the burning steel that hunted them across the enclosure. Severed remains were flung across every inch of the soil. Meanwhile, Princess Bloomy and her inner circle remained obsessed with the destruction of the fire pillars, oblivious to the fact that her minions were being slaughtered in droves behind her. Tragically, their harrowing wails failed to reach the hollow sanctuary of her heart.
[Tatt-tatt-tatt-tatt-tatt-tatt!]
Hundreds of flamus projectiles focused their wrath upon the fifty Peppershots, detonating their forms into a spray of pulp and ichor. Even the majority of the Jackblooms were eradicated in this singular wave of violence, collapsing in a chaotic heap before they could even witness their end. Soon, the floor of the briar-dome was carpeted thick with the remains of the floral host.
'Hah... fortunately, Princess Bloomy is still too young to grasp the tactical priority of her own ranks...' Seraph mused, drawing a silent breath of relief.
Among all the Raffblooms, the entities that stoked the greatest anxiety within Seraph were not the Jackblooms—capable of hypnosis and bursting human craniums—nor the warrior-types with their brute strength. It was the gunners who could strike from afar. It was the Peppershots.
The volley of a Peppershot was simple, yet it exerted the most oppressive pressure. They would gorge themselves on demonic fel to create a pocket of compressed air, then discharge pepper rounds through their pincer-cannons. Their long-range weaponry was as precise as it was lethal.
Peppershots were capable of sniping flying knives from the air with uncanny precision. It was their relentless volleys that had nearly shattered Seraph's mageia shield on multiple occasions. These gunners—and they alone—were the true harbingers of ruin within the Raffbloom legion.
Suddenly, Princess Bloomy spun around, her eyes widening as the tide of battle turned in a violent pivot. Fifty Peppershots lay in a heap of lifeless husks around her. Her ranks of gunners and Sawgrazz warriors were utterly decimated. Fury surged through her, turning her visage a deep, bruised emerald—the sickening hue of demonic fel.