That night, Bakasa felt darker than usual.

Dayat, Dola, and seven prisoners whose bodies were devoid of strength shuffled through the narrow alleys of the Elite District. Their pace was slow. Far too slow. The prisoners—humans, Elves, Dwarves—could barely lift their feet. Some had to be guided, while two could only crawl.

Dayat supported a nearly unconscious Dalgor. The old Dwarf hung heavily on his arm, his breath shallow, his skin burning with fever. Behind them, the occasional sound of a body hitting the ground was followed by panicked whispers.

“Fast,” Dayat hissed, his voice low but firm. “We need to reach the Middle District before—”

The sound of footsteps cut him off. Many. Fast. Disciplined.

Dola turned. Her blue eyes glowed dimly in the darkness. “They’re close.”

Dayat clenched his fist. Ahead, from the mouth of the alley, shadows began to emerge. Dozens of guards with spears and swords blocked their path. Behind them, the stomping grew louder.

They were trapped.

“Left!” someone shouted from the front. “The right is blocked too!”

Dayat scanned their surroundings. This alley had only two exits—and both were now swarming with troops. On the rooftops, the silhouettes of archers began to appear. Nearby windows cracked open as residents, awakened by the commotion, peeked out in terror before slamming them shut.

“There’s nowhere to go,” one prisoner whispered, his voice cracking with despair.

The others remained silent. They were too exhausted to panic. Some even looked resigned—as if dying here was no worse than what they had endured in the dungeon.

From the crowd of guards in front, a tall figure in a black robe stepped forward. Alaric. Beside him, Gravion stood with his gravity staff raised, ready to strike at any moment.

“Did you really think you could get this far?” Alaric’s voice dripped with satisfaction, though tainted by an undercurrent of rage. “You thought you could steal my collection and just walk away?”

Dayat didn’t answer. He glanced back. Dola stood beside him, the trembling prisoners huddled behind them.

“Dol,” Dayat whispered. “Take them. I’ll hold the line.”

Dola looked at him. “Alone?”

“I have no choice.”

“I can help—”

“No.” Dayat cut her off, his voice stern. “Get Dalgor and the others to safety. I’ll catch up.”

Dola paused for a moment. Her eyes searched Dayat’s. Finally, she nodded. “Be careful, Husband.”

She turned and raised her hand. Blue light flared at her fingertips, and a thin wall of energy began to form between them and Alaric’s forces. Just enough to buy a few seconds.

Before leaving, Dola leaned close to Dayat’s ear. Her eyes were watery, her lips trembling, her voice a fragile whisper—full of fear, full of sorrow.

“Dayat… he… he almost…”

She didn’t finish. Her hand gripped Dayat’s arm, her body shaking. She looked like a woman who had nearly been a victim, someone still unable to process what had just happened.

Dayat’s blood began to boil.

“He touched me,” Dola whispered, her voice breaking. “There. In that room. I almost, I almost, almost—”

She looked down, her shoulders quivering. Dayat felt a rage he had never experienced before—not a common anger, but something deeper, darker, more lethal.

“Take them away,” he said, his voice flat. Cold. Deadly.

Dola nodded, her shoulders still shaking. She turned, taking Dalgor’s hand and leading the prisoners into a narrow side-alley.

The moment her back was turned to Dayat, when no one was watching—including her husband—her expression shifted.

The eyes that were just watery now sparkled. The lips that were trembling now curled into a smile. A mischievous smile. A satisfied smile. The smile of a woman who knew exactly what she had just done.

‘Now let’s see, Husband. How far will you go for me?’

She stepped into the darkness, leaving Dayat standing alone in the middle of a sea of enemies.

The energy wall behind her began to crack.

Dayat stood in the narrow alley, face-to-face with Alaric and his dozens of troops. Even though this was part of the plan, his heart couldn’t lie—something was roaring inside him.

He remembered Dola’s broken voice. Her shaking shoulders. Her tearful eyes.

‘He touched me.’ ‘In that room.’ ‘Almost.’

Dayat took a breath. He cast aside all doubt.

The energy wall shattered. Alaric raised his hand. “Kill him! Now! Pursue the others!”

The guards surged forward. But Dayat had already moved.

He closed his eyes. Green particles began to swirl around him—in the air, in his hands, against his chest. Not a pistol. Not a small weapon. This time, he needed something bigger.

The green veins beneath his skin glowed intensely. In the air before him, the particles began to construct a metal frame, a long barrel, a massive magazine, and a front bipod.

The M240B. A 7.62mm heavy machine gun. This wasn’t a weapon for a single target. This was for mass slaughter.

“Don’t let him finish!” Gravion yelled.

Two lead guards charged, spears leveled. Dayat opened his eyes. With his left hand, he raised a pistol he had manifested earlier—in his right, the machine gun was still incomplete.

Thwip. Thwip.

Two guards fell. The others hesitated, but Alaric barked another order, and they lunged.

Dayat focused his mind. The machine gun was finally ready—the magazine locked in, the charging handle clicking into place. Finished.

He hoisted the M240B with both hands. It was heavy. He didn’t care.

“Get back!” one guard screamed.

Dayat pulled the trigger.

The thunder of gunfire erupted in the narrow alley. Not single shots. A roar—loud, continuous, deafening. Bullets hammered the stone walls, shattering them into fine splinters. The front line of guards collapsed instantly, their bodies thrown backward.

The others screamed, trying to take cover behind alley corners, trash bins, or the fallen bodies of their comrades. But this alley offered no sanctuary. Dayat’s bullets found them one by one.

“What—what is he?!” someone screamed.

“A demon! He’s a demon!”

Dayat didn’t answer. He kept firing. The first magazine was spent. He discarded it, and the second was already in place—he manifested it directly, no pause required. The gun never stopped singing.

From the rooftops, archers tried to aim. Dayat raised the pistol in his left hand, firing without looking. One archer fell; the others scrambled behind chimneys.

But the numbers were still high. From around the corner, glowing blue spears began to fly. Dayat twisted his body, dodging two, parrying one with the barrel of his gun. A spear grazed his shoulder—only a scratch, but blood began to seep.

He didn’t stop. His bullets continued to fly, dropping guards who dared to advance. Of the ten in front, seven remained. Then five. Then three.

Dayat swapped magazines again. The fifth. His eyes never left the target.

In the midst of the chaos, Gravion stepped forward. His staff rose, and Dayat felt an immense weight crush his body. His legs shook. The arm holding the machine gun began to feel like lead. Even the air around him felt dense, pressing from all directions.

But he didn’t stop firing.

Gravion frowned. “You… why can you still move?”

Dayat didn’t answer. He pointed the machine gun’s muzzle at Gravion. Not to shoot—but to distract. In his left hand, green particles gathered again. Something smaller. Faster.

A large-caliber pistol. The Desert Eagle. Not for common guards. For Gravion.

“Because I’m not the same man I was before.”

He fired. Not from the M240B, but from the Desert Eagle in his left hand. The .50 caliber bullet tore through the air, piercing the cracking gravity wall.

Gravion spun his staff, conjuring a shield. The bullet slowed, spinning in mid-air—but it didn’t fall. Dayat fired again. Two shots simultaneously.

The first hit the gravity shield, making it crack. The second slipped through the gap, striking Gravion’s right arm.

The mage staggered. Blood dripped from his black sleeve. He hissed in pain but didn’t fall. He glared at Dayat with burning fury.

“You… dare…”

“I’ve grown tired of hearing that word tonight.”

Gravion stepped forward over the bodies strewn about. His gravity staff was raised high, and the air around Dayat shifted instantly. It wasn’t just weight anymore—it felt like a mountain was collapsing onto him. The stone floor beneath Dayat’s feet cracked, and small debris floated into the air from the invisible pressure.

Dayat felt his knees buckle. His bones felt as if they were about to snap. The blood from the wound on his shoulder flowed faster, pulled by the gravity that warped everything around it.

Gravion didn’t speak. His eyes were hollow, focused; he had only one goal: to kill.

Dayat grounded his teeth. In his hand, the M240B began to change—melting, reshaping into something denser, heavier. A large revolver with a long barrel. A .44 Magnum. Not for multiple targets. For one powerful foe.

He raised the revolver, aiming. But Gravion was faster. His staff swung down, and Dayat felt his body slammed against the stone wall beside him. His back hit hard, the air forced from his lungs. The revolver nearly slipped from his grip.

“You think after wounding me, you can just walk away?” Gravion’s voice was flat, emotionless. “I will not let you.”

Dayat shoved himself away from the wall, but the gravitational pressure still pinned him down. He struggled to stand straight. Every movement felt like fighting a hurricane.

“You’re a good knight,” Dayat said, gasping for air. “But you’re on the wrong side.”

Gravion didn’t answer. He raised his staff again, this time for a more lethal strike.

Dayat didn’t wait. He pulled the trigger.

The .44 Magnum roared, its sound echoing through the narrow alley. Gravion spun his staff, creating a gravity wall in front of him. The bullet slowed, spun in the air, and dropped to the ground.

But Dayat had already fired the second. The third. The fourth.

Gravion blocked the next two, but the fourth—which Dayat fired from a different angle after lunging to the side—slipped through a tiny crack in his shield. The bullet grazed Gravion’s waist, tearing his black robe and leaving a fresh trail of blood.

The mage staggered. His staff nearly fell.

“You…” Gravion stared at Dayat, his eyes glowing. Not with anger. Not with a grudge. It was more than that—it was the pride of a warrior who had found a worthy opponent.

“You’ve grown strong,” he said softly. “But not enough.”

He hoisted his staff with both hands. Purple light began to pool at the tip—not just ordinary gravity pressure. This was something greater. More devastating.

Dayat felt the air around him vibrate. The ground beneath his feet shook. Pebbles began to float, swirling between them like a vortex.

He’s going to crush the entire alley, Dayat thought. Along with both of us.

He had no time to manifest a new weapon. No time to run. The only way was to endure.

He closed his eyes. The green veins beneath his skin glowed brilliantly. Around his body, green particles began to form a shield—not of metal, but of pure energy, of Mana he gathered from the air, the ground, and the lingering remnants of his shots.

Gravion unleashed his attack.

A purple wave slammed into Dayat’s green shield with overwhelming force. Dayat was shoved back, his feet scraping the earth, his back hitting the wall again. His shield cracked. But it didn’t shatter.

He held on.

Blood trickled from his nose. From his ears. His body trembled violently. But he did not fall.

Gravion lowered his staff, panting. That attack had drained much of his energy. He looked at Dayat with a new expression.

“You endured,” he said.

“I have to.” Dayat pushed himself away from the wall, standing tall even though his legs were still shaking. “Someone is waiting for me.”

Gravion nodded slowly. He raised his staff again, prepared to continue the fight.

From behind, Alaric’s voice sounded panicked. “Gravion! We’re leaving! Now!”

Gravion didn’t turn. His eyes remained fixed on Dayat.

“Gravion!” Alaric shrieked. “I order you! Retreat!”

Gravion paused for a second. His gaze remained on Dayat, sharp and unwavering. Then, slowly, he lowered his staff—not as a sign of surrender, but as a decision.

He stepped slightly to the side, standing directly in the path between Dayat and Alaric, acting as a living wall.

“Go,” he said without looking back. His voice was low but firm. “I will hold him off.”

Alaric hesitated for a fraction of a second, then turned and fled, leaving the fallen guards behind.

Gravion raised his staff again, a dark aura slowly pulsing around him.

“Interesting,” he whispered, almost inaudible.

He gave a slight shake of his head. “Let’s finish this now—if you can still stand.”

His black robe billowed in the night air as he stepped forward once more.

Dayat remained standing in the middle of the silent alley. His body felt broken, his breath heavy, but his eyes were unshakable.

At the far end of the small alley, a faint silhouette of silver hair appeared—Dola, waiting.

Dayat took a brief glance in that direction, then turned his gaze back to Gravion.

This battle… was far from over.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep