Internet Mage Professor
Chapter 145: Soldiers

Chapter 145: Soldiers

Darkness had fallen over the island, and the scattered squads of the Black Vale Territory Mana Knights—once united in the mass assault—now lay stretched across thick underbrush and narrow canyons.

They had not been able to regroup after Chief Varros’s bold push inside the tower, and the enemy creatures were closing in fast.

Squad Alpha – Rockfall Canyon.

The situation was dire.

"Seven left," Sergeant Harwin whispered as he lurked behind a jagged boulder that barely shielded his exhausted squad. "Fall back slowly," he ordered, voice raw as he retreated inch by precarious inch.

A guttural scream echoed down the canyon: a monstrous crash as one of the creatures slammed its tentacles into rock, sending stone chips scattering.

"By the old gods—again?" Pvt. Qali hissed, pressing her back against the granite. Her knife-hand shook.

"We can’t hold long," Harwin said quietly, voice tight with urgency. "If we sprint to the ridge, maybe we’ll buy enough time for Varros to break out. Then we move east—toward the coast."

Qali’s lip quivered. "I don’t... I don’t want to die here."

Harwin reached out, gripped her shoulder firmly. "Then don’t die. Not yet. We live—together."

They moved in tense silence, climbing. Every footstep was a prayer, each breath sharp with fear. A sickening thud behind them made them whirl—tentacles brushing where they’d stood. They froze.

"Pray to the spirits," Harwin muttered.

"I... I am," Qali sobbed.

They backed away—retreating worm by trembling worm—until the wall of the canyon blocked their sight. Then, as one, they bolted upward toward the ridge.

---

Squad Bravo – Ravaged Forest Clearing.

The group were desperate.

"Retreat! Retreat!" yelled Knight Hefta, brandishing a mana-flare orb in her free hand. Flames flickered across blackened pine needles, trying to obscure their escape.

Her partner, Lance-corporal Joss, lunged forward: "This way—stay close!"

Branches whipped at them as they ran, black water pooling at their feet. A massive tentacled shadow cut across the path ahead, blotting moonlight.

"Circle right," Joss hissed, voice urgent. "Cover flank."

They darted through thick trunks, knuckles bleeding, armor scratched and battered. The monster’s roars echoed menace—tentacles rustled behind them.

Hefta’s heart raced. She chanted, voice trembling: "Shield of Avalon, protect—"

The roar came first or her shield spell collapsed under raw physical might. Braced against a trunk, she thrust her blade at the nearest tentacle—but the creature simply shoved her aside. Her helm-sensor cracked.

"Joss!" she screamed.

He came to help—but another creature launched itself over them. They tumbled apart, scrambling to regain distance. Her spell flickered, and then snapped out.

"This... damnable forest," she cursed, panting. "They cover every path."

A young knight named Tavis, huffing at her side, whispered a broken prayer: "Saint Basilis... do not let this be the end."

Hefta grabbed Tavis’s shoulder. "Not today!"

And so they sprinted, darkness closing around them, prayers stitched between labored breaths.

---

Squad Gamma – Old Quarry Outpost.

The team was silently hiding.

Lieutenant Malen crouched at the edge of the crumbling stone wall, watching two of his warriors cradled against the wall: one nursing a broken leg, the other bleeding from a mangled arm.

"We need a medic!" Malen spat, voice harsh and raw with pain.

"Sir—two are already down! We’ll never carry them!" Pvt. Renner’s face was streaked with dirt and tears.

Malen ground his teeth. He grabbed a rope from his belt. "Then we leave the dead—but we’ll hold long enough for the rest to escape. Standing here isn’t dying together—it’s courtesy to let others live."

Renner froze. "What about—?"

"Pray for them. I’ll hold them off."

A thunderous rumble—closer now, alive with sloppy muscle and slick tentacles. Malen raised his voice high, severe:

"Knights of Black Vale! Fall back through the northern tunnel. Take the wounded and hold until dawn. I’ll buy time—now, go!"

Renner and the wounded looked at each other. Solider code warred with survival instinct. Finally, under Malen’s firm gaze, they obeyed—no words, just assessed nods. They limped away beneath Malen’s heavy fire—a surge of knife-thrusts and shout-curses as Malen’s blade flashed.

Tentacles crashed—stone concreted to dust.

He kept fighting. Each strike was desperate, savage—a stuttered defiance. Each growl he met with steel and mantra. And when they finally broke over the wall...

Malen closed his eyes, tears stinging with fatigue and grief.

"Protect them... spirits."

He drew his last knife breath. The stone cracked one final time.

---

Under one moonlit hill, a small knot of exhausted knights ran out of shadows. Corporal Ethik glanced behind where the world was alive with monstrous shapes.

"Gods above... they’re everywhere."

His partner, Knight Lyssa, stumbled, wandering onto the open road. Four creatures stirred in the fog behind them.

"We don’t make it," she whispered.

Ethik tightened his belt, glancing across to a hidden ravine. "Our only chance’s down there." He pointed. Thick water gurgled in a ditch.

Lyssa nodded, trembling. "Prayers?"

"Saint..." Ethik paused as another roar shook the hill. They broke into a run, leaping down into the muck. Mud splattered. Tentacles scratched along road’s shoulder.

They reached the ditch, sank into cold water to hide behind roots.

"Hold your breath—don’t breathe," Ethik hissed.

Lyssa’s eyes squeezed closed. Ethik’s brow coated in frost and fear.

And in the span of halted heartbeats, the beasts stomped past—tentacles trailing light mist—none aware of the hidden pair in the water. They stayed motionless, chilled to bone, until the world went quiet again.

Ethik exhaled tirelessly. "Move west... to the old ruins."

Lyssa’s nod was a claw mark in the darkness.

---

Somewhere in broken hills, Knight Brenna and her cohort—five strong, three wounded—circled a burned-out blackthorn enclosure. Brenna tugged at a gem necklace around her neck—Saint Aldara’s relic.

"Pray for it," she whispered tightly.

Her comrade, Onne, gasped. "They’re going to break through—any second."

She!s true. The octopus creatures were clawing forwards, tentacles scraping wood.

Brenna drew her last runeblade and slipped it from its sheath. "Then we hold the gate."

They took position. Each slash of blade was prayer, each laboring breath a verse. One creature lunged in but collapsed to a lunged stab—another struck—it staggered, trembled. It wouldn’t flinch again. Each fight was brutal, honed to minutes. The gate cracked again.

"Hold! Now!" Brenna roared.

Finally, they collapsed back—bloodied, broken—but the gate held. For now.

---

Ground tremors, flashes, and distant roars across the island told one story: the creatures had broken Varros’s outer line.

The Black Vale Knights were cut into unplanned pieces—scattered, hunted, fighting alone.

Each small victory tasted of salt and ash. None knew where Varros was. None knew if they’d live to see dawn.

---

In the hush that followed each narrow escape, prayers were whispered:

"Heal me, Coven of Light."

"Lord of Roads, lead me out."

"Sainted warlords—bless me."

And curses flew where shadows swallowed them:

"Damn this island—damn Georan’s blackened soul."

"To hell with every loose tentacle we’ve left behind."

"May this end soon—before we become the hunted."

---

By night’s blackest hour, six squads had dwindled to just a handful each. No cavalry charges or formation holds remained.

Only single-file scrambles through moonlit trenches.

Yet—as dawn broke somewhere beyond rock and rain—the survivors clung to faith, echoing the hardy oath of their Chief:

"To survive. To return. And—when he falls—Varros will return with vengeance."

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