Grand Chieftain Bruga turned around slowly, his seven-foot bone club resting casually on his broad shoulder.
Dark blood leaked steadily from his knee wound, only to be instantly cauterized by the boiling physical heat radiating from his skin.
"You’re fast, boy. You move like a flea," Bruga growled, taking an earth-shaking step forward, his eyes locking onto Sol’s slightly trembling stance. "But a flea can bite a bear a hundred times... and the bear only needs to step on the flea once."
Sol wiped the blood from his chin with the back of his hand. His mind, completely unfazed by the physical pain, worked with incredible efficiency.
He didn’t answer Bruga.
He tilted his chin slightly, neon-crimson eyes flaring brightly as his mind raced at full capacity, calculating the next move in the chaos of battle.
But before he could act, Bruga lunged forward.
The massive Layer 4 warrior charged like a runaway mountain, the ground cracking beneath each thunderous step.
Instead of swinging his enormous club, Bruga suddenly raised his right fist high.
A swirling, slate-grey vortex of compressed environmental essence roared to life around his knuckles, drawing in the surrounding air with a low, vacuum-like howl.
Dust, pebbles, and even loose blood on the ground were sucked into the spinning mass until it became a dense, spinning drill of pure kinetic force.
"DIE!" Bruga roared, his voice booming across the battlefield like a collapsing cliff.
He drove the punch straight forward.
The compressed air exploded outward in a visible, roaring drill of kinetic force that tore a deep furrow through the earth as it surged toward Sol. The sheer size and speed of the attack made a clean dodge impossible, and considering the power they pack, he doubted he’d make it out alive.
Sol’s instincts kicked in instantly, as his mind went into overdrive.
All around him, Veynar Layer 3 spirit warriors were materializing their beasts,,, golden lions, storm eagles, and blood-fanged wolves erupting into existence to turn the tide of battle.
Despite being a Layer 3 himself, Sol had never once called upon his own spirit. There had never been the right moment, the right pressure, or the right need... until now.
Faced with Bruga’s roaring kinetic drill racing toward him, Sol made a split-second decision.
He tried something he had never gotten the chance to do before.
Focusing his will, he reached deep into the dormant connection within his core and called out to the Dreadwing spirit.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened, and the compressed air came closer and closer.
Then, just before the air was about to him, in a sudden flash of black light, it answered.
Spectral wings erupted from his back... not the broad, feathered wings of birds or the leathery wings of bats, but long, translucent, multi-segmented wings reminiscent of a primitive dragonfly.
These were the form of the Dreadwing lineage: razor-edged, ethereal membranes that shimmered with dark energy and pulsed with unnatural speed.
The wings flickered and wavered, incomplete and wild, as if the spirit itself was startled at being summoned for the first time. Yet even in that unfinished state, the raw reaction speed inherent to the Dreadwing bloodline wasn’t something to scoff at.
The wings beat once with explosive, near-instantaneous force.
Sol was launched backward at terrifying speed, the sudden acceleration making the world blur around him. The Dreadwing reaction speed allowed him to move almost the moment the threat registered, carrying him clear of the worst of Bruga’s attack.
At the same time, he crossed both arms tightly in front of his head and torso, reinforcing the guard with what little essence he could still muster.
The incomplete spectral wings continued to flutter behind him for a fraction of a second longer... vibrating with that signature high-frequency, insect-like speed... before dissolving back into motes of dark light.
It wasn’t refined or a perfect manifestation.
But for a first attempt made in the heat of a life-or-death moment, the Dreadwing bloodline’s legendary reaction speed had done its job.
And just then the attack finally reached him.
The moment the compressed air drill struck him, despite the backwards acceleration and every measure he had taken to brace himself, the impact from a full-force attack of a Layer 4 powerhouse was catastrophic.
The slate-grey vortex of compressed essence slammed into Sol’s crossed arms like a collapsing mountain. A deafening boom erupted as the kinetic force transferred through his body.
Even though he had already been launching himself backward, the sheer power of Bruga’s punch accelerated him even further, turning his body into a human projectile that tore through the air.
He slammed into a dense cluster of Marauder warriors who had been watching from a far and didn’t react to this sudden development.
The front ranks of Marauders were crushed instantly. Bones snapped like dry twigs under the combined force of Sol’s body and the residual kinetic energy. Leather armor ruptured with wet, sickening tears.
Several warriors were killed on the spot... their chests caved in, spines shattered, and bodies flattened against the stone as blood exploded outward in a wide, gruesome spray.
The impact sent the remaining Marauders flying in all directions like broken dolls.
Sol tumbled violently through the pile of broken men, bouncing and rolling across the hard limestone before finally skidding to a stop several meters away in a cloud of dust and blood.
Every nerve ending in his body, especially the forearms screamed in dull, throbbing agony. For a second he just lay there, as the world was swimming around him.
The bones in both arms felt as if they had been struck by a war hammer; sharp, grinding pain pulsed with every heartbeat. His muscles trembled violently from the residual force, refusing to obey him for several long seconds.
Blood dripped steadily from the corners of his mouth, staining the ground beneath him as he struggled to draw breath.
Yet, thanks to his split-second decision to launch himself backward with the Dreadwing wings and reinforce his guard, he had avoided a fatal injury. His core remained intact.
His vital organs had been spared the full, crushing brunt of Bruga’s devastating punch.
The difference between life and death had been measured in fractions of a second and a few meters of distance.
Sol finally pushed himself up onto one knee, neon-crimson eyes still burning with defiance despite the pain wracking his body.
He spat a thick wad of blood onto the ground, wiped his mouth with the back of a trembling hand, and slowly raised his head.
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