When combined with a musculature akin to a titan's, they were nothing short of war machines! They were flora demons born specifically for the theatre of battle and the carnage of a demon war.
The gust of their approach collided with him as green blades sought his life. These Razorleaf demons had closed the distance with terrifying speed; had his defensive casting faltered by even a heartbeat, his head would have been severed from his shoulders. Death had greeted him at such close quarters he could smell its putrid breath, a sensation that sent a frigid shiver down the nape of his neck.
"Flamus Multitelus!" Seraph incanted with feral intensity.
A hundred orbs of fire manifested around the young magis, encircling him like a stellar core orbited by a legion of miniature suns. They spun with a low, predatory hum, charging their energy as if awaiting a mandate of execution. Each fiery projectile pulsed like a miniature singularity, poised to devour all in its path—even the demonic horde.
"FIRE!!!" Seraph unleashed the spell.
[Thut-thut-thut-thut-thut-thut!]
A hundred bolts of crimson mageia tore through the gloom with violent velocity. Slender streaks of red light traced across the face of Laurasia, the friction against the air birthing a scent of char and a turbulent gale. The staccato report of the fire-bolts echoed as if a full-scale war had erupted in the heart of the Darkwood.
The clay-red ovoid heads of the five Razorleaf warriors shattered like bludgeoned melons. Corrosive ichor splattered downward, eroding the Raffblooms below and triggering a chain of visceral detonations. High-pitched shrieks resonated without respite.
Yet, these five were but a vanguard; within the depths of the swarm, hundreds more clay-red silhouettes surged forward, carving through the ranks of their kin toward the young man like a rising tide of death.
The barrage of fire rained down upon the Raffbloom host with unrestrained aggression. The sound of the volley and the scent of searing heat saturated the canopy. A hundred carcasses piled upon the earth offered no deterrent to the survivors; the swarm's numbers were too vast. Even though the young magis had prioritised the Razorleaf breed, they could not be purged in a single stroke.
Furthermore, the standard Raffblooms were not without their own lethality. They scrambled closer, lashing out with thorny tendrils in a desperate bid to snare the human and drag him down into the heart of the thousand-strong horde below.
"Flamus Shellux!"
"Flamus Loricus!"
"Flamus Guardrix!"
"Flamus Amulus!"
The young magis unleashed a continuous stream of defensive spells without pause.
[Szzzt-crack!]
Thorny lash-vines struck the concentric mageia circles with a violent, rhythmic staccato—yet the array of flamus-tier defensive spells incinerated every encroaching tendril within heartbeats! A dozen sigils and warding orbs orbited Seraph's frame in a loyal, protective rotation, shielding him from every flank.
The young magis surged through the air, weaving between hundreds of thorny vines that lanced upward more than ten metres into the sky. All the while, Razorleaf warriors leaped from the canopy, their blade-leaves hacking at him with brazen aggression.
"Flamus Thermospatas!" he incanted without pause.
[VROOMM—!]
A massive, two-metre blade of solar energy erupted from the Rubyflame Sceptre. Its edge was broad, radiating a searing thermal haze from its keen tip; a weapon of pure caloric force shaped in the likeness of a warrior's greatsword. Yet, what projected from the focus was no forged steel, but a terrifying manifestation of concentrated heat shrouded in a crimson aura.
"Whiplash!!" Seraph roared, invoking a martial technique.
[Crack-thwip!]
Instantly, the young magis's form blurred into a ghostly phantasm. He moved with the fluidity of woodsmoke, leaving flickering afterimages suspended in the air. Dozens of thorny vines lanced through those vacant silhouettes, finding nothing but the empty gloom above the treetops.
Like a scarlet minnow darting through a sea of Blood Floras, the fire-blade swept through the suspended vines with the blistering speed of a cracking whip! The report of the weapon was indistinguishable from a lash of flame.
[SKREEEE!]
Severed tendrils detonated amidst a spray of sparks. A chorus of charring pops erupted along the vines as the Raffblooms shrieked, their appendages scorched and rendered into blackened fragments by the incandescent energy. A second and third strike followed in a relentless torrent of wrath.
Whiplash was a staple among high-celerity warriors—a brutal art that allowed a blade to be wielded with the fluid, snapping agility of a lash. It left those caught in its path not merely wounded, but rent asunder, their forms shredded as if by the ravenous fangs of a beast.
Executing such a manoeuvre demanded a staggering toll, forcing Seraph to ignite his internal reserves. A brilliant orange-red aura flared from his frame, a radiant wave of heat sweeping across the floral host as he began his macabre dance.
The young magis lunged toward the earth, his fire-blade aimed at the throats of the Razorleaf warriors. He tore through the heart of the demonic legion like a searing gale. Dozens of Raffblooms and Razorleaf entities were cleaved through their midsections; no substance could obstruct his passage. Nothing remained in his wake but the harrowing agony of demons torn apart by the searing edge of his wrath.
Even when the energy-blade struck monolithic boulders or the iron-hard trunks of the Darkwood, the materials offered no resistance against the incandescent heat.
A chorus of shrieks erupted as bifurcated torsos were hurled into the air by the sheer momentum of the strike.
Seraph struck the earth, his boots triggering a concussive pulse of flame before he pivoted for another rapid cleave. His blade swept parallel to the soil, felling both Raffblooms and ancient black trees in a single, ruinous arc. He moved in predatory geometries—circles and figures of eight—carving through every adversary with the cold mastery of a supreme swordsman.
A single pass of his blade claimed dozens of lives in a spray of sparks and ichor. His white cloak billowed amidst the swarm like a ghost of the battlefield; severed vines and scorched fragments choked the sky. The forest shuddered beneath the violence, the lamentations of the demons sounding like the wailing of the damned.
Although the fire-blade tempest had begun to subside, the firmament remained a bruised shade of crimson and indigo. Mere decametres away, the wall of flame continued its ravenous feast; with every passing heartbeat, more Raffblooms were consigned to the pyre.
Seraph finally skidded to a halt, his boots carving deep furrows into the earth. The periphery was choked with the remains of the floral swarm—hacked into jagged, unrecognisable fragments.
"Ventus Aethus!"
The young magis incanted, weaving a pocket of pure air once more.
He heaved for breath, struggling to draw the cleansed air into lungs that felt as though they were being rent asunder. He felt the cold touch of mortality brushing against him. Strands of silver hair clung to his face, drenched in a deluge of sweat.
"Gasp! No more..." Seraph panted, his voice a raspy lament to the gale. "This brand of reckless brawling is hardly my forte. If I persist with such mindless savagery, my intellect will be reduced to nothing but muscle."
He harboured no desire for such carnage, yet the Raffblooms were too vast in number and far too swift. At the very least, within those few harrowing minutes, over a thousand carcasses now lay piled in his wake.
Had he the means to extract these remains, they might have fetched a king's ransom. It was a tragedy he could do nothing with them, and the indigo night persisted, granting him no reprieve to close his eyes.
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