The ground beneath Jaenor erupted upward, massive roots tearing free from the ground and wrapping around his legs. He slashed with his aura blade, cutting through them, but more appeared immediately, faster than he could destroy them.

Wendelina raised both hands, and the sky above darkened.

Storm clouds gathered from nowhere, and lightning began to fall. Not natural lightning—this was origin energy shaped into electrical fury, each bolt containing enough power to vaporize a building.

Jaenor threw himself into motion, running and dodging, his enhanced speed the only thing keeping him alive. The lightning struck where he’d been standing a moment before, leaving molten craters in the ground. He wove between the strikes, his instincts and powers pushed to their absolute limits.

But he couldn’t get close.

Every time he tried to approach Wendelina, new obstacles appeared.

Walls of force.

Pillars of flame.

The ground itself was becoming treacherous, trying to swallow him whole.

“You’re fast,” Wendelina acknowledged.

“But speed alone won’t save you.”

She clenched her fist, and the air around Jaenor solidified.

He was caught mid-stride, immobilized, suspended in an invisible force that constricted like a vice. His aura flared desperately, trying to break free, but the pressure only increased.

“Your power is impressive for your age,” Wendelina continued, walking toward him calmly.

“But I’ve been mastering origin energy for over three hundred years. I’ve forgotten more techniques than you’ll ever learn. This isn’t a fight, child. It’s an execution.”

Jaenor’s response was to channel everything he had—both aura and origin energy—into a single, desperate explosion.

The power detonated outward from his body, shattering Wendelina’s binding.

He hit the ground running, and this time didn’t try to get close.

Instead, he raised his free hand and unleashed a barrage of origin energy attacks. Projectiles, waves, explosions—he threw everything he could create, one after another, without pause.

Wendelina deflected them all.

Her hands moved in graceful patterns, and each of Jaenor’s attacks was redirected harmlessly away. When a particularly powerful blast got through her defenses, it simply splashed against a barrier that appeared around her.

“Creativity is good,” she said, her tone almost instructional.

“But raw power without refinement is wasted effort.”

She counterattacked with acute precision.

A needle of origin energy pierced Jaenor’s shoulder, punching clean through.

Another took him in the thigh.

A third scored across his ribs.

Jaenor gasped, his healing kicking in to close the wounds, but the damage was adding up. His reserves were depleting rapidly. The fight against Vasthren and Hilda had already drained him significantly, and now he was burning through what little he had left.

“You’re running on fumes,” Wendelina observed.

“I can see your power fluctuating, your control slipping. Surrender yourself to death, child. Make this easier on yourself.”

“Never,” Jaenor ground out through clenched teeth.

He charged, his hand extended with the aura-forming blade, blazing with combined aura and origin energy. The blade hummed with power, the air itself seeming to bend around it. He closed the distance faster than should have been possible and thrust for Wendelina’s heart.

She caught the blade between her palms.

Barehanded.

Without a shimmer of defense or spellcraft—just her palms pressing against the edges of a sword that could cleave through steel as if it were wet parchment.

“Remarkable,” she murmured, running her fingers along the trembling blade, her expression calm—almost admiring.

Jaenor gritted his teeth and tried to wrench the aura blade free.

It didn’t move.

Not even an inch.

He could feel the strain in his arms, the veins standing taut, but it was as if he were trying to lift a mountain itself.

Then—she merely flicked her wrist.

A crack split the air.

The aura blade shattered cleanly in two, the broken half clattering uselessly onto the snow. Before Jaenor could even react, an unseen force burst outward from her—raw, crushing power that slammed into him like a wave of thunder.

He flew backward, crashing through a fallen trunk. The wood splintered under the impact, and he kept sliding, tearing through the frozen ground before finally coming to rest several paces away, the broken hilt still clutched in his trembling hand.

As he was lying on the ground, Wendelina turned her gaze towards the empty air.

The void started to stir, and there were sounds of people screaming.

From the forest woods, soldiers started moving towards the village center.

Twenty, thirty, forty—all armed, all moving with coordinated precision. And behind them came the witches, their hands already weaving spells of binding and destruction.

But her attention was fixed on something else.

Someone else.

The place where she was staring, a black-colored energy started to rotate and convulse.

It was a portal.

Then a figure emerged from the portal, and the temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

He was tall, wrapped in robes so black they seemed to absorb light. His face was hidden behind a mask of polished obsidian, featureless except for two eye slits that glowed with sickly green fire. Power radiated from him in waves that made even Wendelina’s presence feel muted by comparison.

“Lord Pride,” one of the Blaedred soldiers announced, dropping to one knee.

The others followed suit immediately.

The masked figure—Pride of Sin Draelusa—surveyed the scene with those burning eyes. His gaze moved from the destroyed village to the assembled fighters to Wendelina, lingering there for a moment, before finally settling on Jaenor, who was lying on the ground.

“Oh, poor boy,” Pride’s voice was surprisingly cultured, almost gentle, and completely at odds with the malevolent power he projected.

“Didn’t Mama come to save you now, child?” he said as he looked around, as if looking for someone.

Wendelina stepped forward, her own power flaring. Her initial shock of seeing him was replaced by a hardened expression. She wasn’t aware of his awakening.

And it wasn’t the time to stare at the demon or question how he got here. It was clear that the sect that practiced with the dark energies might have unleashed him.

She needs to act quickly.

“You demon, you dare show your face before the Mother Supreme of the Covens? Your Blaedred Skull sect has committed atrocities across this realm for decades. I should obliterate you where you stand.”

“You could certainly try,” Pride acknowledged.

“But then, I’m not here to fight you, witch. I am here for something,” he said as he looked towards the temple.

“You kidnap innocents, pervert magic, and slaughter entire villages.” Wendelina gestured to the ruined Ki’thara settlement.

“And you claim we’re not enemies?”

“I claim that we face a mutual threat that supersedes our differences.”

Pride turned his attention back to the unconscious Jaenor.

“That boy is more dangerous than either of our organizations. More dangerous than anything that has walked this world in a thousand years. Surely you sensed it—the potential within him.”

“I sensed it,” Wendelina admitted coldly.

“Which is why I was about to execute him.”

“Were you?” Pride’s tone suggested amusement.

“From what I observed, you were losing that fight. Or at least, it would have cost you more than you were willing to pay.”

Before Wendelina could respond, more portals opened—but these were different.

Clean, precise, and edged with silver light rather than darkness. Through them poured witches bearing the sigils of various covens. Dozens of them, all powerful in their own right, all answering their Mother Supreme’s silent call.

They formed up behind Wendelina, a show of force that would have intimidated any normal enemy. The combined power of so many skilled origin users created a pressure in the air that made breathing difficult.

Pride observed this with what might have been approval.

“Impressive. You came prepared. Or rather, they came prepared for you.

He turned slightly, speaking to the shadows behind his own assembled forces.

“Would you join us, Lady Lilinathara? I believe your expertise is required.”

Another figure emerged from the darkness—not through a portal, but simply stepping out of shadows as if they were doorways. She was striking in a way that was almost painful to look at, beauty refined into a weapon. Her hair was white blonde, her skin pale as pearl, and her eyes were solid gold without pupil or white. She wore armor that seemed crafted from the night sky itself, stars twinkling within its depths.

“You said you had something interesting to show me.” Lilinathara’s voice was melodious but cold.

“I see the Arkwright boy. But why would I risk confronting the entire Coven leadership for one admittedly unusual specimen?”

“Because,” Pride said, gesturing to Jaenor, “he’s not just unusual. He’s unprecedented. Look at him properly. Look at what’s happening inside him.”

Lilinathara’s golden eyes focused on Jaenor, and she went very still. Several seconds passed in silence as she examined him with senses far beyond normal perception.

“Oh my lord!” she breathed.

“His cores are merging. Not just resonating. Actually beginning to fuse into a single unified source.”

She looked at Pride with what might have been alarm. “That shouldn’t be possible. The fundamental natures of aura and origin energy are incompatible. They should destroy each other at that level of integration.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep