The goblin yelped as Rowan’s punch connected, his fist breaking its nose with a satisfying crunch. Blood pooled from its scarred face, mingling with his own.

  Rowan’s heart beat like a wardrum, pounding away in his chest as another punch landed.

  He could see the fear and confusion in its beady eyes. Unable to comprehend how he’d gotten through its shield so quickly. There were only seconds before the apprentice remembered he was a mage and blasted his head off, but Rowan planned on ending the fight before that could happen.

  They fell to the ground and Rowan straddled the monster, his hands firmly gripping its head. Mages rarely focused on stats that gave a body strength, instead choosing to enlarge their mana pool or quicken their recovery.

  Right now, the apprentice was paying for that decision.

  With a primal roar, Rowan slammed the goblins head against the ground. Once, twice, three times. It shrieked in agony, its claws raking across his side, digging into his flesh and drawing blood.

  His roar grew in intensity as he felt the sharpened nails scraping against his ribs, trying to find purchase and pierce his lungs.

  Yet he didn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, because stopping meant death.

  Slowly, the goblins' screams turned to subdued whimpers. And with one final slam that cracked open its skull, the apprentice died.

  Rowan sat on top of him, panting and sweaty, his hands covered in the goblins' blood and brains. He stared down at the dead monster for a long moment, feeling proud, and satisfied, though mostly exhausted.

  Unable to hold back anymore, Rowan let out a loud, booming laugh. It echoed through the warcamp, most likely drawing attention to his position, yet he didn’t care. He’d done his part, all that was left for the others to do the same.

  Pushing himself back up, Rowan couldn’t help but wince, the wounds crossing his body stinging like all hell. Thankfully, they were neither deep nor dangerous, the potion he’d drunk before his charge doing its job.

  “Speaking of that,” Rowan muttered, pulling out one to recover his mana.

  Even with the potion, It would take him at least half an hour before his mana returned, but it was still much better than the three hours he’d need with meditation. And without even that, it would have taken him a whole day to replenish his reserves.

  The clear blue liquid made its way down his throat, evaporating as soon as it hit his stomach. Mana potions didn’t actually contain a whole lot of mana. They hastened recovery by stimulating a Core, making it vibrate in just the right frequency to help with replenishing a mages reserves.

  There were potions capable of almost instantaneous recovery, but they were made by Grandmaster Alchemists and extremely illegal to own except by the King’s own warmages.

  Looking around, Rowan spotted a discarded sword a little ways away. Dropped by the goblin that had tried to ambush him and ended up a makeshift ballista bolt. Rowan limped over to it, picked it up and tried not to hiss in pain as he swung it around.

  Name: Iron Sword

  Grade: Common

  “Wait, what am I doing?” he asked himself, dropping the sword and summoning another from the Vault.

  Name: Stormforged Shortsword

  Grade: Epic

  Enchantments: [Sharpness], [Durability], [Accumulated Charge]

  “That’s better.”

  Weapon in hand, Rowan started making his way towards where he’d left Quinea and the Warchief, hoping that her fight had gone as well as his.

  Because if it didn’t, we’re all in deep shit.

  It was easy to feel triumphant after his victory. Yet out of the three major duels they needed to win, his was by far the least important. If the Warchief lived, there was no one in their group capable of dealing with it. And the same went for the Warlock.

  Rowan made his way through the eerily silent camp, the only sound coming from further away where the assembled adventurers still fought against the goblins.

  I hope the Grove is okay.

  He thought about heading that way, but decided against it. Right now, without his magic, he wouldn’t exactly be useful in a fight—no more than any Bronze-ranked adventure would be.

  He reached the central tent, and a bittersweet sight greeted him.

  Quinea sat on top of the massive goblin’s body, holding its severed head in her hand. Her once pristine armor was caked in blood and dented in multiple spots, the battle taking its toll on the Guildmistress.

  Rowan’s gaze flickered to her left arm, or more accurately, the stump that was in its place.

  She caught his eye and smirked. “Don’t look at me like that. This isn’t the first time I’ve lost a limb, and gods willing it won’t be the last.”

  Rowan let out a surprised chuckle at her response, the tension leaving his shoulders. “Gods willing?” he smiled. “So you enjoy getting dismembered?”

  “Hells no.” Quinea snorted. “But if it stops happening that means I’ve either stopped fighting, or I’m dead,” she shrugged. “Neither of which are things I’d like to happen any time soon.”

  As he made his way over to her, Quinea jumped down from the corpse, throwing the severed head aside. She stood in front of him, exhausted, bloody, but victorious.

  The Guildmistress glanced at him appraisingly. “You look like shit.”

  Rowan raised both his hands and looked at each one in turn. “You know the saying about stones and glass houses?”

  Quinea laughed, shaking her head in amusement. “Come on. The fight’s not done yet,” she pulled her spear out of the ground and started walking.

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  Rowan fell into step beside her, wincing with every movement but refusing to slow down. The adventurers’ struggles still rang out in the distance, punctuated by the occasional scream or the clash of steel against steel.

  “How’s your mana holding up?” Quinea asked, her steps steady despite her missing arm.

  “Not good,” Rowan admitted, feeling at his slowly refilling Core. “I drank a potion after the fight, but if I had to put a number on it, I’m at less than ten percent.”

  Quinea nodded, her eyes sweeping the camp around them. “That’s fine. As long as you’re not fully out.”

  Rowan’s grip around the sword tightened, feeling the weight of it in his hand. He didn’t feel particularly useful right now, but he’d make do. He had to.

  As they rounded a corner, the battlefield came into full view. The adventurers had pushed deep into the goblin camp, scattering what remained of their forces. Bodies littered the ground, most of them belonging to goblins, though Rowan could make out the still forms of fallen adventures alongside them.

  Laith stood at the forefront of the battle, his massive axe cutting through goblins like a sickle through wheat, a wide, almost manic smile on his face. He moved with terrifying force, his bloodied figure practically dancing through what remained of the enemy, decimating any who were stupid enough to cross his path.

  Nemir wasn’t far off, and what Rowan saw made his eyes widen in delight. Along the blade of his greatsword, there was a faint red glow.

  “He advanced,” Rowan whispered.

  The gulf between Iron and Silver was a major one. One many adventurers never crossed. It required a person to understand their Path, and more importantly, how they wanted to follow it.

  Silvia stood a little ways behind Nemir, perched on an overturned wagon. Her bowstring was constantly in motion, each arrow striking a goblin with deadly accuracy. Only one out of every four had the glow of the weapon's enchantment, meaning she managed to drain it almost fully during the course of the fight. Not a light feat.

  Annie and Omi worked in perfect unison next to a group of Iron-ranks. Omi struck the goblins from behind, cutting tendons and inflicting wicked blows while Annie finished them off with precise strikes.

  Rowan’s eyes scanned the battlefield until they landed on Zoe. Their healer stood at the back, Kai perched protectively on her shoulder. A constant influx of adventurer’s circled around her as she healed those on the brink of death and dismissed those with lighter wounds.

  The amount of healing she could do was finite, and wasting it unnecessarily was a mistake that could cost them all dearly.

  “They’re fine here,” Quinea said, her gaze moving towards where the mages fought. “Follow me.”

  Without hesitation, she started running towards the group, gripping her spear with her good arm. Rowan ran after her, barely managing to keep up.

  As they got closer, Rowan could make out mage Velora at the head of their formation, her expression intense as he deflected a [Wind Blade] with a [Water Whip].

  Out of the nine mages that started the fight, two were nowhere to be seen, with another three standing behind, obviously spent. One of them was Huon, with Tion off to the side raising earthen barriers to protect them against the shamans onslaught.

  His eyes moved to the two storms raging even further back. Ice and Dust clashing furiously. The sight made his breath catch, but he couldn’t let himself get distracted.

  We’re not done yet, he reminded himself.

  Quinea didn’t waste any time, disappearing with a burst of speed, her severed arm not slowing her down in the slightest.

  The eight shamans that were left barely had time to react as she appeared among them, swinging her weapon like fury manifest. It sliced one’s head off and pierced another through the heart before the goblins noticed her arrival.

  Their mages were emboldened by the sight, a cheer going out as Velora raised an arm. “Attack with everything you’ve got!” she shouted. “Finish them off!”

  A flurry of spells was the response. [Firebolts], [Wind Blasts] and [Rock Shots], all of them started landing among the shamans, decimating the surprised goblins.

  A few tried to answer back, focused their ire on the whirlwind of death that danced in their company. Yet it didn’t help.

  Quinea’s spear shone with a faint golden glow, weaker than the first time Rowan had seen it, but no less deadly. It carved through the spells with ease, and just moments later, the remaining shamans lay dead at her feet.

  Rowan rushed towards the mages, hearing another cheer going up behind him. Glancing back, he saw Laith with his axe held high, the remaining goblins fleeing deeper into the destroyed warcamp. Routed.

  “Victory!” he bellowed, his voice ringing across the battlefield. “Come friends! If there is an ounce of strength left in you, follow me!”

  Laith rushed after the fleeting goblins, followed by a dozen or so Silver-ranks. And surprisingly enough, the Grove as well.

  The rest of the adventurers stood in place. Most of them sitting down on the hard ground, utterly exhausted.

  Suddenly, a low rumble drew their attention. Rowan’s heart skipped a beat as he turned towards the source of the noise. His gaze locked onto the raging storm at the far end of the camp where Tremil and the Warlock still fought.

  The clash between Tremil’s [Blizzard] and the Warlock’s [Dust Storm] had been raging from the start of the battle. What felt like hours. But now, something had changed. The [Dust Storm] was beginning to falter, the swirling clouds of stone and earth losing their cohesion as the icy winds of the blizzard overpowered them.

  Rowan’s eyes locked onto the raging maelstrom. The Warlock’s defenses were unraveling, bits of dust scattered uselessly in the air as Tremil battered at it with his own spellwork.

  But he wasn’t fooled by the victory that seemed so near, and neither were the rest of the mages.

  Something was wrong.

  Velora’s jaw tightened. “He’s going to kill himself.”

  The amount of mana being channeled was staggering. It seemed like Tremil had enough of the stalemate.

  Rowan had seen Tremil cast before, but never like this. There was no elegance to his spells now, only raw, primal power. He was pouring everything into the [Blizzard], pushing past his limits, straining his soul.

  “He’s burning himself out,” Rowan muttered, feeling his whole body tense.

  A part of him wanted to rush forward, to help, but he knew better. There wasn’t anything he could do here. Even if he thought himself mighty after his victory, he was still weak. Much, much too weak. The only thing left for him to do was watch and hope that Tremil came out on top.

  Finally, with a deafening roar, the Warlock’s [Dust Storm] shattered completely—Tremil’s final push tearing through the last remnants of its spell. The goblin let out an ear piercing shriek as ice engulfed him, freezing him in place. His twisted staff fell from his grip as his body became encased in a coffin of frost.

  The [Blizzard] howled one last time before quieting into the eerie stillness. The battle, it seems, was won.

  Rowan began to run, ignoring the pain shooting through his legs and the throbbing of his wounds. Tremil’s form was barely visible through the settling storm, but Rowan could see his outline swaying unsteadily.

  Quinea ran past him, easily outpacing him.

  Rowan pushed through the ice-coated ground, slipping and stumbling, but not stopping.

  When he finally reached him, Tremil was still standing, his eyes wide and unfocused. His face was pale, lips blue from the cold of his own magic. There was a deep gash across his side, blood frozen to his robe, but the old mage was seemingly unaware of it. His breath came in ragged gasps, each one shallow and pained.

  Quinea reached him first, gently grabbing his arm. “Tremil, it’s over,” she said softly. “You did it.”

  For a moment, he didn’t react. His body shook violently, his legs struggling to keep him upright. And then, slowly, his eyes flickered, recognition seeping back in as he looked at the Guildmistress.

  A weak smile tugged at the corner of his lips, but it was brief—his knees buckled, and he collapsed into her arms.

  Rowan rushed to his side, kneeling down next to him as Quinea cradled his body in her arms. “Easy,” she whispered, gently lowering him to the ground. “I’ve got you.”

  Velora and the other mages arrived a moment later, their expression grave.

  Tremil’s breathing was growing shallow, his body slack in Quinea’s arms. His skin had taken on a sickly pale color, and his usually bright eyes were unnaturally dim.

  “He’s injured his soul,” Velora whispered, shaking his head.

  Rowan took the old mage’s hand, pulling off his storage ring. The other mages tensed at the sight, but before they could voice their objections he threw it to Tion.

  “Check inside,” he said firmly. “He might have something to deal with Soul-strain.”

  The young mage nodded, his hand visibly shaking as he slipped on the ring.

  Tremil’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze meeting Rowan’s. There was no fear in them, only satisfaction. His lips parted, and a faint, hoarse whisper escaped.

  “...the Warlock… is it… dead?”

  Rowan nodded. “Yeah, you got him,” he said softly. “Frozen solid.”

  A ghost of a smile flickered across Tremil’s lips before his eyes slid shut once more, falling unconscious.

  Exhausted, bloody, but victorious.

  The battle was over. They had won.