The young man lowered himself onto the floor of his clandestine sanctuary. He reached for a portion of Raffbloom leaf-flesh, skewered and roasted within the hollow, and began to tear into it. The grilled foliage was marbled with succulent fats and nutrients, emitting a savoury aroma so potent it mimicked roasted meat, coaxing a low growl from his stomach.
A Raffbloom's leaves were merely appendages, entirely devoid of toxins. Within their anatomy, only two primary sectors harboured concentrated poison and demonic fel: the roots and the maw. While their venom was formidable, the toxins of a standard Flora Demon were seldom enough to claim the life of a seasoned demon hunter.
Unless one encountered a specialised breed, the blade-leaves and thorny tendrils remained untainted—save for instances where the creatures deliberately coated their vines in venom beforehand.
Consequently, if one harvested the flesh with precision, or possessed the means to purge the demonic miasma and demonic fel from the tissue, a human could consume the majority of their form without peril. The leaves and lateral appendages, in particular, were glutted with the energy and sustenance vital for human survival.
Seraph no longer required frequent sustenance; however, supplemental nourishment ensured his mana and maximum mageia capacity remained at their peak. Thus, the young man had opted to scavenge safe cuts of flesh to roast and consume since the previous night.
Yet, even now, the depths of the Darkwood beneath him echoed with the cacophony of strife and the desperate bellows of men resonating throughout the forest.
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Twilight besieged the Darkwood battlefield.
The clash of steel and the cacophony of strife within the forest never waned. Darkness gradually reclaimed the firmament above the Darkwood once more; the violet sky hung like the heavy, oppressive curtains of a theatre of death, preparing to commence its grim performance anew.
A swarm of approximately five thousand Raffblooms was currently attempting to corral and encircle a contingent of roughly three hundred warriors. They were on the precipice of success; the lifeless husks of demon hunters, strewn in a trail of demise, served as grim evidence. The flora demons had hemmed the humans in from every flank, leaving no gap, no breach, no hope of escape.
Unless these demon hunters could suddenly sprout wings and take to the sky, or leap clear of the fray from above, they stood with nothing but the slimmest hope of survival.
Myre gripped a massive shield within the formation. He and dozens of fellow warriors employed a shield-wall, a desperate bulwark to prevent the Raffbloom swarms from snagging their comrades with thorny tendrils and dragging them into the abyss.
Yet, it appeared they could no longer sustain their initial mission. With every passing minute, another warrior was hauled away into the verdant mass of the Raffblooms, leaving behind only a harrowing shriek that curdled the blood of those who remained. Their hope had withered to a mere shadow.
Myre strained every muscle with all the potency he possessed to keep his shield from being wrenched away! The sinews across his frame bulged, appearing ready to burst; his jaw was clamped shut in a vice of tension. Sweat poured down his visage in rivulets. Their path had been cruelly severed, a bitter realisation—yet they could not simply succumb to death.
"Harbert! Have you found a gap yet? Or do you fancy spending eternity as a forest ghost, bound to these bloody flowers?!" Myre bellowed over his shoulder.
"I can't find it! I'm looking with every fibre of my being, but there's nothing!" Harbert screamed back, his voice cracking. "Not a soul among the Rangers can see a way out anymore!"
Though they hurled shouts at one another, Harbert continued to drive his longspear into the Raffblooms beyond the shields with violent, rhythmic thrusts. Simultaneously, dozens of arrows were loosed by the hunters every second, skewering the Flora Demons outside the bulwark.
The contingent of three hundred now stood back-to-back, their heavy shields locked to forge a circular rampart. Behind the shields, the spear-units thrust incessantly, while from the hollow centre, the archers provided long-range suppression.
Further within the circle stood the magis, capable of mid-range strikes and delivering the most devastating mageia power the group could muster, flanked by a few healers weaving spells of restoration and replenishing the mana of the embattled warriors.
This spear-and-shield formation was the finest tactical arrangement Myre's company could devise and execute in their current plight.
Yet, this perpetual defiance offered no path of egress from the Raffbloom encirclement. While it served to preserve them for a fleeting interval, the entire structure was destined for ruin before long—particularly as night descended and the potency of the Raffblooms surged toward its zenith.
"Find a way out of this snare, no matter the cost!" Myre roared, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Otherwise, by dawn, we're nothing but ghosts haunting these woods!"
Along with his roar, he slammed his shield forward, sent several Raffblooms sprawling; in that fleeting opening, the spearmen thrust their weapons home, skewering the demons until their forms were riddled with punctures!
Measured one-on-one, the humans and demon hunters possessed an overwhelming superiority in strength. Yet, while the Raffblooms had fashioned their visages to mimic flora, they fought with the craven instinct of beasts—clinging to the safety of the pack!
The disparity in numbers was too vast. In such mass, there was efficiency; in efficiency, there was a terrible strength. The sheer scale of the Raffbloom army had surpassed the threshold of their endurance—
"Talk's cheap, man!" Harbert bellowed back, his nerves frayed to the snapping point. "If I had a way out, do you think I'd still be rotting here with you?!"
Suddenly, a massive orb of mageia plummeted from the heavens, striking the heart of the Flora Demon swarm with absolute violence.
[Boom!]
The concussive shock of the sudden strike sent a jolt of terror through the ranks, many fearing they had been caught in a fresh assault. The detonation erupted amidst the Raffblooms without warning or precedent. The roar of the mageia was so deafening that several warriors were sent tumbling, blood trickling from their ears.
Thick plumes of dust and soot billowed upward, veiling the violet sky. Yet, through the haze, they could discern the brilliance of orange flames igniting mysteriously at the epicenter of the Raffbloom horde.
The demon hunters permitted to join the Bloody Hunting were all possessors of high affinity, culled from the Mercenary and Demon Hunter Associations. Nearly all wielded mageia power, weaving it into their martial arts even if the majority did not bear the rank of magis.
Consequently, at this hour, every challenger could feel the tidal wave of potent mageia crashing into the Raffbloom swarm like a monstrous beast poised to swallow the entire forest whole. They all cast their gazes upward, witnessing a brilliant pillar of flame ascending toward the heavens, as if a mageia company from Arkflame had launched a localized strike into the very heart of the Darkwood.
A single phrase manifested in their minds: 'A high-ranking magis!'
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