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Chapter 82: ’Sheer Willpower’

Chapter 82: ’Sheer Willpower’

The knights trudged forward, their steps growing heavier with each passing moment. The dense, deadened forest stretched endlessly before them, its gnarled trees twisting like skeletal fingers against the dim moonlight.

Shadows slithered and danced across the ground, contorting into unnatural shapes with each flicker of the wind. The air was thick with exhaustion, damp with an eerie stillness that pressed down on them like an unseen weight. The deeper they ventured, the more oppressive it became, as though the very woods conspired to break their resolve.

Only the occasional sigh or the muted clank of armor disturbed the silence.

"We’ve been walking for hours," Gareth muttered, adjusting the strap of his gauntlet with an irritated tug. His voice was edged with frustration, raw from fatigue. "How long are we going to keep following that damn bird?"

Lancelot said nothing, his sharp gaze fixed on the creature gliding effortlessly above them. The massive bird never strayed too far ahead, yet it refused to land. Its flight pattern was strange, deliberate yet hesitant, as if it were searching for something unseen. The way it weaved between the branches, doubling back before pressing forward again, made his stomach coil with unease.

’This isn’t normal,’ Lancelot thought, his brows knitting together. ’What are you trying to show us?’

"It’s leading us in circles," Dorian observed, his brow furrowing as he gestured toward a twisted tree. Its bark curled inward, forming a distinct spiral he had already marked in his mind. "We’ve passed that one before. I’d recognize that shape anywhere."

Lancelot’s frown deepened. If the bird was truly a messenger, it should know where to go. And yet, its erratic path spoke of uncertainty. A chill ran down his spine as another thought formed—a more troubling possibility.

"What if it doesn’t know where to return?" Elias asked, his tone cautious. "What if the person who sent it is already gone?"

Lancelot exhaled slowly, nodding. "That is a possibility."

A heavy silence settled over the group. The weight of realization pressed upon them like a tightening noose. If the bird no longer had a master to return to, it meant only one thing—the rogues’ hideout was deliberately hidden. And if that were the case...

"An underground base would explain why the bird keeps circling," Arlen mused. His eyes scanned the forest floor, sharp and calculating. "The entrance must be nearby but concealed. If it were above ground, the bird would have landed already."

Lancelot’s mind raced. Searching for an underground hideout would be difficult. The entrances were likely camouflaged with magic, or at the very least, hidden within the terrain. They didn’t have time to scour every inch of this cursed forest—Florian didn’t have time.

A Critical Decision

"We split up," Lancelot decided, his voice firm with quiet authority. "Two groups. Three knights each, one Arcanior per group. We spread out and search for anything that might be an entrance—disturbed ground, hidden pathways, unnatural formations."

His expression darkened. "The bird keeps circling this area. That means we’re close."

The knights exchanged glances before nodding in unison. They knew what was at stake. Without hesitation, they divided into their assigned groups and moved with silent urgency, scanning the terrain for any sign of an entrance.

Minutes stretched into an hour. The search was meticulous, slow, and increasingly frustrating. Every shadow, every uneven patch of ground was examined, but nothing concrete presented itself.

Restlessness gnawed at their patience, yet none dared to voice their frustration aloud. They all understood the urgency. The weight of each passing second hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken fears.

Lancelot, however, felt the weight of it more than any of them.

His heart pounded against his chest. ’Time is slipping away.’

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword, his knuckles turning white. His mind ran through the possibilities—Florian captured, injured, or worse. The thought gnawed at him, cold and relentless. He clenched his fists, his pulse hammering in his ears. He had to find him. Soon.

Then—a sound.

Not just any sound.

Footsteps. Fast. Chaotic.

Lancelot immediately raised a hand, signaling his group to halt. The knights froze, their hands tightening around their weapons as they melted into the shadows of the trees. Every breath was held, every movement calculated.

The noise grew louder—rapid footsteps pounding against the forest floor. Someone was running. No—multiple people were running. Then came the voices. Urgent, shouting, mixed with the unmistakable clang of steel on steel and the flickering glow of magic cutting through the darkness between the twisted trees.

Dorian’s voice was barely above a whisper. "Are they chasing something?"

Lancelot narrowed his eyes. ’No. Someone.’

"Binoculars. Now."

Elias responded instantly, pressing the binoculars into Lancelot’s waiting hand. He raised them to his eyes, scanning the chaos unfolding beyond the trees. His breath hitched as his pulse spiked.

In front of the pursuing rogues, stumbling over roots and broken ground, was a light purple-haired figure—a familiar figure.

"It’s the prince," Lancelot said, his voice sharp with disbelief.

A ripple of shock passed through the knights.

"Prince Florian?!" Gareth hissed, his grip on his sword tightening. "How the hell did he escape?"

’That’s a question for later,’ Lancelot thought grimly. Right now, there was no time for questions. No time for hesitation. They needed to act.

Before he could give the order, the second group returned, their expressions urgent, their breathing heavy.

"Sir," one of them panted. "We found the entrance. It’s underground, but it’s completely abandoned. No guards, no rogues inside."

Lancelot barely spared him a glance before pointing toward the pursuing rogues. "That’s because they’re all out here."

Realization dawned on the knights, their muscles coiling like drawn bowstrings.

Lancelot’s voice turned ice-cold. "You know what to do. No one escapes. Kill them all."

The knights’ eyes darkened with deadly determination. Their grips on their weapons tightened as their voices rang in unison.

"Yes, sir!"

Lancelot signaled for his knights to spread out, moving with silent precision through the trees. They stalked the rogues like unseen predators, each step measured, every movement deliberate. The Arcaniors held their ground, watching the treetops for any unexpected threats, ready to assist if needed.

Lancelot’s sharp gaze never left Florian, tracking the prince’s frantic movements. ’He’s running on sheer willpower... but he’s slowing down.’

He gestured to Gareth and Dorian, directing them to flank the enemy’s rear while he and Elias stayed on Florian’s path. The rogues had no idea they were being hunted.

Then—Florian stumbled. His foot caught on a big rock, and he collapsed with a sharp gasp. Before he could scramble to his feet, a rogue was upon him, slamming him back down.

Lancelot’s heart lurched. ’No—’

The rogue struck Florian hard across the face, forcing his head against the cold ground. Another grabbed his arms, pinning him. Florian thrashed, but he was outmatched, weakened from exhaustion. Blood trickled from a fresh wound on his temple.

Lancelot’s vision blurred with fury. Without thinking, he surged forward, breaking formation.

"Commander—!" Elias hissed, but it was too late.

Lancelot grabbed his sword, muscles coiled with pure rage, and hurled it with lethal precision. The blade whistled through the air, striking the rogue square in the chest. A sickening crunch followed as the man’s body jerked violently before slumping over Florian.

"Your Highness!" Lancelot roared.

The remaining rogues barely had time to react before Lancelot signaled the attack. His knights erupted from the shadows, weapons drawn, their war cries cutting through the forest like thunder.

The clash was immediate and vicious. Gareth barreled into one rogue, his sword carving through leather armor with a sickening tear. Dorian danced between two others, twin daggers flashing as he wove through their attacks, slicing tendons and throats with merciless precision. Elias lifted his staff, summoning a blinding arc of lightning that crackled through the trees before striking down an enemy attempting to flee.

Lancelot barely registered the battle around him. His focus was locked on Florian. The prince groaned, trying to push the dead rogue off of him, his limbs sluggish and weak.

’He’s injured,’ Lancelot realized, a fresh wave of fury igniting in his chest. He rushed forward, wrenching the corpse away before kneeling beside Florian. "Can you stand?"

Lancelot expected sobs, shaking limbs, maybe even desperate gratitude—but instead, Florian’s hand shot out, striking his armored forearm with a sharp clang.

"Ah—" Lancelot barely flinched, but Florian recoiled, cradling his now-throbbing hand. His face twisted in pain for a brief second before he snapped his glare upward, fury burning through the exhaustion in his violet eyes.

"What took you so long?!"

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