Discordant Note | TBATE

Chapter 101: The Lost [End of Book 2]

Arthur Leywin

I maneuvered through a stone-shed battlefield, leading a strike team of able-bodied golems to assault the enemy position from their flank. The march up the hill was a slow and painful slog, made only worse by the slippery blood-like substance coating the ground and the stench of iron and copper that suffused my nostrils.

As per my plan earlier, the majority of our troops were focused on a dual-pronged assault from two different avenues on the lower part of the hill. With so many of my ally golems focused on that front, it drew the attention of the majority of our enemies.

But they still held the high ground. For every bit of blood we spilled, they shed twice the amount. The only way to win was to take this hill with minimal losses.

So me and a select few elite golems, each bearing the symbol of the tri-union Council of Dicathen, were moving to flank their overstretched side. I stood at the vanguard, wielding Dawn's Ballad high as a rallying point. The golems above were aware of my trudging assault, but with our momentum, there wasn't much they could do.

A few glancing spells arced toward my troops. I trusted the elites at my flank to tank the weaker ones, their shields raising intermittently to defend against blades of earth and spears of ice.

A larger fireball caught my attention, however. I spotted it as it arced toward my small, compressed unit, recognizing the damage it would do if it landed. I flourished Dawn's Ballad, condensing a wave of ice and lightning mana through its length. Then I swung my blade upward, the teal weapon flashing white as it erupted in crackling frost.

A wave of cold interspersed with arcing electricity consumed the massive fireball, continuing onward and disrupting the golem formation above. Sensing our chance, I raised Dawn's Ballad high, my blood pounding in my ears.

"Charge!" I yelled, letting my voice spread with the help of wind magic. "Rip into their sides!"

As one, a score of earthen feet slammed into the ground, a cascading reverse avalanche aimed at the heart of the enemy formation. As I streamed along on currents of wind, I imagined the fear in my enemy's eyes.

It wasn't there, of course. Wren was a meticulous old bastard, but as realistic as he could make his golems, these always lacked something fundamentally human.

But as I reached the top, I felt a familiar burning flare from the hilt of my sword. A stretch of orange-purple striations snaked their way up the tang of my translucent teal sword, bringing a light warmth to my hands as Dawn's Ballad reacted.

Internally, I sighed in annoyance. Every single time this happened–and it had been picking up in frequency these past few weeks–Wren would halt my training entirely for a few days to perform tests on my sword. And of course, the wily asura wouldn't tell me what he was testing for.

Predictably, every single golem stalled in place as one, creating a bubble of what looked like halted time. I alone still moved; the adrenaline rush and expectation of colliding forces simmering at the surface of my mind. That battle rush was something that I carried with me whenever I fought like this: the echo of steel-on-steel, spellfire arcing overhead, lightning spells coursing through the air making my hair stand on end.

But then something different happened. The low burn of the hilt of Dawn's Ballad became that of a branding iron as it ramped up heat. Suddenly, the orange-purple streaks billowed upward, chasing away the teal and filling it in with color. I hastily thrust the blade into the ground, darting my hand away lest I get burned.

This was different than last time. For the first time, I could feel the power wafting off of the thing. It felt strange and alien to my mana sense; brushing against my mind like a feathertip.