The human clad in dark armor withdrew his sword from Farmou's body and wiped the blade clean with a cloth. "The filth of elven blood," he muttered, his voice dripping with disdain. "I've heard it's a chore to wipe from one's blade. Now I see why."
This man was none other than the 8th Farkin, West Clint Woodsman, a knight of formidable reputation.
Reemor forced himself to remain calm. He knew that approaching a situation with a clear mind was always the best course of action. His city was under siege, and the enemy was strong enough to make the winds tremble and the ground quake. This knight, and perhaps others like him, had been sent to eliminate any elves in the vicinity.
"Why?" Reemor thought, his mind racing. "Why now? Why us?"
West broke the silence, his voice cold and mocking. "Well, I've grown tired of your silence. I think it's best if I kill you now—that is, of course, before you answer how you've got such a marvelous human-style cabin so far out here." He smirked, clearly enjoying himself.
The knight swung his one-handed sword in a practiced arc, settling into a battle stance, and unsheathed his shield from his back. The silver shield, emblazoned with a bright blue star, gleamed ominously in the fading light.
Reemor tightened his grip on his own sword, though he was never much of a swordsman. But that little detail didn't matter. He was known far and wide as the Drop Hero, a title he loathed for its lack of creativity but one that carried immense weight.
West didn't waste any time. With a sudden burst of speed, he launched himself toward Reemor, his sword slicing through the air in a deadly arc aimed at the elf's neck.
"Drop," Reemor whispered under his breath.
A large translucent sphere, the size of West's shield, materialized in the air just as the knight's blade came within half a meter of Reemor's throat. The sword struck the hard surface of the sphere and bounced back with a sharp clang. West staggered, his arm tingling from the vibration of the impact.
"What!?" West exclaimed, his eyes widening in shock. "It bounced right off! How? And this vibration—it's like I struck solid metal!"
The sphere Reemor had summoned was his unique magic—a glass-like orb with a long, needle-like tip on one end. It hovered menacingly in the air above him, a testament to his power.
Another distant crash echoed through the forest, followed by another, and another. The rhythmic pounding grew louder, each impact sending a tremor through the ground.
"There's more of that sound," Reemor thought, his heart sinking. "The city—is it being bombarded by magic? Perhaps this human didn't act alone. I need to finish this quickly."
"Drop," Reemor said again, his voice steady. This time, a massive sphere, five meters in diameter, materialized above him, casting a dark shadow over West.
"Just what kind of elf can create such a monstrosity!?" West cried, his confidence wavering as he scrambled to dodge the impending attack.
The colossal sphere crashed to the ground with a thunderous boom, shaking the ground and sending dirt flying. West barely managed to evade it, but he wasn't out of danger yet.
"Multi-cast: Drops," Reemor whispered, his hand outstretched. From his palm, fifteen smaller spheres, each the size of a fist, materialized and shot toward West with incredible speed.
West gritted his teeth and raised his shield, bracing himself for the onslaught. The spheres struck the shield in rapid succession, their impact forcing him back step by step. Despite his efforts, West managed to stay on his feet, though his shield now bore several deep dents.
"His magic is frightening," West thought, his eyes narrowing as he glared at the damaged shield. The silver shield, known as the Shield of Glory, was one of the seventeen ancient treasures of the Kingdom of Leotus. And now, it bore the marks of Reemor's power.
"The kingdom's treasure!" West screamed internally, his frustration boiling over. "How dare he damage it!"
Reemor, meanwhile, stood firm, the large shield-sized sphere still hovering protectively around him. "You're not bad," he said, his voice cold and measured. "However, it appears your cockiness from earlier is gone. What is going on in the city?"
West lowered his shield slightly, his expression grim. For the first time, he seemed willing to engage in more than just combat.
"Your city is being reduced to shreds," West sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "Right about now, your people should be crying in agony, painting the city walls with their blood. Hah! It's almost funny. A strong elf like you could've turned the tide in our attack. But, seeing as how I have you here, I can't allow you to go back to your city." His smirk widened, taunting and cruel.
Reemor clenched his jaw, his hands tightening into fists. He couldn't allow this human to provoke him, no matter how infuriating his words were. Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to remain composed. Anger would only cloud his judgment, and he needed clarity now more than ever.
"So be it," Reemor said, his voice steady and cold. "I'll just have to finish you off."
He raised both arms to waist height, his expression focused. "Multi-Cast: Drops," he intoned. Five more translucent spheres, each the size of West's shield, materialized in the air around him, joining the one already orbiting his body. The six large spheres moved in a slow, deliberate orbit, their glass-like surfaces glinting in the fading light. But Reemor wasn't done. With a flick of his wrist, the fifteen smaller drops from earlier rejoined the formation, their rapid movements creating a blur of motion around him.
West's eyes widened as he took in the sight. "This isn't good," he thought, his grip tightening on his sword and shield. Sweat dripped down his back, despite the cool Harvestfall air. He knew he couldn't afford to take a direct hit from one of those larger spheres. His only option was to dodge, but even that was becoming increasingly difficult.
Reemor launched the smaller drops first, sending them hurtling toward West in rapid succession. The knight dodged and weaved, his movements sluggish compared to the speed of the spheres. Each near-miss left him more off-balance, and the few strikes that landed on his shield sent jarring vibrations through his arm. The smaller drops might not have been as devastating as the larger ones, but they were relentless, chipping away at his defenses.
The larger spheres were slower, but their sheer size and power made them a terrifying threat. West managed to evade them, but only barely. One graze against his shield sent a shockwave through his body, and he glanced down to see a massive dent in the edge of his blade. His heart sank. "One more strike like that," he realized, "and my sword will shatter."
The Shield of Glory, one of the seventeen ancient treasures of the Kingdom of Leotus, was faring slightly better. Known as the Wall of Leotus, it was designed to withstand even the most devastating attacks. But even it wasn't invincible. The dents and scratches marring its surface were a testament to Reemor's power.
"How can a mere elf—one who lives outside the city, no less—possess such magic?" West thought, his frustration mounting as he dodged another drop. He was running out of options, and he knew it.
Reemor, meanwhile, was analyzing West's movements. He noticed the knight's guard slipping slightly, his reactions growing predictable. West was adapting, trying to anticipate the pattern of the drops. It was a smart strategy, but one that Reemor could exploit. If West believed he could predict the trajectory of the spheres, Reemor could use that against him.
Reemor's sharp ears caught the faint rustle of leaves behind him, the subtle crunch of another footstep. Someone was approaching. His mind raced.
"I should end this quickly," he thought. "Fighting two at once would be far harder."
Meanwhile, West dodged another drop hurled his way, his movements becoming slightly more confident with each evasion.
"Heh, I'm getting a little used to this," he remarked under his breath. "With each dodge, I'm slowly gaining ground on him. He hasn't moved an inch. So, I'm guessing casting his magic must make him immobile."
A slight grin spread across his face, but it was short-lived.
Reemor's next move was swift and silent, almost imperceptible. The only sound that followed was the loud clamp of metal bending under immense pressure. Two larger drops, previously unnoticed, hurtled toward West from unexpected angles—one from the rear and another from his side.
They struck simultaneously, crushing his lower right abdomen and buckling his armor. The force drove the air from his lungs and shattered several ribs. West's eyes widened in shock and pain.
Before he could react, a smaller drop pierced through his upper chest, its needle-like tip exiting his back in a spray of blood. West looked down, his expression blank, and spat out a mouthful of blood. His sword slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground, but his shield remained firmly in hand.
Even now, on his knees, he refused to let it fall. The Shield of Glory, a symbol of his kingdom's pride, would not be dishonored.
"And now…" Reemor said coldly, raising his arm. Above him, the massive drop—five meters in diameter—hovered ominously, ready to crush West into the ground.
But before Reemor could deliver the final blow, the sound of hurried footsteps broke through the tension. Leaves crunched underfoot as another figure burst onto the scene, running full tilt toward Reemor.
"Weeeest! Get up, dammit!" the man shouted, his voice cutting through the air like a whip. "If you wield the Shield of Leotus, what does that say about you being on your knees?!"
The newcomer was none other than the 10th Farkin, Jester. He knew a sneak attack was impossible now—the situation demanded urgency. His shout was a gamble, but it worked.
West, spurred by Jester's words, gritted his teeth and summoned the last of his strength. Gripping his shield tightly, he rolled to the side just as the massive drop came crashing down.
The impact was deafening, the ground trembling as the sphere cratered the soft ground where West had knelt moments before.