Chapter 384: Fall Of The Green Calamity (2)

Immediately after departing the palace in Solara, Lucy activated her comm-rune and reached out to both Magnus and Mystica. Her voice, though calm, carried the weight of urgency as she relayed every critical detail—the devastation across Solara, the tremors that signaled Sylvathar’s likely presence, and most notably, the alarming disappearance of both Liam and Mabel from the heart of the Tempest Palace. She instructed them not to launch a full-on attack if they found Sylvathar, but to keep him occupied—stall him, prevent his escape, and, if possible, press for answers regarding Liam and Mabel.

Now, soaring through the skies over Solara, Magnus and Mystica flew in tight formation, riding smooth currents of air magic. Neither too high to lose their tether to the ground nor too low to be blinded by buildings and terrain—they hovered in that precise elevation where mystic detection would be at its sharpest.

“You look… real pretty today, Moony,” Magnus said with his usual playful tone, shooting a sidelong glance at her. “All scratched up and burnt like a phoenix who skipped her spa day.”

Mystica rolled her glowing eyes. Her dark gown was torn in multiple places, streaks of dried blood and soot tracing her skin like cursed ink. “Ran into a barbarian,” she replied coolly. “Broad shoulders, loud mouth, lightning axe. Took forever to put her down.”

“Oh-ho,” Magnus chuckled, eyes glinting like a boy hearing a bedtime war tale. “Sounds like she kicked the psycho outta you.”

“The beautiful psycho,” she reminded him with a smirk.

“Of course. Always.” Magnus winked.

Mystica scoffed. “Anyway, how tense was you fight for you to put your hair in a bun? I doubt it was something you could juts coast through.”

Magnus ran a hand across his bruised arm and cracked a grin. “Well, it was really intense. My guy was relentless. A real warhound. But he wanted a blade dance? I gave him a damn concert.”

“Still alive to gloat, huh?” Mystica teased, a glimmer of admiration in her tone.

“Barely. You ever fought someone who made you wanna clap for them halfway through?” he said with a chuckle. “That was him.”

Their banter softened slightly as their attention gradually shifted to the real weight that had followed them into the skies—Liam and Mabel.

“Think Sylvathar really managed to take them?” Magnus asked, voice quieter now. “The Tempest Palace isn’t exactly easy to break into. Its defenses are…”

“Insane,” Mystica finished for him. Her voice took on a more analytical tone. “Even with Sylvathar’s power, bypassing those enchantments would’ve taken time. That’s what bothers me—it was done with perfection to leave no trace left behind. Not even residue myst.”

“Maybe an inside job?” Magnus asked, though doubt laced his voice.

“No,” Mystica answered firmly. “Mabel’s been loyal to the crown since she could crawl, and Liam—he would’ve smelled treachery. Literally.”

Magnus floated in silence beside her for a few moments, processing her words. Then, he exhaled and nodded. “Either way… like Lucy said, we can’t let it distract us. We’ve got a bigger demon to track.”

“Yeah,” Mystica replied. “From Zones 15 to 16, nothing. I doubt we’ll—”

She froze mid-flight.

Magnus, now slightly ahead of her, slowed abruptly and turned back, his brow furrowed. “Moony?”

Mystica didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes scanned the horizon with sharp calculation. She rotated slightly in the air, head turning like a predator sensing something far beyond what eyes could see.

Then she stopped.

Her gaze lifted upward, locking onto the ominous ceiling of dark clouds above. She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the wind and myst currents dance around her. When she opened them, her violet irises shimmered with a faint ethereal glow.

“He’s above us,” she said coldly.

Magnus sharpened his focus. At once, he felt it too—a shift in pressure, like a god breathing down from the heavens. A dense presence. The very air seemed to tremble with malevolence.

He met Mystica’s gaze. No words were needed.

In perfect synch, they ascended—two blurs of motion streaking upward like twin arrows fired from the bow of fate.

***

Above the blanket of dark clouds—where sunlight still reigned, golden and untouched—Sylvathar stood upon the sky as if it were solid ground, unmoved and divine. His dark green robe rippled gently in the wind, kissed by the sun’s brilliance, casting an ethereal glow upon his pale, unblemished skin. From this serene height, he watched the world below unravel.

Solara burned.

Smoke curled like funeral incense, entire city blocks crumbled beneath the strain of battle. Yet the devastation was… less than he’d hoped for. Portals shimmered open one after another, threading warriors from the Tempest and Crescent Kingdoms into the chaos. The tides had shifted. His demons and hybrids were no longer overwhelming—they were being hunted, pushed back by the synchronized might of Amthar’s finest.

Sylvathar remained silent, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed with glinting disdain. His expression was calm, his stance elegant—but beneath it simmered a quiet distaste.

“So… they’ve decided to hold hands,” he muttered, voice soft like the wind, edged like a blade. “Teamwork. How quaint. Looks like Solara gets to live a little longer. How terribly boring.”

His eyes slid sideways, a venom-laced smirk curling the corner of his lips.

“If Galen Magna were here… perhaps I’d stay. Maybe test myself. But alas, Eliv took care of that nuisance. Either fate favors me, or it favors him. Who knows?”

He lifted his gaze, watching the sun pierce through the gold-lined clouds. It was quiet up here. Still. Untouched by the screams and flames below.

“I suppose it’s time to retrieve the boy and the girl. No more use lingering in this wretched realm. Sanguis won’t be patient forever.” He raised a single hand lazily, myst gathering around his fingers like green ink dropped into water. A portal began to form, slowly spiraling open before him, a passage to his sanctuary where Liam and Mabel remained under Morenelle’s care.

But then—

A hiss through the air. A rupture in the calm.

A gust of wind—razor-sharp—tore through the clouds and slashed toward him.

Sylvathar blinked, lifting a single hand. A circular mystic shield flared into place, its surface shimmering emerald. The wind-strike collided and scattered, harmless. But not unnoticed.

“Hm?”

Another strike came immediately after—sharper, faster. A crescent arc of pure air magic. It crashed against his barrier, jolting the shield slightly, and this time Sylvathar’s gaze flickered with interest. His smirk thinned. Then—

They emerged.

Two blurs tore through the veil of clouds like meteors slicing the sky. Magnus Yaer, his trench coat shredded, steel-gray eyes burning with focus. And beside him, Mystica Moonstone, her dark hair fluttering in the high-altitude winds, violet irises glowing faintly with wrath and intent.

They stopped midair a short distance from him, locked in a poised, unwavering hover.

Sylvathar lifted an eyebrow. “Ah. So the playthings have come to stall me. How thoughtful.”

Magnus drew his blade with a metallic whisper, his grin sharp and cocky. “Well, you’ve been floating above our world like you own it. We figured someone oughta knock you off your high horse.”

Mystica raised a hand. Elements gathered to her like threads to a needle—air, shadow, flickers of lightning and fire, all coiling around her slender fingers. Her voice was measured. “We’re not here to fight. At least not just us. We want Liam.”

Sylvathar tilted his head slightly, then chuckled low. “The child with the ancient power?” He nodded slowly, his eyes distant. “A rare jewel indeed. No. He’s mine. But I can return the girl. The princess is… expendable.”

Mystica’s jaw clenched. “Where are they?”

Sylvathar’s smile faded. His glowing green eyes narrowed with cold amusement. “You presume to question me?” His tone darkened. “Feeble little insects. Do you even understand who stands before you?”

The atmosphere shifted.

The air thickened. The winds died.

Mystica and Magnus tensed as a pressure—not physical, but primal—pushed against their very souls.

Then, with a faint sigh, Sylvathar relaxed again. “Consider this kingdom’s broken spine a gift. Take it, grieve over it, and crawl back to your dens.”

He turned, raising his hand to summon the portal once more.

But this time, before the first flicker of myst could form, a blast of wind magic smashed into him from the side like a hammer. His shield formed just in time, yet the sheer force knocked him back several hundred meters.

He halted in the sky, body angled slightly, robe flaring in the rush. Slowly, his gaze rose toward Magnus, whose sword now shimmered with gathering wind myst.

“You didn’t get permission to leave,” Magnus said, grin widening, blade raised. “So why don’t you sit your overgrown ass down… and enjoy the ride.”

Sylvathar’s eyes narrowed, the calm cracking.

“So be it,” he said softly.

And the sky began to tremble.

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