Magus Reborn-Chapter 185. Kiliian’s command

Kai knew his odds in a direct fight were abysmal. Shakran used blood like a second skin, twisting it into tricks that could cripple even seasoned Enforcers. A straight duel would be suicide.

He had considered options—coordinating an assault with his Enforcers, manipulating the terrain—but none were foolproof. Shakran could fly, and that alone tilted the battlefield in his favor. And he needed his Enforcers elsewhere, fighting where the rest of the blood drinkers were. Therefore he knew a different approach was needed. One that played into the blood drinker’s nature.

Predators loved the hunt. And to Shakran, Kai wasn’t an opponent—he was prey.

The moment he confirmed the blood drinker’s relentless pursuit, the plan fell into place. He led him straight toward the gorge, where the real battleground had already been set.

But before that, transporting Balen and the dwarf unnoticed had been no small feat, especially with mana cannons in tow. They were huge in size, and enemies could easily track them down if they saw.

But thankfully, the chaos at Dorn had provided perfect cover. Blood drinkers were vicious, but even they weren’t omniscient in the heat of war. He knew they would have been watching the siege, so in the middle of it, he had ordered to move the cannons with the two blacksmiths in the nearby gorge.

The pieces had aligned, the trap had been set—now all that remained was execution.

Shakran’s snarl twisted into a scream as mana ripped through his decayed flesh. The blast tore into him, white-hot energy searing away the dead mana clinging to his form. His knees buckled, body jerking as the binding circle beneath him pulsed with golden radiance, locking him in place.

Teeth bared, he lunged, snapping at the bindings, but the arcane seals pulsed again—unyielding, absolute. His charred flesh sloughed off, eaten away by magic too strong to resist. Kai watched impassively. A fourth-circle binding ritual. Even if Shakran threw himself at the restraints with all his might, his body would break long before the spell did.

And then, the cannons hummed again.

The mana cannon’s beam carved through the darkness, lancing into flesh that had no right to exist. Shakran’s scream twisted into something more primal as the parasite latched to his body convulsed, tendrils writhing in desperation. It curled over him, a final, futile shield against the onslaught.

It didn’t matter.

The beam intensified, searing through decayed flesh and dead mana alike. A wet squelch, then a hiss. The parasite’s body bubbled, its ugly form warping under the pressure. Kai watched as its flesh finally gave way—rupturing in a shower of charred remains that splattered across the stone. What was left fell lifeless to the ground, twitching once before stilling forever.

With the parasite gone, Shakran had no defense. He staggered, his body unraveling before Kai’s eyes—limbs trembling, flesh splitting where dead mana once held it together. Blood, thick and sluggish, dripped from the deep fissures spreading across his frame.

Still, he lifted his head. Eyes blazing with fury and something close to disbelief, he locked his gaze onto Kai.

Kai tilted his head, meeting that stare without a hint of sympathy. “You wanted to know how I found you back then?” His voice was quiet, almost as if he was planning to have a conversation about dinner. “You had my blood on you.” He paused, watching the understanding dawn in Shakran’s pained expression. “I followed my own mana to track where you would strike from.”

Shakran’s lips parted, a rasping breath escaping, but Kai wasn’t done. His voice turned colder.

“I didn’t want you to die before knowing that.” A beat of silence followed. “Make sure you don’t cross paths with me in the afterlife. Or I’ll kill you worse.”

Shakran made a sound, half a snarl, half a dying breath. His body sagged. Then, with one last twitch, he collapsed, lifeless.

Kai watched for a moment, waiting, but the blood drinker remained still. No revival. No final attack. Just a corpse. It had ended just like that.

The hum of the mana cannons faded. Balen and Tharnok stepped out from behind them, surveying the scene.

Tharnok exhaled, shaking his head. “I’ve seen some bad deaths. Men crushed under boulders, limbs twisted the wrong way—but that?” He gestured at the remains with a grimace. “That’s something else.”

“He deserved it.” Kai shrugged. He looked at the little of what was left. “He’s slaughtered thousands to satisfy his hunger. If anyone deserves a death like that, it should be him.”

Balen grunted in agreement, eyeing the mess. “It’ll take some work to clear this out.”

Kai waved him off. “The local beasts will handle it. Let them. I wouldn’t want anyone touching a blood drinker’s corpse—especially one infested with a dead mana parasite.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Kai turned, gaze shifting toward the cave’s exit. “With Shakran dead, I need to get back to the battlefield.”

Tharnok raised a bushy brow. “I thought you were drained.”

“I am.” Kai rolled his shoulders, and cracked his neck, feeling the lingering strain in his body. “It’ll take time to replenish enough mana for Dorn. But I can walk. This new body’s good enough to cover the distance before I get enough mana back.” His gaze flickered toward the distant horizon. “Besides, Killian should be holding the line by now.”

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***

Killian felt the battle slipping through his fingers.

The field before him was a maelstrom of chaos—screams, steel, and raw mana clashing in an uncompromising cacophony. The night was alive with the glow of spells and the bright light of burning siege weapons. Blood drinkers swooped down from the skies, their shrieks piercing through the air as they tore into defenders, while the remaining mana cannons fired relentlessly, searing through the hordes.

But it wasn’t enough.

Half the cannons had been destroyed in the first wave, shattered by coordinated attacks from the blood drinkers who had targeted them the moment the battle began. The remaining ones still held, their beams cutting through flesh and armor alike, yet they could only hold back so much. The golems and drones had deployed, fighting alongside the defenders, but even with them, victory was uncertain.

Lucian’s forces were fewer than they could have been—thanks to the nobles they had already taken down before this battle—but the forces he had left were still formidable.

Blood drinkers, dozens of Archine Tower Mages, and seasoned soldiers who knew how to lay siege.

And Killian had no reinforcements. The stronger ones of the Enforcers weren't back from the noble territories, leaving him reliant on what remained—the gunners, the remaining cannons, and the golems.

Lucian’s soldiers had adapted well. Their shields held against gunfire, and they knew to stay out of range of the cannons. Meanwhile, their Mages and blood drinkers focused on systematically dismantling their defenses, striking hard and fast before vanishing into the shadows. Even now, more of them swarmed the walls, scaling them with hooks and ladders, pouring in wave after wave.

They weren’t losing.

But they weren’t winning, either.

Killian exhaled, gripping his sword tighter.

Then his instincts flared.

He twisted just in time to meet a clawed strike, steel clashing against unnatural flesh. A blood drinker snarled at him, fangs bared, its crimson eyes alight with hunger. The blood hungry eyes were something he could never forget. It was disgusting to say the least and threatening at the same time.

He struck back, lightning crackling along his blade. The moment he swung, the creature vanished—then reappeared an instant later, its speed unnerving.

He barely had time to register the three blood-forged blades rushing toward him. His sword snapped up, deflecting them in a shower of sparks. His gaze flickered to his surroundings—two more blood drinkers, flanking him.

A frown tugged at his lips.

“Let’s end this fast.”

They lunged.

A blur of blood magic and claws came at him from both sides. Killian surged forward, lightning wrapping around him as he closed the distance with the nearest one. The creature raised a blood shield in defense—too slow. His blade tore through it, his strike carving deep into the blood drinker’s shoulder.

A scream echoed out—high and piercing.

Killian didn’t hesitate.

As the blood drinker’s mouth opened in pain, he shoved forward, his hand slipping into his robes. In a single motion, he flung a potion straight into the creature’s face. The glass shattered, its contents splashing over its tongue and gums.

The blood drinker’s eyes widened in shock.

Then it screamed as the acidic potion burned through its skin, its flesh sizzling and peeling away.

Killian didn’t waste the opportunity. He stepped in, blade flashing as he slashed through its neck in one clean stroke. The creature’s body stumbled back before collapsing lifelessly to the ground.

A sudden impact slammed into his back. “Fuck!”

Pain erupted through him as a blood-forged spear tore into his armor, knocking the breath from his lungs. He staggered, gasping, as he turned to see the second blood drinker snarling at him before vanishing into the shadows.

Killian’s gaze darted around, searching.

Nothing.

Sweat beaded on his forehead. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

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Where—?

A flicker of movement occured.

He barely saw the claw before it came for his throat.

Killian ducked, the sharp talons slicing through the air where his neck had been a second ago. Without thinking, he surged forward, tackling the blood drinker straight into the stone wall.

The creature shrieked, thrashing, but Killian didn’t let up. Lightning crackled over his arm as he clenched his fist and drove it into the blood drinker’s face. The impact cracked bone, but he didn’t stop—he punched again and again, each strike laced with deadly mana until the creature’s movements slowed.

His sword—where was his sword?

He spotted it a few feet away, scooped it up, and without hesitation, plunged the blade into the blood drinker’s stomach. The creature convulsed, its mouth opening in a silent scream before it slumped forward, dead.

Killian exhaled heavily, his breath ragged.

Then he looked up—and froze.

The walls were swarming.

More blood drinkers. More enemy soldiers. How many of them were even there?

They hadn’t breached the gates, but they didn’t need to. Mages, hooks, and ladders had given them another way in, and his men were struggling to keep up. The gunners and Mages—their strongest assets—were being targeted first, the blood drinkers weaving through spells and mana blasts like shadows in the night.

They were losing ground.

Killian clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stay calm. He couldn’t let despair take root—not now. Lord Arzan had entrusted him with this battle, and he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers.

He needed to strike back. Hard.

His eyes scanned the battlefield until they locked onto a towering figure in the midst of the chaos—a knight, older and broader than the rest, his heavy armor gleaming in the flickering light of fire and spellwork.

Killian recognized him instantly.

Knight Garrik. The leader of Lucian’s forces.

Lucian himself was nowhere to be seen, which meant this man was the one keeping the enemy’s strategy intact. If Killian could take him out, it would send a devastating shockwave through their ranks.

His grip tightened around his sword.

He ran.

Enemy soldiers spotted him, moving to intercept, but Killian didn’t slow.

Lightning surged through his body as he dashed forward, weaving between attacks, his focus locked on his target.

He was going to end this.

Killian moved like a storm through the battlefield.

One soldier lunged at him with a spear—Killian grabbed the shaft with his bare hands and snapped it in half like a twig before hurling the man aside with a single motion. An arrow whistled toward him—he twisted just enough for it to graze his shoulder, then retaliated by whipping a dagger through the air. The projectile buried itself in the archer’s throat before they could fire another shot.

More arrows. More attackers.

Killian moved with a deadly precision as all his senses heightened, deflecting, dodging, striking. By the time he broke through the wave of enemies, his path was littered with bodies.

And then—he was there.

Knight Garrik. The man in flesh. He stood at the center of the chaos, larger and broader than the others. His thick plate armor dented, but not fully pentrable. Killian could see lines of enchantments on top of it, giving the man a greater strength than he deserved.

He turned as Killian approached. Their eyes met.

Killian didn’t stop to introduce himself—his sword was already swinging, lightning crackling along the blade as it whipped toward the knight’s head.

The knight’s eyes widened in surprise, barely managing to twist away. Sparks danced over his armor as he jumped back, exhaling sharply.

“It’s been a long time since we last met, Killian.” The knight’s deep voice cut through the chaos. “I can see you’ve grown.”

Killian grunted, already stepping forward. “And you’re still the fucking same.” His blade sparked in his grip. “Still doing anything for Lucian, dirtying your hands like a dog.” He spat on the ground in disgust.

Garrik raised an eyebrow. “I see you’ve forgotten how to respect your superiors.”

Killian snorted, lightning flickering around his form. “You’re not my superior. I only answer to Lord Arzan.”

Then he moved.

The knight barely raised his shield in time as Killian’s blade struck—the force sent the man skidding backward.

Another strike—his armor sparked under the impact.

Garrik’s eyes darkened. He dodged instead of blocking, shifting to avoid the brunt of Killian’s blows, but he was already at a disadvantage. Killian was faster, stronger, and relentless. His sword left scorching marks on Garrik’s shield, his armor denting further under the force of each strike.

The old knight gritted his teeth, visibly realizing he couldn’t win in a contest of raw power. He sidestepped just in time as a strike whistled past his shoulder, then spoke. His voice was undeniably calm despite the battle raging around them.

“Do you really think you can change anything about this battle?”

Killian didn’t answer—his sword was already swinging again.

Garrik rolled away, barely dodging, his voice still steady. “You might be able to kill me… but you’ll still lose this war.”

“Shut up.”

Another strike—lightning surged through the blade as Killian pushed forward.

But the knight kept talking.

“You know I’m right,” he said, dodging again. “The battle might be even for now, but soon…” A smirk. “Shakran will arrive with your lord’s head, and we will win.”

Killian’s blood boiled at the mention of Lord Arzan.

Lightning crackled violently around him, the very air humming with power.

Garrik continued, unbothered. “Look around, Killian. Your forces only fight because they believe in Lord Arzan. But once his head is brought here?” He gestured to the battlefield. “Their motivation will crumble. Their vigor will vanish. They will break. Break into tiny pieces as they already are!”

Killian gritted his teeth.

“When he arrives here,” he growled, lightning surging through his entire form, “he’ll see your forces crushed.”

With thunderous force, he charged.

Garrik braced, raising his massive shield—Killian’s strike slammed into it, the sheer impact sending him staggering backward. Garrik dug his heels into the stone, struggling to hold his ground.

Still, he sneered. “How will you crush my forces when my blood drinkers are going to—”

BOOM!

A deafening noise ripped through the battlefield, shaking the very earth beneath them.

Killian froze for a split second. Garrik, too, faltered—both of them turning their heads toward the source of the tremor.

And then—they saw them.

Charging through the battlefield, a massive force surged forward like a tidal wave of fury, enraged bulls, no, they were much more powerful than bulls.

Hundreds of them. They were all on Bulldrakes, much larger in size than the ordinary horses the enemies were on and completely shaking the earth with every stomp.

The barbarians—massive, battle-scarred warriors, their bodies clad in fur, metal, and war paint. Some wielded axes as tall as men, others bore heavy clubs and spears, their roars shaking the battlefield. Their eyes gleamed with bloodlust, their advance an unstoppable force of destruction.

At the front, their chieftain, Yafgar led them—a giant of a man, his arms thicker than most men’s legs, and he stuck his arm out in dominance, showing off his bloodied tribal tattoo and yelled orders.

Killian smiled.

“Like I said…” He turned back to Garrik, grinning as lightning danced around his fingers. “When Lord Arzan arrives—your forces will be crushed.”

Garrik’s face went pale.

***

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