It had been several days since Punk embarked on this escape route. In that time, they had fought dozens of battles, large and small. Even he, with his exceptional resilience, felt physically and mentally drained.
As for the lower-ranked warriors—let alone Princess Nasya, who once charmed the soldiers with her beauty and encouragement—none had the strength for idle conversation anymore.
At first, the blood-boiling passion buried deep within the soldiers' hearts had sustained them, but that fire was gradually extinguished. In its place came confusion, numbness, and anxiety—heavy emotions brought about by the ever-present specter of death. The once-cohesive team now carried a burden of negativity that only grew heavier with time.
With every battle, their numbers dwindled. The losses, once minor, had become a steady stream of attrition, weakening the team to the point where they lacked the reserves to properly recover before the next fight. They had entered a vicious cycle, one that devoured all hope. Worse yet, no one could break it.
As the border of the Dylan Kingdom drew closer, the enemy's pursuit became increasingly relentless. Their scouts, once manageable in direct combat, now attacked with greater frequency and intensity. The chances of escaping Prince William's grasp shrank with each passing day.
Now, only one thing held the soldiers together—their unwavering faith in Menezi, the mage who stood as an "invincible" figure in their eyes.
Menezi made efforts to console the wounded, speaking words of encouragement to those whose injuries festered in the damp environment. However, he was no great orator. His empty reassurances soon lost their effect, and though Princess Nasya continued to trust him implicitly, the soldiers' responses grew increasingly indifferent.
Punk, watching carefully, noted something disturbing. The green leaves that once sprouted from Menezi's wounds had stopped growing, their vitality thinning. And though several battles had pushed them to the brink, Menezi still hesitated to unleash his full power.
At first, Punk considered this restraint a calculated effort to conceal his strength. But if a mage still "held back" even after sustaining heavy losses, it was no longer a matter of wisdom—it was foolishness. And Menezi was no fool. The only explanation was that he had lost the ability to act.
Faced with this life-and-death crisis, Punk felt neither fear nor anxiety. Worry clouded judgment, and fear only wasted energy. Such useless emotions had long been discarded. Besides, he had a faint hunch—Menezi still had a trump card, a final, desperate move waiting to be played.
The Burning Skies
Huo Shao Yun… I didn't expect to see such a thing in this world.
Punk gazed at the sky, where clouds burned like fire beneath the glow of Mira. Rolling and stretching across the heavens, they painted the entire sky a brilliant red.
The so-called "Princess Guard" was no longer an army—it had dwindled into nothing more than a ragged band of survivors. Aside from the princess and Menezi, only Punk and two warriors remained. The old mage had perished somewhere in the fifth or sixth battle, his body likely reduced to dust.
But their enemies had no sympathy for the weak. As Mira descended toward the horizon, another group of pursuers emerged from the hazy dusk.
After over a week of relentless battles, Punk had leveled up twice, now reaching the rank of a Level 9 Apprentice Mage. Before advancing to the official level, combat was still an effective means of strengthening the soul—especially for a half-Prime Elf like him.
Yet despite his newfound strength, the exhaustion weighed heavily on him. Now, even the remaining warriors were barely standing, their bodies battered and bloodied. Only Princess Nasya remained unscathed, shielded at the cost of countless lives.
"Damn it! Just a little more—just a little more, and we would have reached the Luxuriant Forest of Dylan Kingdom!"
One of the warriors, leaning on a sword chipped and dulled, struggled to stand. His hoarse voice rang out toward the setting sun, his matted hair swaying under the flicker of his dwindling battle aura. Clad in dented golden armor, illuminated by the evening glow, he looked less like a valiant knight and more like a cornered beast.
Even Princess Nasya couldn't hide the despair in her eyes.
"Are we really going to fail? Were all those soldiers' sacrifices truly for nothing…?"
Tears blurred her vision. But while the others wavered, Punk remained unmoved. They were close—so close to the border that even if Menezi had been holding back until now, he would be forced to act. And Punk would never underestimate the hidden depths of an official mage.
Sure enough, as their pursuers closed in from all sides, Menezi finally made his move. Supporting his battered frame, he let out a guttural roar—a sound so raw and primal that it sent a chill down Punk's spine.
The ever-composed mage now bared his teeth like a cornered beast. His eyes burned red, his veins bulging as a pulsating green light exploded from his body.
The ground trembled.
Thick, root-like vines surged from the earth, filling the woodland with a tidal wave of emerald tendrils. In mere moments, they converged upon Menezi, forming an enormous, towering mass. Suspended within its heart, Menezi became the core of a twenty-meter-tall vine colossus.
The radiant green energy that suffused its form was almost blinding. Its eyes—two seething pits of tangible energy—blazed with a terrifying, bestial hunger. Finally, the vine giant opened its mouth, unleashing a thunderous roar that shattered the burning clouds overhead.
"You…" Menezi's voice rumbled through the battlefield. "All of you… will DIE!"