Death was never an easy scene.

Not for the one who met it—and certainly not for the one who had to handle the funeral.

Killian had taken part in far too many of those.

It came with the job, he supposed. Being a knight meant seeing people die. More often than not, during every battle, they lost lives. They were men you trained with, drank with, fought beside. Men who laughed with you one day and turned to cold, lifeless bodies the next.

And no matter how long he wore the armor, no matter how many battles he had walked away from—Killian couldn’t remember a single time where it felt normal.

Now, three bodies burned in front of him.

Thick smoke curled into the sky from the pyres, but it was the smell that clung hardest. Burnt flesh and wood, mixed with the heavy guilt. The dead were Arlen, Darvis, and Thao. They had died when a swarm of nightbats descended on them during their march.

Thao had been snatched and dropped from above—his neck broken on impact. Arlen and Darvis hadn’t even gotten the chance to scream. The bats had latched onto them, sucking them dry before help could arrive.

Arlen and Darvis were from Veralt. Killian knew them well. He had sparred with Arlen just last week, and had spoken to his son that very morning. The young boy had always watched the drills with awe, and when they spoke, he’d told his enthusiasm about joining them someday, when he was ‘big enough’. Darvis was quieter, unmarried, but Killian knew his mother was still waiting back at him. She’d probably be expecting his letter.

Instead, she would get a pouch of ashes and a few coins, an extremely poor replacement for a son.

Thao was from Viscount Redmon’t lands. Killian didn’t know him well, but the men in the squad said he had a wife. Two children. Who will never see him again–not his face, not even his body. Just a bag of ash and a name on a list.

Killian stared into the fire, watching the flames fade and the smoke drift lower.

He couldn’t bring them back. He couldn’t ease the grief of their families. Killian knew there was nothing more he could do for them—even if he wanted to. Their bodies were gone. Their stories had ended. But for the ones still breathing, still marching, still trusting in his orders… there was something he could do.

He could be better.

He could become a better commander. And more than that, he could become a stronger warrior. He could become someone to stand at the front and cut down a dozen of those cursed fiends on his own. If he had that kind of strength, then Lord Arzan could focus on the greater threats. And the mortal soldiers without reinforced bodies wouldn’t die as easily.

That is my duty.

No one had asked it of him, but he had been given power. He was a knight who walked the part of an Enforcer. He had been given vaults, strength and potential to be something more than walking flesh.

Now, it was his responsibility to grow stronger and become a sword that protected the weak. It wasn’t as if he refused to try—to get stronger.

Deep inside, he could feel it. The tug. The rush that another breakthrough was close.

A breakthrough, Killian almost sighed in relief. His instincts screamed that a new branch of power was within reach—and when he looked at Lord Arzan’s eyes during their last exchange, he had seen it. No words were spoken. None were needed. He understood what this lord expected of him.

And Killain would rise to meet that expectation. Not just for Lord Arzan, but for himself.

As that thought settled in his chest, two soldiers approached. Each held a small pouch in their hands.

Killian turned to them. “Get it to the supply carriage. Same as before. Put it with the others. Make sure you know which one is which. We need to give them back to their families.”

Both men nodded and moved off. Their eyes didn’t meet his, but their steps were quick. The funeral was over. So was their brief rest. Time to march again.

Killian glanced ahead. Lord Arzan was speaking with Magus Elias. The old Mage’s words were low, unreadable, but his lord’s face stayed neutral. Normally, Killian would’ve tried to listen in—but not today. His thoughts were elsewhere.

His vaults.

He had already unlocked the ones in his legs and right shoulder. Now, he was working on the vaults in his hands and the one in his chest. Unlocking them wasn’t the real challenge anymore. He needed to cultivate them—to feed them mana until they changed, until they birthed a new source of strength.

That was how he’d reach the Third Rank. At least, that’s what Lord Arzan had told him. So even as they walked, Killian’s focus stayed inside.

He exhaled slowly, channelling mana from his core and forcing it along his crude pathways into the vault in his chest. The process wasn’t smooth. Pain flared in his ribs as the mana scraped through flesh, muscle, and bone. He had no natural mana veins.

But this pain… he was used to it now. It was the path of an Enforcer.

Still, despite flooding the vault with mana, despite the heat, the pressure, the ache—it didn’t respond. It didn’t awaken.

He felt like he was missing something. Something that would help him to get his breakthrough. Even thinking about it made him focus on the vault that stirred with power, but not enough.

His muscles burned, and his instincts howled, but something was off. Filling the vault wasn’t enough, he had to sync it with what he was. And he was lightning. He had trained with it, fought with it, let it surge through his legs and blade. But now… now he imagined more.

What if it didn’t just move along his limbs? What if it covered him? What if it was him?

He needed that. A shell of lightning. A force that could strike, move, and defend all at once. A living armor.

He pictured it clearly—bolts crackling across his skin, dancing over his shoulders, running like veins of light down his arms and legs. Not just a tool. Not just a weapon. A second skin. A storm forged into a body.

He had seen something similar before.

Magus Elias’ stone armor had clung to him and moved with him. Solid yet fluid, shifting around attacks, enhancing his presence. That was the image burned into Killian’s mind. That was what he wanted to become.

Not just a blade. A true warrior. A shield. A storm. Something that his men could rely on when Lord Arzan had his hands full.

He knew he would never match a Mage’s versatility or precision but he would surpass them in strength and sheer will. He would be something else—something more.

He was determined to forge that vision right here, in the plagued lands of Vanderfall.

They marched on, deeper into the rotted woods. The barren landscape was a constant companion now, but no one complained. They had grown used to the roots. The attacks. The treant’s games.

Suddenly, Magus Elias shouted. “Three—west side, moving fast!”

The old man’s voice sent shivers down their spines. It was gravery but insanely sharp. His mastery of the land was uncanny.

By now, those warnings had become a part of their march as the treant tried a lot to take them by surprise. It sent dead forces with the roots, but even with casualties, it made most of his forces desensitised and prepared. Every time the treant tried to surprise them, Elias would feel it before it happened.

And every single time, the men held on for a while, knowing Lord Arzan would burn them eventually. All they had to do was survive long enough.

Just as the warning implied, roots burst from the ground, gnarled and thick with dark energy. Out of the numerous ones, three thick roots surged toward Killian, the treant clearly recognizing him as a threat.

Good, he thought. Let it come for me.

He stepped forward, blade drawn. He slashed the bark with a ringing clash, sparks flew. His cuts were deep, but the roots were tough—dense and resistant to clean strikes. Still, he made them bleed dark sap. That was enough.

Lightning followed.

Yellow bolts licked along his arms, down his blade, arcing into the wounds he had carved. The roots jerked, convulsed, and smoked as the electricity seared through them. Two fell, writhing before curling into stillness.

The third came from the side. He didn’t see it—but he felt it. His instinct roared.

He leapt to the side, landing atop the root itself just as it lunged for where he’d stood. Without hesitation, he slammed his blade down, steel and lightning slashing through the wood.

The strikes sent flashes down his arms, and each crackle of thunder fed the fire in his chest. He wasn’t there yet. But he was close.

In a matter of seconds, the three roots lay broken, twitching on the ground like dying serpents. Killian stood over them, his chest heaving from the effort. Sparks flickered around his blade, faint arcs still jumping between the remains.

He looked up.

Lord Arzan hovered high above, carving through entire clusters of roots with fire-laced wind. Below, Magus Elias stood firm beside the supply wagons, stone rising and falling at his command to shield the Mages and protect the formation. Even Bishop Maurice had taken up a position near the front line, coordinating with the Enforcers and a handful of roaring barbarians.

Killian almost smiled, seeing how far they had come. These people had once been scattered survivors. Now they were a force. But then, he felt it.

A tremor. A shift beneath his boots.

His instincts screamed—jump—and he did.

The ground erupted. A violent blast of soil and debris took place as more roots tore out of the earth. They were thicker now, tougher. He slashed his sword, trying to push them behind but his eyes widened at the resistance.

Still, he had lightning.

He surged it through his arms into the blade, and let it do its work. Roots spasmed and recoiled, bark sizzling under the storm’s wrath. Yet even as he held his ground, more came.

One root struck from the side—he ducked just in time. Another swung from behind. He rolled, narrowly avoiding being skewered.

Too many.

He twisted back to strike another, only to feel a brutal impact slam into his chest. His armor held, barely. The force knocked the breath from his lungs as he stumbled. One of the roots coiled around his waist, trying to yank him off the ground.

He held on, gritting his teeth, straining against it until he spotted movement.

Another root. Headed straight for him from behind.

He made a snap decision.

Killian let the root pull him.

It yanked him up and through the air—right past where the second would’ve impaled him. He landed roughly on his shoulder, skidding across dirt and broken branches, but alive.

“Killian, are you alright?!” Lord Arzan’s voice rang out.

Killian looked up, seeing him still fighting, surrounded by countless more roots—yet steady, untouchable. That growing sense of inadequacy hit hard.

He nodded once, grunting his reply. “Fine.”

But even that felt like a lie.

Then Magus Elias called out, his voice louder than usual. “The treant is targeting you. It’s identified you as the third biggest threat. You need to fall back and defend until we’re done on our end.”

Killian froze.

Third?

He didn’t know what to say. The words left him winded more than the hit to the chest. Was that supposed to be a compliment—or a warning? Either way, it didn’t feel like enough. If he was truly a threat, then why couldn’t he keep up?

Why did the roots still push him this hard?

He gritted his teeth.

“No,” he growled under his breath. “I can deal with them.”

He stood tall, lifting his sword high, lightning crackling along the metal and dancing across his arms. The storm returned, brighter, fiercer. Sparks rolled from his shoulders, trailing down his legs. The vault in his chest hummed again, not bursting, but trembling, like something on the edge of awakening.

More roots surged toward him, angry that he’d survived. Killian charged straight at them. He wasn’t done. He pushed lightning through his legs.

The surge lit his body like a live wire, and in the blink of an eye, he was gone—dashing forward in a blur, faster than the roots could track. He was there one moment, gone the next, using his movement art to slip past attacks, his offensive flow to strike with deadly weight.

Roots burst from the ground in twisted snarls, but Killian was already ahead of them. His blade cleaved through bark and bone-like fiber, stabbing deep into stumps before he forced lightning into them—watching the inner veins sizzle and rupture. He jumped. Rolled. Cut through a thick coil and burst out the other end in a spray of ash and sap.

He gave himself to the rush. No thoughts. No hesitation. Only instinct.

Every time a root curled too close or lashed from behind, his body moved—not because he saw it, but because something deeper guided him. His limbs responded before his mind caught up. He was no longer trying to control the battle—he was part of it.

This is it.

Something inside him stirred. He felt it, bubbling in his chest—pressure, heat, something gathering in the vault at his core. Power coiled tighter, begging to be set free. But then—

His instincts screamed. Too many signals. Too many threats.

He slashed a thick root in half and looked up—just in time to see the ground around him erupt. Dozens of roots burst forth like spears, coiling in from every direction. He tried to leap, but they came too fast.

Roots wrapped around his legs, then his torso—twisting like a snake made of knives. One slammed into his side. Another drove toward his chest, puncturing the armor, digging deep. He snarled, trying to burn them off with lightning—but his arm wouldn’t move. His sword was jammed against a twisting coil.

He was trapped. Squeezed. Crushed.

“Killian!” Lord Arzan yelled, panic layered in his voice.

Killian saw him—a streak of silver and fire—slicing downward with wind blades that howled like wolves. But before they could reach, another root shot up from the earth like it had been waiting, blocking the strike entirely.

The roots around him tightened. He felt his ribs shift. Breath fled his lungs.

Is this it?

Panic hit like a cold wave. He had been reckless. Arrogant. He had pushed forward thinking he could hold his own—and now he was going to die, crushed like an insect.

Is this the end? Am I not strong enough after all?

He couldn’t even process as his vision dimmed. Armor cracked. Blood trickled down his back where a root had pierced through. Pain pierced through his body, he didn’t care about the pain, it was the guilt of not being enough.

He’d come so far—and was it all for nothing? Doubts clawed through his chest. Was his father right all along? Was he useless—was he just a knight who couldn’t even protect himself?

But even in that moment—something still burned inside him. The vault in his chest was still drinking mana, still glowing with that dense, searing heat. He could feel it. He was close.

No.

Not like this.

I won’t die here.

His lips barely moved. “I-I won’t die here…”

And something shifted.

It wasn’t slow. It wasn’t subtle.

It erupted.

A pulse of light surged from his chest, bursting outward like a heart made of lightning finally beating. Chains of raw electric energy snapped from his body, shredding the roots coiled around him. Bark and vine exploded in every direction, reduced to charred fragments mid-air.

He fell to his knees, gasping—and then rose.

Lightning danced across his armor, wrapping him in a living shell of thunder. It crackled with each breath, moving with him like a second skin. More roots lunged at him—but they didn’t reach.

The lightning flared and burned them to ash before they touched.

Killian stood still, letting the weight of what had just happened settle. He had done it.

He had advanced. Power surged through his limbs—raw, real, and his. When he finally looked around, the battlefield had frozen for a moment.

Soldiers stared. Clergymen halted mid-cast. Even the air itself seemed to still. And among them, Magus Elias—battle-hardened and unshakable—watched with wide eyes. Not fear. Not confusion. But awe.

Killian’s grip tightened around his sword. His jaw set. This was just the beginning. As for Lord Arzan, he said nothing. But Killian caught the brief glance.

Surprise—yes—but beneath it, a steady current of approval. That quiet, wordless kind that meant more than any praise ever could. No nod, no cheer, no speech. Just a look.

But Killian understood. From now on, he didn’t need to wait for Lord Arzan to shield him. That chapter had passed.

It was his turn to carry weight, to protect, to strike forward without hesitation.

More roots burst from the dirt, rising like spears. But this time, he didn’t doubt. He gripped his sword, lightning surging through his armor in bright arcs. The storm didn’t just wrap around him—it was him now.

There was no more fear in his chest.

Without waiting for the roots to come for him, he charged—lightning crackling in his wake. He moved like a bolt loose from the sky, leaping into the air and crashing down onto the enemy before it could react.

His blade sang as it cleaved through bark and bone, while sparks burst from every step, every swing, every breath. Killian had become more than a knight. He had become the storm.

***

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep