Magus Reborn

Yafgar stood in the middle of the carnage, his broad chest rising and falling in slow breaths. Around him, bodies lay sprawled across the dirt, limbs twisted at unnatural angles, their blood soaking into the earth like a final offering to the battlefield. Some had died cleanly—one precise cut, one swift strike—but others had been less fortunate, their bodies bearing the brutal evidence of the Lombards' fury.

Pride swelled his chest, but his mind was occupied. He lifted his battle-axe and ran a calloused hand along its edge, wiping away the thick, crimson coating that still clung to the blade. The weapon groaned under his grip, still warm from the slaughter. He exhaled through his nose, watching as the blood dripped onto the broken ground beneath him, mixing with the ashes of burning homes.

Too easy.

The noble’s forces had barely put up a fight. Yafgar had expected resistance, had hoped for warriors worthy of his steel, but what he had found instead were men too soft, too unprepared for true battle. A disappointing display.

They had been caught off guard, yes—his warriors had struck swiftly, tearing through their defenses before they had a chance to react—but a true soldier, a true leader, was always prepared for war. This noble had been weak, complacent, too reliant on his title to shield him from the blade.

And so, he had been defeated.

Another stain wiped clean from the land.

Yafgar tightened his grip around his axe and glanced toward the burning remains of the village. Their attack had sent the villagers scattering, their terrified cries piercing through the battle before vanishing into the shadows. Some had fled beyond the fields, others had barricaded themselves inside their homes, praying for mercy. He wondered how many of them had ever lifted a blade before today—how many had spent their lives under the noble’s rule, blind to the harsh truths of the world.

Fools. A lot of them. But no matter what he thought of them, Yafgar had promised to keep them safe.

A faint sound reached his ears—footsteps cutting through the crackle of fire and the distant groans of the dying. Yafgar turned his head, his gaze falling upon a familiar figure approaching him.

Ragnar.

His son strode forward with purpose, his eyes narrowed in determination, though there was an edge of something else beneath it—fatigue, perhaps. A part of his armor had been burned, the darkened metal scorched from fire. It did not slow him.

The boy was strong. Resilient. And he had done everything to prove himself back to Lombards. Another pang of pride swelled his chest, but he remained neutral. Yafgar did not speak immediately, waiting as Ragnar came to a stop before him. His son’s voice was steady when he finally spoke.

"We were able to deal with all the enemies, chieftain," Ragnar reported. "Those who surrendered have been taken as captives. The rest, those who refused, have been sent to the cycle of reincarnation."

A clean way of saying they had been cut down where they stood.

Ragnar hesitated only briefly before continuing. "What are your orders regarding the villagers? Many ran when the attack began, but there are others still hiding in their homes, afraid of us."

Yafgar did not answer at once. Instead, his sharp gaze trailed over Ragnar’s form, settling on the burn marks marring his armor. The edges of the plate were still blackened, the metal warped in places. His lips pressed into a thin line.

"Are you hurt?"

The question seemed to catch Ragnar off guard. He blinked once, his lips pressing together as if to keep himself from showing any weakness. Then, after a brief pause, he bit his lip and shook his head.

"No," he said firmly. "The potions Lord Arzan’s men provided healed my burns."

Yafgar studied him for a moment longer, searching for any sign of falsehood, but found none. Ragnar would not lie about such a thing. If he said he was fine, then he was fine.

Still, the fact that he had needed healing at all left a sour taste in Yafgar’s mouth.

Arzan’s men had provided them with potions, yes, but that did not mean his warriors should grow reliant on them. A true Lombard fought through the pain, embraced it, let it fuel them. If Ragnar had suffered burns, he should have worn them as a mark of honor—not erased them with alchemy.

But Yafgar held his tongue. This was not the time for such lessons. He looked at the sky where dark flames still scorched.

“They had a nasty Blessed One among them,” Ragnar said, groaning with frustration. “A fire-wielder. Me and my men took him on, but he didn’t fall easily. It took time—he kept slinging flames at us, setting the ground ablaze, forcing us to split up. His magic made the battlefield a living inferno, but we cut him down in the end.”

Yafgar’s eyes darkened slightly. He turned his gaze back to Ragnar. “Any casualties?”

Ragnar exhaled sharply. “Not many. Only three.” His fingers curled into fists before he forced them to relax. “Most of us survived—even while taking on a Blessed One. And not just survived, Father. We fought like never before.” He hesitated, his expression troubled. “I haven’t seen our men like this… ever. They had no restraint. Like something inside them had been unshackled.”

Yafgar studied his son, the faint flicker of unease in his voice. He understood what Ragnar meant. The Lombards had always been fierce, but what they displayed tonight was beyond raw battle lust.

“They have unlocked a new depth of power,” Yafgar said, nodding. “Something potent, something that was always inside them, but buried beneath doubt and chains they didn’t even know existed. Now, that restraint is gone.” He glanced toward the remnants of the battlefield, the bodies of the noble’s warriors littering the ground. “Though they have not unlocked the elements as I have, they possess a reservoir of strength. A raw, untapped force that will only grow as this fief war continues.”

Ragnar remained silent, his lips pressing into a thin line. Yafgar narrowed his eyes slightly before continuing.

“But power without control is a blade without a handle. A weapon that cuts its own master.” He leveled a steady gaze at his son. “You must ensure they do not go out of bounds. Strength means nothing if it turns into arrogance. And there are always stronger men out there.”

Ragnar’s eyes hardened, understanding dawning in his eyes. He inclined his head. “I understand.”

Yafgar nodded once, satisfied. Then, his gaze flickered toward the ruined village, toward the homes where frightened eyes watched from behind cracked shutters and trembling fingers clutched at rusted knives.

“Speak with the villagers,” he commanded. “Make it clear we are not here to plunder or slaughter them. If they resist, just slap them up. But if they submit, they will be left unharmed.” He turned back to Ragnar. “We will be moving at dawn to join Lord Arzan. Let them know that by morning, they will no longer have to fear us.”

Ragnar gave a firm nod, stepping back, ready to carry out the order. But before he could turn away, Yafgar’s voice cut through the space between them once more.

“Also,” the chieftain added, making Ragnar turn around, “fetch the noble we captured. Have him brought by a horse.”

Ragnar frowned slightly but did not question. “You want him alive?”

“We are soon to meet the man under whom the Lombards will march,” Yafgar said, a knowing glint in his eyes. “And it would be rude to arrive empty-handed. A gift is in order.”

For a brief moment, Ragnar said nothing. Then, his lips curled into the ghost of a smirk.

“I understand,” he said simply.

With that, he turned, his steps carrying him into the darkness, leaving Yafgar alone amidst the wreckage.

The chieftain exhaled, looking one last time at the bodies around him. Weak men. But they had served their purpose. They had tested the Lombards.

And the Lombards had passed.

***

Feroy rode at the head of his column, the constant thrum of hooves against the earth echoing behind him. Three hundred warriors followed in disciplined formation, their ranks unbroken as they went through fields, rocky outcrops, and dense patches of woodland. They moved like a tide rolling across the land, sweeping toward their destination—House Xandhir. Out of the four houses that’d sworn their loyalty to Lucian since the very beginning.

His orders were clear. After the decisive battle of Verdis, he had been tasked with leading a formidable force to crush the noble house before it could merge with Lucian’s army. A tall order by any means, but Feroy did not feel even the slightest twinge of doubt. If anything, anticipation thrummed in his veins. Adrenaline rushed to every part of his body.

Victory was only a matter of time.

It wasn’t just his own certainty that fueled him. His men, too, carried themselves with the same confidence of warriors who knew they would not break. This was not arrogance. They had all been briefed on the strategy, they knew their roles, and they bore the latest innovation of Balen’s genius—Lightwood armor. The finely crafted set, enchanted and reinforced, was lighter than steel yet offered the same protection. It moved with them, rather than against them. Feroy had no doubt that their preparation, their strength, and their equipment would see them through.

As they crossed a wide stretch of plains, the wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of churned earth. Feroy narrowed his eyes as a dust cloud swirled into the sky ahead. Instinct clenched his gut.

An army.

Only an army could raise such a vast plume of dust.

He reined in his horse sharply, the beast skidding slightly before coming to a halt. Behind him, his men obeyed immediately, the entire column slowing in perfect unison.

Silence stretched for a heartbeat as Feroy’s gaze sharpened, his enhanced senses locking onto the figures emerging from the dust. His eyes traced the gleaming armor, the banners fluttering against the wind. And then, there it was—the crest emblazoned on their tabards, standing bold against the steel.

House Xandhir.

A sigil of a roaring wyvern, its wings outstretched as if poised to strike, surrounded by a wreath of golden laurels. The noble house's pride was evident in the embroidery, the deep crimson of the banner standing bold against the pale backdrop of dust and sky.

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Feroy felt a grin tug at his lips.

He turned his horse, facing his men.

“The moment we’ve been waiting for has arrived,” he declared. “The enemy stands before us.” His gaze swept over the warriors—faces set, hands gripping weapons, bodies thrumming with restrained energy. “You all know what must be done.”

He unsheathed his blade, the steel catching the fading light.

“Now, let’s remind them why House Xandhir made the wrong choice.”

Feroy’s grin widened as he raised his voice once more.

"We need to show them that we are the best cavalry in the entire kingdom! Do you understand?"

A thunderous roar of affirmation rang out.

"Yes, Knight Feroy!"

The energy was palpable as it was contagious, a wave of fervor rippling through the ranks. Feroy’s gaze flickered to Bord, his second-in-command, standing ready at his side.

"Get everyone in formation," Feroy commanded. "We’ll be clashing soon."

Bord nodded sharply, spurring his horse into motion as he rode down the line, barking orders. The cavalry shifted seamlessly into position, lances and blades at the ready.

Feroy turned his attention back to the approaching army. The dust had settled enough to see them more clearly now—rows upon rows of cavalry standing beneath House Xandhir’s crimson banners. As their forces ground to a halt, he nudged his horse forward, bridging the distance between them.

"State your allegiance and your purpose here!" The man who was at the front yelled loud enough for even the people at the back to hear.

Feroy smiled at that. “I’m Knight Feroy Derone, serving Count Arzan of Veralt. I have come here with my forces to annihilate House Xandhir if they don’t surrender right now! This shall be considered as the final warning!”

As he gave them the warning, he stood and waited for their response. A chuckle rippled through the enemy ranks. Then came outright laughter, some soldiers exchanging amused glances as if they had just heard the most ridiculous joke.

Feroy showed no surprise, watching as a lone figure broke from their formation and rode forward.

The man had a gleaming crimson plate, he could say that it was a deadly set of armor. The elegant craftsmanship was undeniable, the embellishments hinting at both wealth and power. His presence alone commanded respect, his bearing that of a noble warrior—or just a noble, he couldn’t say yet.

The man raised a gauntleted hand, silencing his troops with nothing but the gesture. Then, he turned his gaze upon Feroy, a sneer twisting his lips.

"I had not expected Count Arzan to be so foolish," he said, his voice rich with condescension. "To send his men to their deaths so carelessly... What a waste." He tilted his head slightly, as if studying a child playing at war. "Do you truly believe your meager forces can survive a clash against my thousands?"

He let the words hang for a moment, letting them sink in before continuing.

"I will give you one opportunity—surrender now, and I shall only take your head. Your men, I will spare." His sneer deepened. "I swear it on my name, Viscount Malyr the second of House Xandhir."

Silence stretched for a moment, the only sound the rustling of banners in the wind. The viscount sat there expectantly, as if fully expecting Feroy to dismount, bend the knee, and accept his fate.

Instead, Feroy let out a short, sharp scoff.

"Very well, Viscount Malyr the second," he said. "You’ve chosen death—for yourself and your men."

He turned his horse slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder at his warriors. Their gazes burned with anticipation, waiting for the signal.

"Are you ready?"

"YES!" The response came like a hammer striking an anvil, their voices roaring in unison.

Feroy smirked. "Good."

As he turned back to face the enemy, he caught sight of the viscount issuing commands of his own, his men shifting into formation for an inevitable charge.

Unfortunately for him, he had no idea what was coming.

Feroy tightened his grip on the reins, feeling the weight of his enchanted Lightwood armor—the sturdy craftsmanship, the perfectly balanced blend of mobility and protection. A marvel of Balen’s genius.

He exhaled, a quiet promise slipping from his lips.

"I’ll get you another victory, Lord Arzan."

***

A sudden gust of wind swept across the battlefield, rustling the banners and carrying a sharp chill through the air. Viscount Malyr shuddered—just for a moment—before shaking his head. His green eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the sorry excuse of a force that stood a good pace away from his own.

No matter how he turned it over in his mind, he couldn’t understand why Count Arzan had sent these men here to die.

More importantly, why hadn’t they fled?

They had eyes, didn’t they? They could see his army—two thousand strong, a force that could crush them underfoot like insects. Yet, despite the sheer difference in numbers, they stood their ground. No sign of hesitation. No fear of death in their eyes.

It didn’t make sense.

Was it a trap?

Were they simply suicidal?

The Viscount’s fingers twitched against the reins of his horse as he mulled over the possibilities, but no answer came.

A familiar presence rode up beside him. His trusted knight; Knight Serian, leaned in slightly, voice low.

"Lord Malyr, do you think we’re falling into a trap?"

The Viscount glanced at him, frowning. The same thought had crossed his mind, but…

"I don’t know," he admitted, his upper lip curling into a sneer. "I see no way this could be a trap."

He gestured toward the landscape with a sweeping motion.

"Look around you. We’re on open ground. There’s nowhere for additional forces to hide. And I see no Mages among their ranks." His voice hardened. "Even if they had one or two, they’d need someone on Magus Verdia’s level to pose a real threat to us."

Knight Serian nodded, but his unease didn’t fade. His gaze lowered to the earth beneath them.

"What about the ground?" he muttered. "Could there be a trap beneath us?"

Viscount Malyr cast a wary glance at the ground before shaking his head.

"I don't think so. We saw them moving towards us the entire way. None of them got close enough to dig any trenches or lay traps. No matter how much I think about it, this just seems like pure stupidity."

His knight exhaled loudly before responding. "Yes, but Count Arzan is the opposite of that."

"Maybe," Malyr admitted with a slight scowl. "But not long ago, he was just known as the shadow of his brother. His troops have been racking up victories lately, so perhaps they've grown arrogant—convinced they can handle us. You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? Mortal men fighting like Mages, wielding enchanted weapons and armor. Maybe they’re just too confident in that."

Serian hesitated before nodding. "Maybe."

"Either way, we’re not retreating." Malyr straightened in his saddle. "Our numbers are overwhelming. Even if there is a trap, we’ll face it head-on."

With a sharp nod, the Knight turned, barking orders to the men. Soldiers adjusted their grips on weapons, tightened their formations, and prepared to charge.

Malyr swept his gaze over his ranks before raising his sword high.

"Men, we are going to tear through their ranks!" he bellowed. "Get ready!"

“YES!”

A thunderous, earth shattering roar erupted from his army as hooves pounded against the earth, shields locked into place, and spears gleamed in the sunlight. Both the armies moved with the intention to destroy.

For a brief moment, he met Feroy’s gaze across the battlefield.

The knight's helmet obscured most of his face, but his eyes…

His eyes gleamed with something unnatural.

Something sinister.

The Viscount’s grip on his reins tightened as an inexplicable sense of dread clawed at his chest.

Something wasn’t right.

Then Feroy’s voice rang across the battlefield.

"Now!"

The Viscount barely had time to react before it happened.

Suddenly, a brilliant, massive glow erupted from the enemy’s armor. The seals carved into their enchanted plating came to life, pulsing with some otherworldly energy. A wave of light spread like wildfire, jumping from one soldier to the next, engulfing the battlefield in a blinding white radiance.

The Viscount’s breath hitched as the world became nothing but light. Instinctively, he shut his eyes.

And then—

A sharp, searing pain tore through his body. “FUCK!”

His mouth opened in a soundless gasp as something pierced him.

Cold. Deep. Fatal.

He barely had time to comprehend it before the darkness consumed everything.

***

A/N - You can read 30 chapters (15 Magus Reborn and 15 Dao of money) on my patreon. Annual subscription is now on too. Also, pre orders for Volume 1 are live.

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