The Dragon Heir Chapter 71: The Horde

With a grin that was half-mad and wholly triumphant, I took off, an oversized Creeper and so ape-brained brute tearing after like rabid hounds. The Creeper thought itself clever, slipping on illusions to blend into the scenery like it’d vanished into thin air—but the hues had its number.

Oh, I could spot that slimy, deceitful little blur without even breaking a sweat. Stage 4, no less, just like the last one I’d picked off when I first stumbled into this forest. But that one was a miserable shell, barely clinging to life. This one, though? Fresh, furious, and itching for a scrap.

As I veered off, my wings flared, narrowly dodging a tentacle whipping out from the shadows. Twisting mid-air, I shot forward with a series of dashes, weaving through the trees in a blur, left, right, and center. My air sense painted a perfect 20-ter map around , every branch, every root, every trunk laid bare. This wasn’t so predator’s pursuit, no—this was my ga. And, by Thalador, was I a marvel at it.

With the ape and Creeper in tow, keeping tabs on them was a cinch thanks to my shifting vision. Focusing on the breaths around , I could sniff out anything else lurking nearby, sidestepping any other nasties on the prowl.

The Creeper was never ant to be the mark of this little charade. I clocked that big lunkhead ape from so distance, tracking him down with my Air Sense, tuned right in to his thunderous breathing. Granted, the Creeper was wily, slippery as , knew how to hold its breath to skulk past my senses. So, I arrived, and there it was, snug in its illusion, right beside the ape. Hunting it, perhaps? Well, not anymore. I sent its plans straight to the gutter, when I blindsided it with a lightning bolt. The ape too, caught sight of after that—territorial beast, frothing at the mouth. Now, both of them tearing after like they had a prayer of catching .

With my Rapid Recovery Dash, Breath of Shadows, and honed vision, I could keep tabs on both louts and every twist in the landscape. My air sense laid out every root and ridge, and my dashes had dodging like a ghost, leaving these two so-called stage 4 hunters floundering.

Of course, all this darting about was chewing through my stamina faster than I’d prefer. Each dash had its price, but I wasn’t sweating. My calculations were spot-on; I’d reach my goal with a comfortable 10 points in reserve—and the Surge Reservoir untouched.

Plenty in the tank.

And so the dance dragged on, the Creeper nipping at my heels a few tis too close for comfort. The ape, though—thick as brick and twice as clueless. In a fit of sheer brute instinct, it ripped a tree from the earth, charring it to cinders with flares erupting from its hulking fra, and hurled it in my direction. Naturally, I slipped aside with all the ease of a leaf in the breeze. The lumbering fool took so long winding up that even a halfwit would’ve seen it coming.

But eventually, I broke through to the clearing. With a flick of my wings, I dove into the underbrush, weaving around to catch my bearings. The ape, daft as it was, instantly lost interest, eyes locked onto the ritual ahead, where the system’s siren call promised it rewards far juicier than chasing . The Creeper, though, clung to my trail a bit longer before it, too, lost heart.

Now, the Elven warriors’ tension was so thick you could cut it with a dagger. But that wouldn’t be enough. I felt the presence of even more breaths nearby, crouching in the shadows. Perfect timing. I tapped into my Surge Reservoir, refilling my stamina with a satisfying 15 points, putting at a cool 30. Then I retreated further—ti to max out the tank.

A lone stage 3 wolf caught my eye, and I dispatched it before it even knew what hit it. Barely a minute later, I’d devoured the beast, at scarcely touching my tongue before it was gone, and my stamina sat at a perfect, full charge.

Now for the grand finale. A hulking ox, a scaly vulture swooping above, a writhing pack of serpents slithering through the shadows—I lured them all, darting just close enough to tantalize them, then leading the pack straight towards the ritual site. And bit by bit, the beasts were gathering, drawn by the commotion. Stage 4 predators now circled the clearing like hungry wolves, a veritable army converging on the Elves’ precious little ritual.

***

Alérion! Nom de dieu, what in the flaming abyss is even happening?!

Alérion d'Argelys, captain of the Thorn Guards and head of the mages tasked with safeguarding the ritual 3, felt the jarring pulse of a psychic link in his mind yet again. He didn’t need to guess who sent it—the red haze in his eyes darted straight to the source: Elionor, clad in his ever-ominous black mask, currently facing off against a pack of stage-four feathered serpents. Warriors’ commander, just as he commanded the mages. But as for an answer? Alérion had none, save for his own rising irritation.

No ti for rumination either; his hands were afla with spellwork, casting and commanding as fast as he breathed, hurling each enchantnt at the monstrous swarm while coordinating the mages under his charge.

The plan? Laughably simple at the outset. Stage-three monsters, so occasional stage-fours; nothing they couldn’t manage. But why the bloody hell were they flocking here en masse? It had all seed so straightforward until now. His gaze hardened as he watched yet another wave of hulking beasts surge toward the clearing.

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rde!

Steeling himself, Alérion’s burning red eyes glead from behind his mask, churning with renewed mana as circles blazed. The chaos of the ritual site, riddled with felled creatures, now offered him an arsenal of corpses. With a flick of his fingers and a pulse of rune-charged energy, he began the animation of the remains of the fallen, directing two mages to fortify the barriers, leaving him undisturbed as he began weaving the bodies together.

From the earth, thorned tendrils coiled upward, sinking into the carcasses, crimson blood buzzing through torn veins as he worked. Sowhere in the ss, Elionor’s voice shot through the din.

"Lucen, Aure! Flank and hold the line. Keep them clear of the center!"

For a flicker of a mont, Alérion almost envied him—watching Elionor’s warriors move with unflinching discipline, their coordination flawless. His mages, on the other hand, were as reliable as a rotten rope bridge. Even that sorry bastard Darvin had better underlings! He cuffed the mage in front of him, his focus never wavering from the runes he held.

“Keep the barrier intact, you blithering ass! And for the love of Selene, look up!”

An eagle-like beast circled above them, and the unfortunate mage scrambled, hurling a feeble spell that barely fazed the creature but at least startled it. rveilleux.

Alérion’s gaze shifted back to Elionor’s unit—an elegant machine of death, swords flashing and disappearing like a phantom's grin. But even their prowess was beginning to falter under the onslaught of high-tier beasts.

The final rune flared in Alérion’s mind. The corpses were ready, woven together with grisly precision. One final array of runes, and he snapped the command.

"Deathroot Reclamation!"

The bodies lurched upright, brought to life by his path's magics as thorny vines unwound, leaving each corpse charged with a sinister, pulsing intent. With one sharp command, he unleashed them on the incoming creatures, not sparing them another look.

He repeated the spell with another group, marshaling his reanimated horde—a collection of twisted parodies of their forr selves, clawing and biting with a fury so grotesque that under other circumstances, it might’ve brought a smile to his face. Dark thorny tendrils of magic twined and twisted through the air, cutting relentlessly through the ranks of feathered serpents. They even nipped at the heels of Elionor’s warriors when his focus waned. A constant, brutal edge. It was a battle growing beyond control.

He tried to ignore his own frustration. His concentration had every right to waver, given the overwhelming force against them—stage 4 beasts in their dozens, while lower-stage creatures slinked in below the main fray. For a few unfortunate soldiers, a split-second lapse was enough; they fell victim to flashing claws or venom-dripping fangs.

As his mana ebbed, he grimaced, downing a potion to stave off the growing ache in his head. This was his battleground, full of fallen bodies ready to rise on his command, yet even his army began to thin. Their bodies collapsed to ash, torn beyond repair by fresh waves of serpents and hideous beasts that ground his defenses down.

Despite Alérion’s path of the Guardian of Undeath, the odds looked grim; each monster slain was replaced by two more, snapping and snarling with malevolence. The monsters pushed ever closer to the ritual, as if it were a dangling prize, leaving trails of blood and ruin in their wake.

Panic spread among the ritualists. Alérion might have reassured them—if he’d had the chance, if he could.

With his warriors’ desperate cries, Elionor’s barked orders, and his own weary mage force barely holding their ground, Alérion felt a bitter truth solidify in his gut: they were losing, and losing badly.

His hands remained steady as he drew every last drop of mana into his spellwork, his head pounding from the incessant consumption of mana potions. He conjured malicious thorns that siphoned life, growing stronger with each surge. But the tide of battle surged too fiercely. A cruel thorn construct erupted from the ground to intercept a swooping beast, only to be shredded by another that lunged in behind it.

Before he could issue commands, his mages broke formation, retreating in a frenzy. He wanted to yell—to hurl insults at their ineptitude—but he understood their panic all too well. He bit his tongue, forcing himself to bark out orders, desperately trying to reel his line back into formation, but even that frayed resistance began to unravel.

His heartbeat thundered as he surveyed the carnage: half of Elionor’s warriors lay dead, two of his own mages who had supported them were gone.

They had to abandon the ritual, and fast! Better a bruised ego and a botched mission than a guaranteed death sentence.

Through clenched teeth, Alérion stole one last look at the ritual site—the pulsing glyphs and the intricate spellwork—but there was no way they were close to completion. Pushing it even a mont longer would be suicide, even for him.

The gnawing dread of the Warden's wrath lood larger with each passing second. The Warden was already fuming over the earlier failed ritual that had seen a Netherbeast materialize and annihilate them all. That defeat had made him bitter and cautious, and Alérion could only imagine the pain that awaited him as punishnt. He relayed the news to Elionor, who cursed him and protested vehently. Yet, witnessing the unfolding chaos, he quickly relented.

Every corner of Alérion’s mind scread to keep fighting, to not to risk the Warden’s ire rather than retreat. But the primal fear of death—bloody and imminent, clawing for them in the here and now—overpowered that urge. There was no honor in feeding his corpse to these monsters. Better to face the day of reckoning later than a funeral tonight.

Besides, they were just retreating. The obelisk and the Creation Orb conjured with it would remain safe. They could always recreate the ritual later. Yes.

Determination surged, Alérion shattered his ongoing spells, tapping into his belt and seizing a ring. He commanded every mage to channel their mana into him through their connection. Thorny roots erupted beneath each of them and the ritualists, piercing their hands as he siphoned their mana. Another matrix ford, and the dead began to feed him even more as he funneled everything into this one-ti teleportation ring.

A massive teleportation spell circle blossod beneath them while warriors fell back and mages cast a collective barrier to hold the horde at bay. Elionor let out a pained grunt as he fell beside him. The monsters clawed and tore at the barrier, which began to crack in places, but Alérion kept his focus; the teleportation was almost complete.

As he charged the final rune, he felt a trendous surge of foreign mana building behind them. Before he could react, a gravelly scream filled with hatred pierced the air.

“LIGHTNING BOLT!”

The last thing he saw was a fierce bolt of white tearing through the barrier, striking the obelisk and the surrounding ritualists with deadly precision just before they vanished from the battlefield.