The Invincible Young Master

Chapter 257 - 257 - Clash outside

Outside the ruin, the sky burned continuously.

The pillar of blinding light, that had erupted from the Ruin, continuously sent waves of concentrated heat across the battlefield like the breath of a newborn sun.

Only a heartbeat had passed since the eruption began, yet the intensity alone told them everything they needed to know:

Whatever power had awakened inside the ruin was beyond mortal reckoning.

Men raised gauntleted hands to shield their eyes, staring upward in stunned silence.

"What kind of force…" one soldier whispered, his voice shaking. "We can feel it from here…"

Before anyone could gather their thoughts, another burst of light ripped open the air. The tear shimmered like broken glass suspended in the sky.

Figures began spilling from it.

At first glance, it looked like reinforcements arriving through a teleportation array. But as the figures landed and advanced in silent formation, dread spread through the ranks.

"The Durns…!" someone shouted.

Yet these were not the Durn soldiers they had fought before.

Their armor was charred black, as if forged in a funeral pyre. Their movements were stiff and unnatural. Their eyes were hollow pits filled with smoldering darkness.

Without a single war cry, they charged.

They struck the outer defensive lines before commands could even be issued.

Steel rang. Shields splintered. Men shouted warnings that were swallowed by the clash.

A frontline soldier roared and cleaved one of the Durn warriors cleanly in half. The severed torso struck the ground with a wet, final thud.

And then tendrils of darkness crept from both halves, writhing like living smoke. Before his horrified eyes, the strands stitched flesh and armor back together.

The corpse twitched. It stood back.

The soldier stumbled backward, his face draining of color. "It's… not dead!"

Panic rippled through the line.

War horns sounded, long and commanding. Officers shouted orders above the chaos. Units locked shields and reformed ranks, spearheads thrust outward as formations tightened.

"Hold the line!"

"Brace!"

"Drive them back!"

The Durns were forced to yield ground step by step, their relentless advance slowed.

Then the air itself seemed to fracture.

Vearos moved.

He surged forward like a tearing storm. His mere presence shattered the defensive formation.

Shields burst apart as though struck by an unseen hammer. Soldiers were hurled aside like leaves caught in a gale, crashing into one another or tumbling across scorched earth.

Before the broken lines could recover, a new force advanced from the rear.

White-armored soldiers marched in perfect cohesion. Their armor gleamed despite the soot-filled air, etched with radiant inscriptions that shimmered with sacred power. Divine light flowed from their ranks like dawn breaking over a dark horizon.

The battlefield dimmed beside their glow.

Their captain raised a luminous blade, voice ringing with iron command.

"Advance!" They charged.

The instant the corrupted Durn soldiers slammed into the radiant glow, their advance faltered.

Smoke began to rise from their bodies. Their flesh hissed as if thrown onto hot iron, and blackened patches spread wherever the sacred light touched them.

Yet they did not retreat.

They forced their way forward through the burning radiance, step by stubborn step.

These were no longer the weary foot soldiers they had once been. The fiend lord's blessing had reshaped them into something cruel and unfeeling, creatures untouched by pain, untouched by fear.

Steel met charred armor. Spears drove forward, only to be forced back by relentless pressure. Neither side yielded ground.

Sensing the stalemate, the commander stepped out from the protective formation.

He raised his greatsword. Then he moved.

With a single sweeping strike, the massive blade cut through three charging Durns at once. Their bodies split apart before the sound of the blow had fully echoed.

He stepped forward again.

The blade rose and fell in steady rhythm, like the tide against a cliff. Each swing carved a clear path through the corrupted ranks. Each step drove the enemy backward.

But the fallen did not remain fallen.

From the severed halves, dark tendrils crept outward, writhing like living shadows. They pulled flesh together. Split torsos sealed shut.

Limbs dragged themselves back into place. Heads rolled across the ground, then jerked upright and fused once more to waiting shoulders.

They rose again and again.

Even the bravest soldiers felt dread claw at their chests as enemies they had slain moments before returned to their feet.

The commander pressed forward regardless, his blade blazing arcs of light.

When all of a sudden, a crimson streak suddenly tore across the battlefield.

He sensed it rather than saw it. And lifted his greatsword just as the streak struck.

The crimson arrow hit like a falling meteor.

Though the blade caught it, the force hurled him backward. His armored boots left trails in grassy field as he slid across the ground. Blood ran down his forearms where the shock had torn flesh beneath his gauntlets.

Soldiers near the point of impact were not so fortunate.

They vanished in an instant, their bodies torn apart by the blast, reduced to scattered fragments strewn across the scorched earth.

The commander forced himself upright. His arms trembled from the shock of the impact, and warm blood trickled beneath his gauntlets, soaking into the leather at his wrists.

For a moment, the battlefield tilted in his vision.

He steadied himself and looked up. His eyes locked onto the source of the attack.

Vearos now stood before his ranks.

Calm and untarnished. As if the chaos around him were nothing more than distant noise.

The corrupted soldiers parted slightly around him.

However, just then, another figure appeared at Vearos's side.

Silent and Sud­den.

It was Ling Yan's masked guard.

He seemed to emerge from the disorder itself, slipping through smoke, without a single sound. One heartbeat he was absent; the next he stood within striking distance.

Power condensed around his clenched fist. The air trembled, vibrating with the force contained within that single blow.

Dust and ash spiraled outward from his arm, drawn into the pressure of gathered strength.

Vearos began to turn, but he was too slow.

The punch landed.

His head burst apart in a violent spray of blood and shattered bone.

A collective gasp rippled across the battlefield. Even the clash of steel faltered as soldiers stared in stunned disbelief.

But the masked guard did not celebrate.

The blood did not fall.

It hung in the air, suspended like a crimson mist.

And it moved.

Thin strands of red writhed in midair and lashed toward his arm like living parasites.

The guard leapt backward at once, tearing himself free just before the gore could fasten onto his flesh.

Even so, the section of armor that had been touched blackened and corroded away, crumbling into nothing as if devoured by countless invisible insects.

The blood recoiled. And before everyone's eyes, it flowed backward.

Fragments of bone snapped into place. Flesh wove itself together. Skin sealed as though time itself had reversed.

Vearos stood whole once more.

An uneasy silence spread through the nearest ranks, quickly swallowed by renewed terror.

There was no stopping this immortal army.

No matter how many times the soldiers cut them down, the Durns rose again. Limbs stitched themselves together with writhing darkness. Shattered skulls reformed. Severed torsos dragged themselves upright and fused whole.

Formation lines that had held firm moments earlier were collapsing inch by inch.

The earth was soaked in blood that refused to stay spilled, turning the ground into a slick, crimson mire beneath trampling boots.