Magus Reborn-Chapter 186. End of the war

As soon as the barbarians entered the battlefield, it felt as if the winds of change had finally begun to low.

For a moment—just a fleeting moment—the entire battlefield froze or so it seemed.

The fighters that were on top of the walls, the soldiers that were on the ground, even the archers who had been loosing arrows relentlessly—all of them paused. Allies and enemies alike turned to stare as the barbarian horde roared their war cry, a thunderous sound that shook the air.

And then they charged.

The troops on the ground—those who had been desperately scaling the castle walls, trying to carve a path inside—had only seconds to react. Killian saw it in their eyes—pure, unfiltered fear.

They knew.

They knew what was coming for them.

And at the head of it all—Yafgar.

The barbarian chieftain was a huge man, his muscles corded with raw, primal strength. But it wasn’t just his presence that turned the tide of the battle.

It was what he did next.

With a guttural roar, Yafgar lifted both arms and set himself ablaze.

Flames roared to life around his entire form, crackling and dancing along his flesh—yet he showed no pain. Instead, he leapt from the massive bulldrake like a death god descending from the heavens, his massive battle axe raised high. He landed.

The ground shook under the impact, flames engulfing everything around him. Three men were cleaved in half by his first swing, their blood spraying into the fire. Gasps erupted at the sudden massacre. The rest? Burned alive, their screams cut short as their bodies were reduced to charred husks.

And then—more came.

A second wave of barbarian warriors, led by Ragnar, surged forward, their weapons gleaming in the firelight. They tore into the enemy ranks, hacking and slashing, blood spewing as their weapons sank deep into flesh.

Killian saw a few of them grabbing ropes and hooks, beginning to climb the walls to assist the defenders. The shift in battle was instantaneous.

And with it, Killian felt something stir inside him.

Confidence.

A fire in his chest, rekindled by the arrival of true warriors. He felt the confidence in his chest blooming and bleeding inside him. He suddenly knew they could win this.

He turned back to the knight, who was still frozen in place. His eyes were filled with shock. His jaw clenched, and then he spat onto the ground, his eyes burning with disgust.

“Fucking traitors.” His words dripped with venom as he looked at Killian. Pure betrayal in his eyes. “Involving yourself with the enemies of the kingdom?”

Killian simply smiled, the sparks of lightning flickering around his fingertips.

“Right now?” He tilted his head. “They’re only your enemies.”

And then he charged, wanting to end this battle once and for all.

Garrik barely had time to react, snapping up his shield just in time to block the impact. But Killian didn’t strike mindlessly.

Instead, he channeled the lightning around his legs and jumped.

His body twisted in midair as he soared over the shield, flipping behind the knight before his blade swung downward.

Garrik tried to turn, but it was too late—the sword carved through his waist, slicing through the metal plating.

A pained growl tore from the knight’s throat, but he didn’t stagger—he turned on pure instinct, his enchanted sword whipping toward Killian’s head.

The latter didn’t flinch.

With a snarl, he let loose a frenzy of lightning, a violent burst that crackled through the air and slammed into Garrik’s left side of the chest. The man convulsed, his armor sparking wildly, and his grip on his sword weakened just enough for Killian to see his opening.

With a final surge of power, Killian’s lightning ripped through the knight’s weapons, shattering the aethum cores inside both his sword and shield.

The enchantments collapsed instantly, the once-glowing runes flickering out like dying embers.

And then—Killian kicked him.

The force of the blow sent the knight sprawling onto the ground, his armor scraping against the blood-soaked dirt.

Killian took a step forward, his blade still crackling with power.

This battle was over.

Garrik groaned, his body trembling as he tried to move, his arms scraping against the bloodied ground in a desperate attempt to crawl away.

But Killian was faster.

With a single, merciless step, he crushed the knight’s leg beneath his boot.

A sickening crack echoed from where their legs met. Killian clearly broke some of his bones.

Garrik screamed, his hands clenched into fists, his face contorted in pain. Soon, the screams turned to desperate pants. But through gritted teeth, he still looked up at Killian, desperation flickering in his eyes.

“Killian... I trained you,” he gasped, struggling against the weight pressing down on him. “You can’t do this. You’ll be a traitor to all knights if you do.” His voice turned pleading, his breath ragged. “You’ll be breaking the oath of camaraderie.”

Killian’s face didn’t change. Not a single muscle.

The lightning still crackled around him, illuminating the blood staining his armor. His grip on his sword tightened, and then he spat at the fallen knight right on his face. Garrik turned his face—the insult thick.

“I only made an oath to my lord—and to the people of his lands.”

He leaned in, his eyes glowing with the storm raging inside him.

“I was just another knight under you. No one special to you. Just another blade in a kingdom that never cared about me. And you—you don’t give two shits about any of us.” He straightened, his lips curling into a sneer. “But Lord Arzan gave me power. He trusted me with it.” He scoffed. “Trust! You have no idea what that even means.”

Garrik’s face twisted in horror as he realized—Killian wouldn’t stop.

“Killian, wait—”

The blade plunged down, piercing the knight’s throat. Blood spurted out immediately, covering his armor. A gurgled gasp escaped him, his body convulsing for a second—then stilled.

Killian didn’t hesitate. He wrenched his sword free, raised it high, and with a single, decisive stroke—severed Garrik’s head.

Blood spurted even more, the severed head rolling onto the battlefield.

For a moment, all Killian could hear was the roar of his own heartbeat.

And then—he lifted the head into the air.

Silence.

The battlefield, once filled with screams, cries and clashing steel, froze again.

Killian turned, his eyes sweeping over the walls—over the battle that was reaching its final moments.

And it was them—his side—who were winning.

The enemy forces had been subdued. Bodies lay scattered across the ground, blood pooling in the cracks of the stone.

Ragnar and the other Enforcers had surrounded a last group of blood drinkers, the once-feared creatures now trapped, their claws still drawn—but their expressions betraying doubt.

Killian barely had to say anything.

As soon as the remaining soldiers saw the head of their knight, something in them broke.

One by one, weapons clattered to the ground.

Surrender.

Killian should have felt relief—but his mind was focused on one thing, one person.

His gaze swept the battlefield, searching, scanning—

Lucian.

Where was he?

Killian’s grip tightened, his jaw clenching as he threw the severed head to the ground.

He had seen Lucian at the start of the battle—but now?

He was gone.

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“Where is he?” Killian muttered, lightning flickering around him once more.

The war wasn’t over.

Not until he found Lucian—and ended this once and for all.

***

Ragnar gripped his mace, its weight solid in his grasp as he rushed forward, eyes locked onto the blood drinker before him. From behind, he knew he had support. His right-hand man. Wulfgar.

Wulfgar swung two glaives in his hands, posing and ready to strike.

The creature snarled, baring elongated fangs, and with a single swipe of its claws, a wave of blood erupted from its form, rushing toward Ragnar like a crimson tide.

But Ragnar had faced worse.

With a roar, he raised his shield, slamming it into the incoming blood magic. The steel flared, repelling the attack, and in the same motion, Ragnar sidestepped, moving with unexpected agility for his size. His mace whistled through the air, coming down in a brutal arc toward the blood drinker’s side. But it went right past it.

Without wasting time, Wulfgar sprung into action. One of his glaives found the blood drinker’s arm.

The creature moved fast, its blood-red eyes narrowing as it brought up its clawed hands to block. Metal met flesh, and instead of the sickening crunch of breaking bones, the blood drinker vanished—its body dispersing like a shadow.

Ragnar’s eyes widened. Wulfgar mirrored his expression. This time, they stood side by side, awaiting where it would appear again. Before they could react, pain seared across Ragnar’s back.

The blood drinker reappeared behind him, its claws raking across his skin in a shallow cut. Wulfgar was right on his toes, slashing his glaive across the blood drinker’s already wounded arm, removing it from its form.

Ragnar gritted his teeth against the pain. He hadn’t faced an opponent like this before, but he had known exactly what he was walking into before entering this war.

And pain would not stop him.

With a grunt, he spun—raw power driving his movements. His mace came around in a sweeping blow, but the blood drinker twisted, barely avoiding a direct hit—

But not completely.

The sharp head of Ragnar’s weapon tore through flesh, severing the creature’s head from the neck.

A horrific scream echoed as dark, corrupted blood sprayed from the wound.

Somewhere from behind, another blood drinker appeared. It made an alarming noise before lunging itself forward with an unnatural speed.

It manipulated the very essence of its own lifeblood, shaping it into a twisting spell—a spear of dark magic hurtling toward Ragnar.

Bham!

The impact slammed into his shield, sending him skidding backward. His boots dug into the stone, his arms screaming from the force.

The blood drinker saw its chance. It lunged, fangs bared—

A mana blast slammed into its side.

The creature shrieked, chunks of flesh and bone torn away by the attack. More gunners on the wall fired in unison, their mana bolts ripping through the creature’s form.

The blood drinker howled in agony and, in a desperate move, dissolved into mist, trying to escape into the air—

A hook shot out, catching it mid-flight.

Bran, one of the Enforcers, pulled the chain taut with a victorious grunt.

"You’re not going anywhere," he growled, yanking the creature violently back toward the wall.

With that Wulfgar was on his feet, moving to fight another blood drinker with all his might. The man had always been quick—too quick to get on his feet. He was war-trained, never leaving an opening to attack him, even when the blood drinkers played dirty tricks.

Ragnar grunted as the pain shot from his arm where he held the shield and ran to his spine.

All around him, he saw more Enforcers engaged in a ruthless hunt—ensnaring any blood drinker that tried to flee. Some were caught in arcane bindings, others blasted apart by focused spells, their wails of pain and fury filling the night air.

The Mages struck with merciless precision, launching spells that burned through the drinker's dark magic, leaving them weak and vulnerable. He didn’t know what exactly those spells were, but they looked as if they were designed to kill blood drinkers. The lethal intent and the screams that followed after every contact proved so.

His men and the Enforcers followed without hesitation, weapons flashing, severing heads, and ending the creatures before they could recover.

Bodies fell from the walls, hitting the blood-soaked ground below. There was even blood dripping down the walls in an ungodly way.

Victory was within reach.

He pushed himself up, ignoring the pain burning through his muscles. Blood dripped from his wounds, but he hardly noticed.

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He gritted his teeth, tightened his grip on his mace, and looked at the last remaining blood drinkers, still trapped, still fighting for their lives.

He let out a deep breath.

Then, alongside his comrades—one blood drinker charged.

Ragnar barely had time to think.

His body moved on instinct.

“Wulfgar! Behind you!”

The words had barely left his mouth before he lunged forward, gripping his mace and throwing it with all his strength. The air whistled as the weapon hurtled through the blood-stained battlefield—

But it was too late.

A shadow surged behind Wulfgar.

He barely had time to react before something sharp and black burst through his chest, a clawed hand dripping with blood. It took his heart from the chest.

He choked, eyes wide in shock. His knees buckled, body twitching as the blood-covered figure yanked its arm back, letting him collapse onto the ground. Before he could hit the soil, the blood drinker clawed him by the neck, removing his head from the body.

“Fuck!”

Ragnar skidded to a stop, his boots sliding against the gore-slicked floor.

His breath caught as he finally got a good look at the thing that had just killed Wulfgar.

It wasn’t a normal blood drinker.

No—this one was different.

Its body was thinner, more sinewy, the exposed flesh pulsing unnaturally, as if alive on its own. Its skin was pitch-black, veins glowing crimson, and where its eyes should have been—

There was nothing but a deep, empty void.

Ragnar grabbed his mace, stepping forward, but before he could charge, the creature’s mouth split open, revealing rows of sharp fangs.

And then—it vanished.

This one didn’t turn into mist or retreat. It simply blinked out of existence, disappearing completely as if it had never been there in the first place.

The Enforcers who had been unguarded and casual just seconds ago now stood frozen, weapons half-raised, staring at the place where the creature had disappeared.

He looked down. To make sure. Blood still dripped from Wulfgar’s corpse joining the thousand others that died. Ragnar clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his mace until his knuckles turned white.

The blood drinker appeared a few feet away, and crackled, baring his fangs in a twisted grin, completely unfazed by the mace lodged deep in his side. Ragnar and the others surged forward, fury igniting their movements, their blades poised to strike.

“What the fuck did you do?!” Ragnar yelled.

To his side, he saw two Enforcers raise their weapons while Mages began weaving their spells. But before any attack could land, the blood drinker vanished, reappearing in midair. Hooks and ropes shot toward him, but it twisted through them effortlessly, moving faster than any of the previous ones they had slain.

Even spells failed to touch it, their energy dissipating as it darted between them with unnatural speed.

For a moment, it seemed like it would escape.

Then Ragnar caught a flicker of movement in the sky—lightning. A blinding bolt shot down, striking the blood drinker square in its chest. The creature let out a sharp cry, faltering in the air before plummeting to the ground in a heap.

Before he could recover, a figure charged toward him—Knight Killian.

His sword was already mid-swing, his face twisted in fury. Steel met flesh in a brutal clash, but the blood drinker, realizing escape was no longer an option, conjured a shield of thick, pulsing blood.

Killian’s blade bit into it, struggling to push through, but before the creature could retaliate, another lightning bolt ripped through the sky, piercing the shield and searing into the drinker’s body.

The blood drinker snarled and vanished—only to reappear next to Killian in a flash. But Killian was already prepared. His sword met the creature’s claws, deflecting the strike, and with his free hand, he drove his fist straight into the drinker’s face, sending him stumbling backward toward the wall.

The blood drinker tried to rise, but crackling energy surged around him. Lightning chained him to the wall, locking his limbs in place. He thrashed violently, but before he could break free, a mace plunged into his neck—Ragnar’s mace. He twisted it inside the monster’s body as deep as it could go, making more and more dark liquid spurt out.

No matter how deep it went, Ragnar didn’t feel an ounce of satisfaction.

“ARGH!” he grunted.

Then all the lightning in the air from Killian converged, surging into the creature’s body, burning him from the inside out. His corpse collapsed onto the ground, the stench of charred flesh filling the air.

Killian exhaled sharply, stepping back from the smoldering remains. But as his gaze shifted, his expression darkened, his eyes landing on the unmoving form of the Lombard.

Ragnar followed Killian’s gaze, and his shoulders sagged. He had seen death before—when his tribe was forced from their lands, when his friends had been torn apart by beasts—but this felt different. He clenched his fists, swallowing the bitter taste in his throat. This loss, in the wake of their victory, felt like a dark stain on what should have been a moment of triumph.

And most of it all, it was his fault. He failed to protect one of his own. He failed to—

Killian stepped forward, and instinctively, Ragnar lowered his head. The others beside him followed suit, their expressions grim. The weight of failure pressed heavy on Ragnar’s chest as he forced himself to speak.

"Wulfgar lost his life.. Because of me!" Ragnar’s hands formed into fists by his side and he screamed. He screamed until he could no longer.

He felt pain everywhere, but especially in his chest. He walked towards the corpse of Wulfgar and took the man’s hand and placed it on his chest. Tears streamed down his face, one after another.

Killian exhaled sharply from behind. He moved towards Ragnar. And for a few minutes, everyone including Killian and the Enforcers let him mourn.

Not a single trace… The blood drinker hadn’t left a single trace of his identity except for his limbs. Fuck… it shouldn’t have been him.

“I’m sorry…” Ragnar whispered. He knew Wulfgar was long gone. But the guilt caught up to him. “I should’ve had your back. I… I should’ve been with you, You had my b-back. And I failed; I failed like always.” His words muffled his cries.

For some more time, Ragnar mourned, apologizing over and over. And they all waited until the heavy sobs died.

"Wulfgar was brave," Killian said from behind, his voice firm despite the sorrow in his eyes. He placed a warm hand on his shoulder. "And although it's unfortunate, You avenged him"

“It’s the least I could do…” Ragnar looked at the unrecognisable form. “Until we meet again,” he whispered and stood up.

He looked at Killian and followed his eyes. The battlefield was filled with corpses, blood and so many filthy memories.

“Thank you for killing it.” He wiped his eyes, and the blood that was in his hands smudged on his face. “He was a great friend to me since we were… nine.” He looked down. “I will miss him.”

Another heavy silence fell over them.

“And… we won…” someone from behind broke the silence.

"But we lost too many lives,” Killian spoke, speaking everyone’s mind.

Then, Killian’s expression darkened further. "The worst part of all…" he hesitated, his hands clenched into fists, "I wasn’t able to find Lucian."

One of the Enforcers, Bran shifted uneasily before speaking up. "I thought I saw him in the first phase of the battle."

Killian’s gaze snapped toward him. "Yes, but after that, there's been no sign of him. I questioned and interrogated the soldiers—no one knows what happened." His teeth clenched. "I got caught up in that, and while I did... A lot of people lost their lives. Anyway," he said, exhaling. "I need a small contingent to go with me and search for Lord Arzan. There’s no sign of him, and he moved west while fighting that blood drinker that was their leader. I think he managed to kill him, but if he’s injured, then—"

A shout from the wall cut him off.

"I see Lord Arzan! He’s moving toward us!"

Killian and the others turned sharply, rushing toward the walls. As they looked out, they spotted him.

Lord Arzan was moving toward them, propelled by the winds. Not flying, but walking—fast, unnaturally fast.

Relief and urgency clashed in Killian’s eyes as he took in the sight. "Let’s move," he ordered, already stepping forward. They needed to know what happened.

***

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