Chapter 46: Killing the helping hand
She moved closer, her hands gripping his massive forearms.
"Sik’ra is dying. The twins are wounded. Our people are trapped and helpless. What will your warrior’s pride matter if we’re all corpses?"
Sigora looked down, as she couldn’t argue with what she said. They have already lost too many, and the destruction was beyond anything they had ever seen.
Before Korreth could respond, another voice joined the argument.
Elder No’tra shuffled forward, his ancient frame bent with age but his eyes still sharp with accumulated wisdom.
At nearly ten feet tall, he towered over even his own people, his presence commanding respect despite his obvious frailty.
"The young mother speaks truth," No’tra wheezed, his voice like wind through autumn leaves.
"I have seen eight centuries of war, Korreth. I have watched empires rise and fall and seen proud warriors reduced to ash and memory. Pride is a luxury we cannot afford when death comes calling."
He gestured with one gnarled hand toward Hawkin, who waited with amused patience. "This is not defeat—it is survival. A tactical retreat to fight another day. Better to live as exiles than to die as fools."
Hawkin smirked as he folded his hands.
No matter what race we are, we twist our words to our will and clutch at the thread of life, even as it frays and snaps.
Korreth’s massive hands clenched into fists, the sound of his knuckles cracking like breaking stone. Every instinct screamed against abandonment, against leaving like a coward.
But the faces of his people—his wounded sons, his desperate mate, the frightened children huddled behind their parents—spoke louder than pride.
"Damn you all," he whispered, but there was no real anger in it.
Only the bitter taste of necessity.
"Damn you for being right."
Hawkin’s smile widened as he saw the defeat in the war chief’s posture. "Excellent. I do so prefer reasonable discussions to unnecessary bloodshed."
The elves began to move with weary resignation, gathering their wounded and collecting what few possessions they could carry. Parents lifted children onto their shoulders, warriors supported their injured comrades, and the whole tragic procession began to make its way toward the edge of the platform where their remaining Chycors waited.
They moved slowly, reluctantly, casting glances back at Sigora and Jorghan as though hoping for some miracle that would change everything.
But as they reached the center of the gathering area, Hawkin raised his hand again.
This time, he wasn’t gesturing at the elves.
He was signaling his fleet.
"Actually," he said, his voice carrying a note of cruel amusement, "I’ve changed my mind."
The cannon blast came without warning—a beam of pure annihilation that lanced down from the flagship above, aimed directly at the heart of the elven gathering. Hundreds of innocents stood directly in its path, their only crime being born into the wrong species at the wrong time.
Sigora moved faster than thought itself.
Despite her injuries, despite the blood loss and exhaustion, she threw herself between the beam and her people. Her hands came up, weaving protective barriers with desperate speed. Layer after layer of shimmering energy formed in the cannon’s path—barriers of force, of light, of pure will made manifest.
The first barrier shattered like glass.
The second lasted a heartbeat longer before dissolving.
The third managed to slow the beam fractionally before giving way.
Seven barriers in total, each one draining more of Sigora’s rapidly depleting strength. She poured everything she had into the shields—her mana, her life force, and her very soul if necessary.
The beam grew dimmer with each layer it punched through, its destructive power gradually being absorbed and dissipated.
The final barrier held.
The cannon blast died inches from the gathered elves, its fury spent against Sigora’s sacrifice. Smoke rose from the air itself where the energies had met, and the acrid scent of radiation filled the battlefield.
Sigora collapsed to her knees, her eight-foot frame reduced to trembling weakness. Blood streamed from her nose, her ears, and the corners of her eyes.
She had given everything to protect her people—and it had barely been enough.
The beam wasn’t a simple range of attack; it had the intensity of a powerful warrior. Even a nine-star mage would have a hard time blocking it.
Hawkin’s laughter rang out across the platform, cold and mocking.
"How touching," he called out, applauding with slow, deliberate claps.
"Such nobility. Such sacrifice. Tell me, sister dear—how does it feel to protect people who were so eager to abandon you just moments ago?"
"They were so quick to leave you in the dust, so how does it make you feel, and why would you do such a stupid thing?"
Jorghan was watching them, his rage boiling inside of him.
[BLOODBORNE RAGE: 99% ACTIVATION]
[CARNAGE REQUIEM: SYNCHRONIZATION COMPLETE]
[WARNING: SEAL BREAKING]
The tattoo on Jorghan’s neck blazed and shimmered.
[MANA SURGE]
[ABSORPTION OF NEGATIVE ENERGY INITIATED]
The people who were dead—their negative energy slowly started to seep into Jorghan as he stood amidst their bodies.
The sight of Sigora’s crimson blood seeping through her robes was the final thread that snapped within Jorghan’s soul.
The eleven-year-old boy, who had endured six years of hiding, six years of suppressed memories, and sealed power, felt something primal and ancient stirring in the depths of his being. His small hands trembled as he watched his aunt struggle to maintain her composure, her eight-foot frame swaying from blood loss.
"No more," he whispered, his voice carrying a resonance that seemed to echo from the very foundations of the surface itself.
Within the void of his consciousness, the red dot that had remained dormant suddenly pulsed with violent intensity.
[CRITICAL THRESHOLD REACHED]
[EMOTIONAL CATALYST DETECTED: PROTECTIVE RAGE]
[BLOODBORNE RAGE ACTIVATED]
[MANA SEAL STABILITY: CRITICAL FAILURE IMMINENT]
[WARNING: BLOODLINE AWAKENING PROTOCOL INITIATED]