Following the guidance of Visceral Divination, Punk arrived at a half-collapsed wooden house, its structure crushed by a fallen boulder. This was the eastern part of the city—far from the primary battlefield in the south—where a semblance of quiet remained. Only a few scattered refugees huddled in broken corners, weeping in despair.
Standing atop a cracked slab of granite, Punk noted the dried blood staining the ground around him. This location brought him closer to the ongoing battle between the two official-level powerhouses. The tremors from their clash shook the earth, dislodging small stones and sending them tumbling through the air.
According to his divination, the key opportunity for escape lay somewhere here. Punk didn't fully understand why he needed to "seize an opportunity" when fleeing should be straightforward, but he trusted the spell. Though Visceral Divination carried an eerie and unsettling aura, it remained the most effective prophetic spell in his arsenal—despite being merely apprentice-level magic.
"Something's about to happen."
Shaking off the lingering, nauseating sensation left by the divination spell, Punk steadied himself. He willed his magic to dispel the unpleasant, writhing feeling that coiled in his mind like slippery tentacles. Taking a slow breath, he raised his gaze to the sky, where the battle raged above.
Violent shockwaves shattered the clouds. Even with Punk's reaction speed, he could barely track the two combatants—one a blur of red, the other a streak of green—colliding and separating with explosive force.
As their fight escalated, the energy surges spread wider, wreaking havoc on the city below. Emerald corrosive magic reduced sturdy brick structures to glowing mist, and the heat of battle ignited fires across rooftops.
Punk stepped back, reinforcing his Mage Armor. He had no illusions—getting caught in the aftershock of such a battle would spell instant death. Near the city walls, the flames grew fiercer. Most of Konola City's buildings were wooden, making them easy prey for spreading magical fires.
Entire districts burned like kindling, and some streets turned into infernos, their smoke blotting out the twin suns, Mira and Chicasa. Then, a deafening cry rang out, amplified by magic:
"The city is breached! The city is breached!"
The south gate—where the battle had been most intense—was in chaos. Punk scowled.
"Is the enemy trying to disrupt morale? No... no, the gate really is broken!"
His pupils shrank as he realized the truth: the city defenses had crumbled far faster than expected. It hadn't even been half a day, yet Konola had already fallen. A low rumble sent a warning through the ground.
BOOM!
A massive impact rocked the eastern district. From the sky, something wrapped in writhing vines plummeted like a meteor, slamming into the ground with an earth-shaking crash. A crater formed on impact, sending debris flying in all directions.
Smoke and dust spiraled into a mushroom cloud, and the streets cracked apart from the force of the collision.
"Shit!"
Punk's expression darkened as massive chunks of rock flew toward him. With a burst of magic, he leapt between the tumbling debris, pale etheric energy flickering around his feet. Nimble dodges carried him safely to solid ground, but his focus was elsewhere.
That thing that had crashed into the street… it radiated soul energy. Familiar soul energy. Punk's heart sank. It was Menezi.
"This is bad."
Though his face remained composed, inwardly, Punk was cursing. If Menezi had fallen—who would stop Lunka?
"Wait—Lunka!"
Punk's gaze darted across the battlefield. His only hope now was that Lunka had also suffered critical injuries. He spotted Lunka standing atop the ruined city wall, taking command of the invading forces.
Even from a distance, Punk could see the toll the battle had taken—Lunka's right arm was missing, his left leg grotesquely swollen and pulsing with creeping necrotic energy. It was likely Menezi's parting curse.
Lunka was wounded, but not dead. Punk's frown deepened. This was still a problem. With Lunka in command, the invading forces wouldn't devolve into mindless looting. Instead, their actions would be organized—which was terrible news for Punk's escape plans.
And then… it got worse.
From the ruined battlements, a high-ranking enemy soldier in fine armor climbed to the observation deck. But instead of planting a victory banner, he raised a gleaming sword and drove it at an angle into the city wall.
The moment the blade struck stone, a terrible realization washed over the defenders. On the Faerun plane, this act carried a single, unmistakable meaning:
Slaughter the city.
In Faerun, where "humanitarianism" was nothing but a joke, massacres were often carried out as a ruler's demonstration of absolute authority. Whether to eliminate dissent, prevent escape, or simply as a warning, such actions were common.
Punk watched, unmoving, as realization spread across the faces of the remaining defenders. The order had been given. Konola City—its 200,000 inhabitants—were all marked for death.
As soldiers and professionals moved to seal the city gates, Punk knew there was no easy escape. The roads were already being locked down.
"Damn it... Menezi, you better have something left up your sleeve."
Punk clenched his fists. He had never intended to get involved with Menezi or the princess, but now, his options were limited. The only way out of this city alive… was to find that last lifeline.