FROST
Chapter 136: Chitin and Sorcery

Chapter 136: Chitin and Sorcery

The forest clearing pulsed with tension, the very air trembling beneath the weight of two opposing forces.

Wrenalthor struck first—his blade a blur of movement, slicing through the space between them with uncanny precision. His aura flared behind him, a luminous storm of ethereal blue that licked the edges of the trees like wildfire.

The ground beneath his boots crackled with residual magic, and when his hood had fallen, the full force of his gaze became clear.

His eyes—gleaming crimson, sharp and unblinking—glowed like bloodlit gems beneath his dark fringe.

West met him head-on.

The edges of his mana sword pulsed with jagged light, more emotion than form, more wrath than craft. His dark eyes—cold, unwavering—glowed like twin violet flames, brighter with each swing he deflected, each strike he delivered.

Wrenalthor spun, ducked, surged forward again. The sound of their magic clashing rang out across the clearing like the shattering of stars.

From the shadows, Sebastian remained still—his hand over his chest, feeling his mana slowly knit itself back together. But his choice not to intervene wasn’t merely because of exhaustion.

It was because he knew West wouldn’t let him.

He’d seen it before. That look West wore. That silence. That tension in his grip—although he tried hiding it—always when an elf stood before him. As if their presence alone scraped against something inside him.

Could it be that Asmaros’ soul resonates with elves? Was it the same strange pull that once stirred on Mist Island when he faced Xavier? Perhaps.

Whatever it is, one thing is certain, West almost never unleashes his magic like this... unless he has to.

The connection between West and the elves ran deeper than he admitted, threaded back through bloodlines and betrayals. He is the vessel of Asmaros—the demon king the elves once revered even after he died.

West’s—sparks scattering in arcs of violet and blue. But this time, his movement was a heartbeat too slow. West’s mana sword carved through his defense with a screech of burning energy, slashing close enough to draw a thin line of blood across his arm.

The elf flinched. Barely. But it was enough.

West’s follow-up came fast—brutal, relentless. His violet aura expanded outward like a tide, humming with the raw echo of Asmaros’ buried power. Each strike landed with a force that shook the clearing, cracking the soil beneath them and warping the air into shimmering heatwaves. The forest groaned around them—trees bending back under the force of his magic.

Wrenalthor gritted his teeth, parried, pivoted, deflected—but cracks were forming in his composure. His elegance turned to urgency. His footwork grew sloppy. Though elves were said to be born with blades in their hands, Wrenalthor moved like one trained in theory, not war. For all his grace, he lacked the brutality that West had been forged in.

And West felt it.

He pressed harder, driving Wrenalthor backward step by step, sword carving streaks of violet fire through the mist-choked air.

Wrenalthor ducked, barely avoiding a mana-coated slash that cleaved a gash into a nearby tree, sending bark and shadow scattering. His crimson eyes narrowed, chest heaving.

"You fight like an old man," West taunted and as he surged forward.

Wrenalthor laughed, breathless now—his first breath that sounded less like mockery, and more like awe. Then he exhaled deeply, his sword lowering—not in surrender, but in shift.

"Very well," he said softly. "If blades bore you, let me show you the art in which I excel."

He snapped his fingers.

The clearing suddenly went darker—not with the absence of light, but with the invasion of something else.

The shadows around them rippled like ink in disturbed water that West immediately halted. The trees stretched unnaturally tall, their branches spiraling inward like claws. The very ground twisted beneath West’s feet, and the air thickened with the scent of dreams gone wrong.

A strange, echoing hum resonated from Wrenalthor’s chest as ancient glyphs ignited across his arms and neck in glowing blue script. Magic bled from him in fluid motion—not like an explosion, but like a tide being pulled into a deeper abyss.

"I call upon the Linyth’en Vel’enari," he whispered—the old elven term for a reality-bending invocation known only to a select few.

"Phantom Nocturne Realm."

The instant Wrenalthor uttered the final word of his incantation, the air ruptured with a pulse of ancient magic.

A shadowed sphere erupted from beneath his feet—its edges writhing like a living veil of smoke, tendrils lashing outward before collapsing inward in a crushing vortex of darkness. The clearing vanished behind a wall of devouring void.

And West—caught at the epicenter—was swallowed whole.

One blink, and he was gone.

"West!" Sebastian’s eyes widened as he surged forward, teleportation sigils igniting beneath his boots. In a flash of pale light, he attempted to enter the sphere.

But the moment he touched its surface, the force repelled him violently. A blast of raw arcane backlash hurled him backward through the air like a ragdoll. He crashed into the underbrush with a grunt, skidding through uprooted earth before rolling to a stop.

Gasping, he scrambled up—only to see the shadow sphere already closing, sealing itself with layered glyphs of unfamiliar origin, pulsing deep blue and black.

A barrier.

No—something more.

Before the sphere sealed entirely, Sebastian caught one last glimpse through the shrinking aperture of shadows.

West stood still in the heart of the darkness, his violet aura flickering like a dying star. His eyes—bright, calm, resolute—turned briefly toward Sebastian.

"Go help Cullen and the others..." he mouthed, his voice lost in the thickening veil.

And then—he vanished.

Whatever Wrenalthor had conjured, it wasn’t merely a spell.

It was a realm. A prison.

A self-contained dominion carved from ancient shadow magic, where light had no foothold and truth bent beneath illusion. A domain where Wrenalthor reigned supreme.

Sebastian struck the barrier again, desperation surging through him, but it was like throwing glass against the sea. The shadow shell shimmered coldly in defiance, runes rippling across its surface before fading into silence.

Until a crack echoed.

A tear split the air a few paces behind him, sudden and thunderous, as Ezekiel’s teleportation magic slammed into the clearing like a falling star.

Wind howled outward from the breach.

Ezekiel stepped out with his half-lidded stare and glowing marks still fading across his skin, looking as though he’d just walked out of a fever dream.

Behind him, Elrond appeared—or rather, stumbled out, flailing.

Hair frizzed, coat flipped inside out, belt half-unbuckled, and one of his boots missing entirely, he landed on all fours and promptly retched into the soiled snow from West and Wrenalthor’s duel.

Even the swarm of iridescent insects fluttering around him looked disoriented—several hung upside down from his cloak, wings twitching erratically, while others buzzed in loose, spiraling confusion like they’d just been through a hurricane and forgotten how to fly.

Elrond gasped, gripping a nearby tree for balance, "y-you can’t just rip people through space-time without a breathing count! My moths inhaled a dimension!"

One of the insects landed on his head and keeled over dramatically, legs in the air.

Ezekiel didn’t look at him. His gaze was already locked on the faint, lingering remnants of the shadow sphere—on the exact spot West had stood.

"What happened?" Ezekiel asked, his voice colder than frost.

Sebastian straightened, jaw tight, the lingering ache in his body. "The elf pulled West into some kind of domain... a separate realm. I tried to follow, but it rejected me. Threw me back like dead weight."

Ezekiel’s brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as pieces clicked into place. "So that’s why we ended up teleporting mid-air," he muttered, half to himself. "I locked onto West’s mana thread. I was planning to arrive exactly where he was... but if he’s been sealed inside a domain, the tether must’ve snapped halfway. Connection cut mid-jump."

"W-Wait did I just hear domain?" Elrond suddenly stepped in between Ezekiel and Sebastian, his cloak trailing small beetles that clicked and skittered along his boots.

Sebastian instinctively recoiled, grimacing as he caught the first whiff. The scent of damp bark, decay, and something indefinably alive clung to Elrond like a curse. He shivered and shuffled sideways to the edge of the clearing.

"Of all people..." Sebastian hissed, trying to sound polite. "Why did you have to bring him?"

Ezekiel sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "He threatened the Grandmaster," he replied wearily. "And like it or not, insect-magic users are... surprisingly effective in domains."

Sebastian looked unconvinced. Elrond, however, was already crouched by the edge of the shadow sphere, inspecting it with his bare hands.

To Sebastian’s alarm, the barrier didn’t reject Elrond. No pulse. No recoil. Instead, the shadow shimmered around his hands, as though tolerating him.

"How—" Sebastian blinked. "Why didn’t it throw him back?"

Ezekiel tilted his head. "His hands are coated in insects."

Sebastian turned a new shade of green.

Once his inspection was complete, Elrond stood up, his gloves now buzzing with beetles, wasps, and a particularly smug-looking centipede wrapped around his wrist like a bracelet.

"It’ll take me and my special bugs fifteen minutes to infiltrate the domain," he declared, as if announcing the time of a concert. "They’re trained for scenarios exactly like this."

He jabbed a thumb toward the sphere. "The Grandmaster taught me the trick himself. Man’s probably a medium or something."

Sebastian and Ezekiel exchanged a blink.

"And he didn’t scream?" Sebastian asked slowly.

"Oh, he did," Elrond said proudly. "Loudly. Had to. He was standing meters away the entire time and I needed to hear the instructions."

He nodded sagely, as though this was the most reasonable explanation in the world.

Sebastian looked like he might faint.

Ezekiel just sighed again. The insects buzzed, utterly unbothered.

"Now, if you’d excuse me," Elrond announced, with all the flair of a theater actor taking the stage. He gave a dramatic twirl of his patchy, beetle-draped cloak—nearly smacking Sebastian with a dangling centipede in the process—before turning back toward the shadow sphere.

With a flourish, Elrond lifted both hands and began to trace glowing glyphs mid-air. His fingers moved with practiced precision, sketching signs that shimmered in hues of emerald and sickly gold. The runes hung suspended for a moment, then pulsed once—alive.

In response, the insects clinging to his arms and shoulders began to stir. The wings of wasps fluttered in rhythmic patterns, tiny mandibles clicked in unison, and even the centipede uncoiled itself, lifting its many legs as though in salute.

A low hum began to rise—not just sound, but a vibration felt in the bones, in the soil.

Suddenly, from beneath the forest floor, the landbugs emerged.

Beetles with glinting backs, armored ants the size of fists, and burrowing larvae surged from the roots, forming intricate patterns as they spiraled around the base of the shadow sphere. They began to dig—not wildly, but methodically—carving delicate channels into the earth, encircling the sphere with unnerving intent.

Some climbed up the dome itself, and with eerie synchronization, began nipping at its surface with acid-laced mandibles. The shadow membrane rippled in protest but didn’t reject them outright. Instead, the barrier shimmered faintly, runes flickering across its surface like a heartbeat responding to an alien touch.

"The sigils are attuning," Elrond murmured, eyes glowing faintly now as the insects’ resonance aligned with the magic he’d written. "They’re reading the membrane, testing for fault lines."

Sebastian, pressed as far back as dignity allowed, looked horrified. "They’re... biting it."

"They’re sampling it," Elrond corrected, clearly delighted. "Tasting the metaphysical integrity. Don’t worry—they’re polite."

"I’m going to throw up," Sebastian whispered.

Ezekiel, arms folded, only nodded. "Fifteen minutes, you said?"

Elrond’s grin widened, his silhouette framed by the dance of sigils and skittering forms.

"Give or take. Just hope your friend inside isn’t allergic to surrealism."

And with that, the ritual continued—strange, crawling, arcane. The Phantom Nocturne Realm had met its first real challenger: a bug-obsessed lunatic who called insects his family and domains his buffet.