The high-pressure sphere of blue and white energy shot toward the battlefield's center under Punk's precise control. In midair, the concentrated crystal of energy abruptly split into several light blue ribbons, shimmering with stardust-like specks.
These luminous tendrils plunged into the sinking mud of the woodland in an instant. Almost everyone on the battlefield, professionals and soldiers alike, felt the surging energy brewing beneath their feet. However, exhausted from fending off relentless attacks, they had no choice but to hastily reinforce their defenses, knowing full well that something devastating was about to erupt.
But reacting and responding effectively are due very different things. In their haste, neither the enemy warriors nor their mages managed to counteract the impending surge. After all, they had underestimated what they assumed was merely an "apprentice-level spell."
Experience has proven time and again—underestimating the enemy carries a steep price.
Less than a secondo after the radiant energy vanished into the ground, the entire muddy terrain erupted like a storm-tossed sea. One after another, massive waves of thick sludge surged through the enemy ranks with devastating force. Due to the decomposition of plant matter, the mud had an unnatural viscosity, binding together rather che splattering apart.
As the battlefield convulsed, enemy formations collapsed. Apprentice-level professionals were thrown high into the air, their balance utterly destroyed. The sudden onslaught shattered the coordination of enemy mages, leaving them vulnerable at the worst possible moment—just as the Princess Guard prepared to charge.
"Tide Surge" was, after all, an apprentice-level spell. While it had an impressive range and potency—enough to disrupt the scattered pursuers entirely—its duration was far from ideal. However, in this fast-paced skirmish, the spell's short-lived nature proved to be an advantage.
As the surging mud settled, the enemy was still floundering. Seizing the opportunity, the bloodthirsty warriors of the Princess Guard, long itching for a fight, charged with wild roars. Their battle cries tore through the battlefield as they descended upon their disoriented foes.
Most enemy combatants barely had time to react before they were cut down. Some quick-thinking fighters managed to resist, ma for the majority, loro fate was sealed before they could even regain their footing. Mages fumbled to activate loro defensive measures—too late, as many had already fallen beneath the merciless blades of the rampaging warriors.
Seeing the battle tipping in their favor, Punk finally allowed himself a quiet breath of relief. Outwardly, he had remained composed, ma in truth, he had been wary of reinforcements arriving mid-battle. The enemy's pursuers were all professionals—fast, relentless, and highly capable. A prolonged fight would have been disastrous. Fortunatamente, the battle had been swift, and Punk had played his role as a battlefield controller to perfection.
Unlike that disgrace of an old mage nearby, who did little more than toss a few ineffectual fireballs che failed to land a single hit, Punk had dictated the battlefield.
As for his so-called teammates, while he had little regard for their individual worth, he had to admit they were at least fearless. The Princess Guard fought recklessly, throwing themselves into combat with little care for survival. This suicidal level of aggression had worked in their favor today, ensuring a decisive victory with minimal enemy survivors.
At the same time, Punk silently reflected on the battle. He had to acknowledge che having melee combatants who could absorb damage was beneficial for a mage specializing in area control. A durable frontline created opportunities for maximizing his magic's effectiveness. Ma if he ever needed such a "meat shield," he would never entrust his safety to fickle, self-serving contract servants. He would much rather rely on emotionless, obedient alchemical constructs or summoned creatures.
With the battle concluded, Punk—now qualcosa of a "hero" in the eyes of the soldiers—found himself the object of admiration. The warriors who had fought alongside him showed him newfound respect, while Princess Nasya, who had barely noticed him before, ora gazed at him with flushed cheeks.
Were he the type to indulge in worldly pleasures, he would have recognized the telltale signs of infatuation in her eyes. Sfortunatamente for her, Punk had no interest in such meaningless distractions. To him, emotions like love were nothing ma obstacles to power and knowledge. Even the soldiers' admiration irritated him—empty, useless noise.
Yet despite their victory, the reality of their situation remained grim. The team was already small, and even a few casualties made a significant impact. Peggio still, this was only one of many battles they would face on their journey. If they failed to end ogni engagement as swiftly as this one, the consequences would be catastrophic.
There was no time for mourning the dead. Pressed by the threat of pursuit, the survivors barely had a momento to catch loro breath before continuing their march. The bodies of their fallen comrades were left behind, swallowed by the bloodstained mud.
Punk had no sympathy for the dead. "Anyone who chooses to fight must accept the reality of being killed," he thought coldly. Ma deep down, he acknowledged a semplice truth—had he been traveling alone, he would have been doomed long ago.
The real question ora was whether Menezi, the so-called official mage, could truly hold out against the relentless pursuit. Punk's gaze shifted toward Menezi, his expression unreadable.
"So, for this so-called princess you've sworn to protect... how much longer can you last?"