Jackal Among Snakes

Everyone, including Argrave, had seen Anneliese descend down from the wyvern into the field of grass between the two armies. He had watched it with a heavier heart than anyone else, but he knew that she was the only one who could reliably pursue the most important goal—cutting off the head of the ugly beast that had wormed itself around the Great Chu.

Perhaps, however, it would be more accurate to say this Dimocles was a mere hand of the beast—the true beast was above, raining hellfire upon the countryside of the Great Chu. While Anneliese did battle on the ground, Argrave’s battle would be altogether different… while she fought on the front, he was to swat away the gnats: Erlebnis’ emissaries.

Their scouting capabilities were robust, fortunately, and they noticed the monstrosities lurking throughout the surrounding countryside long before they could ambush and destroy vast amounts of people by channeling Erlebnis’ power as pure magic. Dimocles must’ve called in Erlebnis to ensure victory. These creatures, while possessing the Blessing of Supersession the same as Dimocles, lacked the capacity to use shamanic magic. This made them vulnerable to spells like [Requite], whereas a mortal like Dimocles would be capable of neutralizing any such spell.

And standing with him on the battlefield for the first time Argrave could recall… the Alchemist rose dozens of feet above the army, clad in chitinous armor made of his own flesh and blood and still brimming with magic even after the procedure on Argrave and Ji Meng. With him on his right, and Orion on his left… Argrave felt infinitely reassured.

“Such tedium,” complained the Alchemist. “I have better things to do with my day.”

Argrave’s royal guard eyed the giant figure warily. The perceptive few were vaguely aware that this person existed, but now he stood openly on Argrave’s side. It was a marked change.

“If you do your best, we might be able to go home early,” he tapped the Alchemist on the wrist. “For now… let’s keep the nosy pedestrians off Anneliese’s stage.”

Forward they marched, seeking to cut off the grasping hands of the Qircassian Coalition. The gods watched the skies close at hand, ready to intercept any interference.

#####

was wrong, let his army advance somewhat ahead as he hung back. Perhaps he wanted to retreat, but Anneliese’s weapon would surely be preventing him from

embraced. It was in the heart of the battlefield, caught in waves of

no obstacle to spellcasting, as she’d ample practice fighting like this. A writhing blizzard, shards

spells whirling through the air and stealing from mortals the very heart of their magic. Their defensive wards buckled beneath the sheer pressure of

attacks followed. It was like the army was a giant swatting an insect it had just been

sought to bleed her, great walls of rumbling earthen magic to ward away the lightning that sought to stun her, towering infernos to turn geysers into naught

blackened, twisted. All before the two froze, melted, or turned to dust in a state of constant flux from the volleying energies sent back and forth. There was a great trail of destruction beneath her feet as

you spot it on

hundreds of wars, or the talented and ambitious that, much like herself, achieved outsized advancement at a young age. She dealt with A-rank ascensions uncountable—people that could meld with the earth and appear near her, those who

Anneliese outlasted them all.

all times, or a blow would sneak past her. She wasn’t perfect; some attacks landed. Yet the Inerrant Cloak lent to her by Argrave consumed her magic to block most any attack. Magic flowed into

to falter, to shrink away. Key players fell back one after another, exposing more and more of Dimocles’ elite forces to Anneliese’s wrath. Her allied forces, meanwhile, were a constant pressure that sought to constrain rather than decimate. Their goal was not slaughter: it was to cut off

as the opposition’s spells waned, she found herself taking magic not from the spells of her enemies but tearing it free from their very flesh and blood. She was like rushing water against dirt, wearing people away into oblivion as she cut toward the heart of this army. And

bearing silver crescent moons. They bore divine armaments as they stood around the Blue Emperor, Dimocles, who had been rooted in place. Even they seemed jarred that their emperor

weapons could cut through magic itself, reducing it to nothing more than black mist: Ji Meng had warned her of this. They demonstrated that

oceans of magic all throughout his body. The Blue Emperor’s body twisted, and the front of his body erupted past his armor into dozens of arms with dozens of hands, each and all casting