Tower of Biringan City

CHAPTER 13 “He who pretend.”

Reached its c****x amidst the clash of blades and the whirlwind of magic. Alli, undeterred by his wounds, stood tall, his eyes reflecting a mix of determination and defiance. Reiner, the victor of their duel, looked down at Alli with a mixture of regret and melancholy. “In another time, another place, perhaps we could have been allies,” Reiner said, his voice heavy with the burden of their conflict. “But in this world, where vengeance and sorrow rule, there is no room for understanding.”

Alli’s lips curled into a sardonic smile, his eyes alight with a hint of mockery. “Oh, Reiner,” he sneered, his tone dripping with disdain, “Next time we meet, I’ll be sure to bring a reminder of your defeat. Perhaps a souvenir to jog your memory." With a mocking salute, he turned away, leaving Reiner to ponder his words amidst the echoes of the battlefield, a bitter taste of defeat lingering in the air.

As Reiner made his somber exit, Alli’s smirk faded, replaced by a steely resolve. His gaze shifted to the fallen piece of Bry’s Batung Kalasag, a silent reminder of the cost of their battle. With a deep breath, Alli vowed to carry on, to honor the fallen and continue the fight against the forces that sought to engulf their world in darkness.

Meanwhile, in the shadows, Kien, the vigilant marksman, continued his watchful gaze, analyzing every movement of the battlefield. His sharp eyes spotted a glimmer above the stairs, indicating the presence of another foe. With precision honed through years of practice, he aimed and fired, but his shot met only empty air. In a cruel twist of fate, Kien found himself at the receiving end of a deadly attack, his keen senses failing him in the face of an unseen adversary. The once-confident marksman fell, his fall echoing through the silent battlefield like a mournful lament.

The enigmatic figure emerged from the shadows, their voice like a whispering wind carrying a chilling truth. “Your keen eyes may perceive, but your coordination between eyes and finger is lacking,” they said, their tone laced with cold indifference. “A pity, for in the art of battle, such hesitance can be fatal.”

With a graceful motion, the mysterious assailant vanished back into the obsidian depths of the battlefield, leaving Kien’s fallen form as a stark reminder of the cost of hesitation in the face of unseen dangers. The night was silent, save for the distant echoes of battle, and Kien’s mournful lament resonated through the air, a haunting melody of lost opportunities and unforgiving shadows.

The battlefield, now stained with the blood of fallen comrades, bore witness to the struggles of Harold, the mage, as he faced off against Mark, the relentless melee fighter. Harold’s hands moved in intricate patterns, conjuring protective wards and unleashing powerful spells, but Mark’s determination was unyielding. With every swing of his weapon, Mark pressed forward, closing the distance between them with unwavering resolve.

Amidst the clash of spells and steel, Harold, the mage, and Mark, the relentless melee fighter, found themselves locked in a battle of ideologies as much as physical prowess.

Harold, his brow furrowed in determination, questioned Mark amidst their fierce combat. “Why does the White Lotus Family want the Pluma?” he demanded, his voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and frustration. “And why are you with them, Mark? What drove you to join their cause?”

Mark, his eyes reflecting a complex mix of emotions, paused for a moment before revealing the truth. “After the humiliation I suffered at the Balete Tree war, I was lost,” he admitted, his voice tinged with bitterness. “One of the members of the White Lotus Family found me, offered me purpose, and a chance for redemption.”

With a solemn gesture, Mark revealed the tattoo on his arm, a symbol of the bond he shared with the enigmatic group. “This mark represents our unity, our shared goal,” he explained, his gaze meeting Harold’s. “We seek the Pluma not for power, but to bend reality itself, creating a world where people can live free from suffering. They plan to establish a kingdom, a sanctuary to protect everyone from the monsters that lurk in the shadows. No more casualties, no more pain.”

The tattoo on Mark’s arm bore the mark of a sinister design, reminiscent of demonic symbols from ancient grimoires. Intricate lines twisted and coiled, forming a twisted amalgamation of serpentine figures and sharp-edged sigils. Its dark, obsidian ink seemed to absorb the surrounding light, giving it an otherworldly, almost malevolent aura. The center of the tattoo held an eye, an unblinking gaze that appeared to see into the depths of one’s soul, hinting at the mysterious power the White Lotus Family wielded.

As Harold caught his breath amidst the battle’s chaos, his mind raced with a realization. The corrupt nature of the White Lotus Family became clear to him. Their goals, once seemingly noble, were now tainted by manipulation and darker intentions. Looking at Mark, he saw not an enemy, but a victim, ensnared in the web of deception spun by the organization.

A surge of empathy washed over Harold. He recognized that Mark, too, was a pawn in this sinister game, his beliefs twisted and molded by the very hands that had offered him purpose. Determination etched on his face, Harold vowed to expose the truth behind the White Lotus Family’s façade and free Mark from their malevolent influence. Amidst the battlefield’s turmoil, a new resolve fueled Harold’s magic, turning his spells into a beacon of truth in the midst of darkness, as he prepared to unveil the corruption that had ensnared his misguided foe.

Harold studied Mark’s face, searching for sincerity amidst the chaos of battle. In that moment, he saw not just an enemy, but a person driven by a desperate desire for change, misguided though it might be. The battlefield around them seemed to fade as they conversed, the clash of ideals painting a more nuanced picture of their conflict, leaving room for doubt and understanding in the midst of the chaos.

Amidst the chaos, Illumi, a mysterious figure shrouded in enigma, found himself surrounded by illusions that danced and twisted around him. The illusions were his own creation, yet in the heat of battle, they began to blur the line between reality and deception. Confusion clouded him senses as he struggled to discern friend from foe, his every move countered by the illusions that seemed to have a mind of their own.

As the truth began to unravel and Harold prepared to confront the corruption that had ensnared Mark, a chilling silence fell over the battlefield. In the fading light, a silhouette emerged from the shadows, revealing Patrick, his features twisted into him smirking. His eyes glinted with an unsettling mix of satisfaction and malevolence.

The world around them seemed to dissolve, like an illusion fading into nothingness. The battleground, the clash of weapons, and the cries of battle all melted away, leaving behind an eerie stillness.

In the midst of this surreal moment, Khione, his voice echoing with an enigmatic wisdom, spoke the final words: “We got the answer we wanted."