ShadowBound: The Need For Power-Chapter 380: The Green Calamity (15)

Lucy’s agents, along with the remaining knights and mages stationed throughout the city, swiftly redirected their efforts toward protecting and guiding the civilians. Every sword swing, every spell cast, was done with the singular purpose of creating a corridor of safety. In less than ten minutes, thanks to the combined might of magic and discipline, every single civilian had been sent through the evacuation portals leading to the underground shelters carved deep beneath the city.

Tynoon was now void of its innocent. The battlefield belonged solely to warriors and monsters.

With their mission complete, Lucy’s agents relayed her command across the lines—her final instruction to the remaining forces rang clear: withdraw. Get as far from the epicenter of the battle as possible. The fight that now took center stage in Tynoon was no longer one for them to witness, let alone interfere in. At the core of this chaos stood two titans—Mystica Moonstone, Primordial mage, and Barbara the Barbarian, the hybrid general.

The knights and mages didn’t argue. They began a calculated retreat, pulling back from the blast zones and ensuring that any lurking demons or hybrids were purged as they moved. Fire flickered in the distance. Thunder rolled through the ruins. The southern district—once a vibrant stretch of homes and markets—was now reduced to splintered stone and smoldering wreckage, with only a few skeletal structures still upright, trembling in the wind.

A moment of eerie silence followed, like the calm held between heartbeats.

Then, without warning, a building erupted outward in a violent explosion of lightning and stone. From one end of the street to the other, the structure shattered, sending shards of brick and metal spiraling through the air. A bolt of green lightning had torn through it, carving a trail of destruction that left only ruin in its wake.

The debris swirled in a thick, choking cloud. For a moment, the street vanished behind smoke and dust.

And then—through the fading haze—Mystica emerged.

She was limping, her elegant form cloaked in a faint shell of watery myst that shimmered like ripples on a pond. Her protection spell pulsed once more, flickered, and then collapsed in a misty sigh. She fell to one knee, breathing hard. A thin stream of blood slid down the side of her face from a sharp gash on her forehead, staining her cheek and jaw. Her chest rose and fell with ragged desperation, fingers twitching as she struggled to stabilize her stance.

This battle had dragged on longer than most would have survived.

Despite her mastery of myst, her access to near-limitless magical reserves, and the adaptability afforded to a Primordial, Barbara had proven herself a monster of another breed entirely. Strength, savagery, cunning—Barbara brought all of it to bear with every swing of her lightning-infused axe. What made her dangerous, though, wasn’t just her raw power. It was the unpredictability. The constant evolution. The sheer love for the battle itself. Mystica had fought many, but none had ever adapted so quickly or struck with such unnerving intuition.

Barbara didn’t weaken with time—she thrived in it.

Mystica was still catching her breath when a deep thud shook the ground behind her. Then another. Then—

A streak of green lightning carved a jagged path through the sky, and Barbara descended from above like the wrath of some ancient war god. She landed with an explosive force, a crater forming beneath her feet as her body cracked the ground and spat up stones.

"Y’know," Barbara’s voice rang out over the settling dust, amused and crackling with barely contained electricity, "you’re doing a damn good job proving I was right to choose you over the other freaks Amthar’s been hoarding."

Mystica’s head lifted slowly. Her gaze locked on the figure emerging through the debris. Her body ached, but her pride refused to bow. Her glare burned with a cold fury.

Barbara strode forward, clearly injured—slashes on her arms, bruises on her ribs, cuts along her thighs. But her hybrid blood was working overtime, knitting flesh, dulling pain. Her steps remained firm, confident. Her coat was gone, burned away by one of Mystica’s earlier attacks. Now she wore only her leather pants and a shredded black wrap across her chest. Her rune-tattoos were fully visible, glowing faintly—a roadmap of mystic energy etched into muscle and skin. The green-lit patterns crawled over her toned abdomen, spiraled down her left arm, and curved up across her back like the marks of a war deity.

She stood there, proud and unbothered, smirking like this entire fight was an entertaining warm-up.

"What are you talking about?" Mystica asked, her voice calm but brittle. Her violet eyes glimmered with exhaustion—and disdain.

Barbara tilted her head. "Oh, that’s right," she said, gripping her axe and resting it across her shoulders like a casual accessory. "I never told you."

She sighed in mock exasperation, then grinned.

"Let’s see... Where do I start? Right. Before I was blessed with Sylvathar’s blood—before I became a general—I was just a warrior. Savage. Brutal. Raw. And I still am." Her voice dipped with pride. "Back then, I heard stories, whispers, and rumors. About a young mage who had mastered every elemental affinity. The first in five centuries. The youngest Primordial ever recorded. A prodigy."

Barbara’s eyes narrowed slightly as she regarded Mystica. "You. Twenty years old. One of the most powerful weapons Amthar has ever blessed."

She stepped closer, voice casual now, as if chatting over drinks.

"And you settled."

Mystica blinked. Barbara smiled wider.

"I never understood it. A woman with your potential should be ruling the battlefield. Walking over everyone, crushing their skulls beneath her heel with a flick of her finger. That kind of power? That’s divine. Untouchable. If you wanted to, no one could stop you."

She circled to the side, like a panther stalking a wounded lioness.

"But no. You chose... magic," she said, almost dismissively. "You limited yourself. You settled for something small. And I get why. You were born with a silver spoon—probably never had to fight tooth and nail for anything. Never had to bleed for your strength. I doubt you’ve seen true suffering. Everything probably came easy."

Barbara’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t sneer. She spoke like she was explaining facts.

"I bet you’ve spent most of your life sheltered, pampered, and arrogant. Lazy. Thinking where you are now is the pinnacle. Thinking the world should thank you for existing."

She stopped walking and looked straight at Mystica, eyes glowing faintly.

"You have the kind of potential that could rip this world open. And what do you use it for?" Her lip curled. "Flirting. Dressing pretty. Party tricks. That... disgusts me."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Barbara’s voice dropped low—flat, cold, and razor-sharp.

"I despise you for it."

She stepped forward again, more slowly now, eyes hard as stone.

"To see all that raw power, all that rare, sacred potential, wasted—it eats at me. You’re a living example of everything I hate. But don’t worry."

She raised her axe from her shoulders and slammed it into the ground beside her, lightning sparking up from the impact.

"I’m going to fix it."

She smiled.

"I’m going to put you down. Right here. Right now. And then Amthar can gift her blessing to someone who’ll actually use it."

A flicker of lightning danced across her tattoos as her voice dropped to a near whisper.

"So really... I’m your savior."

There was a long, weighted silence.

Barbara stared without a single movement. Like a statue carved in scorn and thunder.

Then Mystica scoffed, the sound light but sharp, like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"Silver spoon?" she echoed, voice cool and dry. "Pampered? Doesn’t know what suffering is?"

A soft chuckle followed—more bitter than amused.

"Please, barbarian," she said, brushing a lock of blood-matted hair from her face, "don’t insult me with caricatures you pulled from bedtime gossip. And definitely don’t speak to me like you know me because of some pathetic secondhand tales."

Her tone didn’t rise, but the weight behind each word grew heavier.

"Yes," she said, taking a step forward, eyes burning like violet fire. "I was twenty when I mastered every elemental affinity. Yes, I became the youngest Primordial in centuries. Yes, I made history."

She raised her chin, letting the statement hang.

"But none of that was handed to me," she said, quieter now, but more dangerous. "I fucking earned it. Every scar. Every spell. Every sleepless night clawing my way through realms most mages wouldn’t even dare to study."

Barbara’s grin faltered slightly.

"You talk about suffering?" Mystica went on, eyes never leaving hers. "About bleeding for something? That’s rich. That’s real funny, coming from someone who only sees the end result and assumes they understand the road that led to it."

Her voice dipped lower, each word slow and razor-edged.

"I have lost more than most souls could even begin to imagine. I’ve given up people I loved. Parts of myself I’ll never get back. I’ve crawled through nightmares that would shatter your damn mind just to earn the right to call myself what I am."

Mystica’s aura flared—softly, but defiantly. Water shimmered along her arms, light dancing across her eyes, wind swirling at her feet.

"So yes. I flirt. I wear what I want. I shine, and I dazzle, and I live beautifully. Because I damn well can. Because I fought tooth and nail to be exactly the woman standing in front of you now."

She tilted her head slightly, a smirk just barely touching the edge of her lips.

"So sweetie," she said, voice velvet and steel, "if you really think you can stand there and lecture me about sacrifice, potential, or what I should be doing with my power..."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Then maybe you ought to take a second and think again."

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