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10898-chapter-55

Chapter 55 : Tides of the Unbound Spell

The wyvern was not revered merely for its wings.
Had flight been its only gift, a well-aimed arrow or a heavy quarrel would have ended its menace. Even without ranged weapons, one could simply wait—wait for the beast to descend to strike, and pierce it in its arrogance.

But the heavens had forged it with more than just wings.
It bore a massive frame, vast enough to carry a grown man astride its back. That bulk came paired with strength that rivaled siege engines, with talons like blades and teeth that shredded mail like parchment. And its hide—scales like stone, impenetrable to all but the gods’ own wrath.

Even grounded, the wyvern remained a beast of nightmare.
Yet it was the sky that made it truly fearsome. The fusion of brute might and unshackled flight rendered it a terror from which few could flee. But now, with its wings torn and broken, the scales of fate tipped. The advantage was no longer its own.

The first two had fallen mid-flight—wings rent apart, unable to slow, they had plummeted to the earth like cursed stars.
Their scales, strong as mountain bone, and the stubborn vitality common to their kind, spared them from death by fall. But what awaited them below was not salvation.

It was drowning.

“Keh-hakk! Keh-lurk?!”
“Kerruk?!”

The stunned beasts, still reeling from the crash, opened mouths and nostrils to breathe—only to find not air, but water. Reflexes betrayed them. They coughed, and water claimed the space where breath should be.

Their heads had become prisoners in a liquid cage. Screeches or roars—whatever they were—bubbled and died, unable to pierce the surface.

Desperate, they thrashed their long necks, but the water clung like a curse. Panic surged, and instinct drove them to slam their skulls into the earth.

THWACK! SPLASH!
Each crash sent droplets flying in a halo of silver and spray. It seemed as though they might succeed—yet no matter how much water they scattered, their mouths and nostrils remained sealed shut by the relentless tide.

Through wide, pain-maddened eyes, they saw them—humans.

At last, the beast’s survival instinct caught up with its senses. The same water that had torn their wings. The same water now drowning them. The humans who had conjured it. And among them—the most dangerous one.

With a guttural roar, the wyverns rose to their hind legs and charged toward Curtis .

“Th-they’re coming!” a nervous cleric cried out.

“Let them,” Curtis  answered, voice calm as the eye of a storm.

The beasts hadn’t even shaken off the impact of their fall, let alone drawn breath. Their charge was born of desperation, not strength. Unlike before—when they dove from the sky like meteors—this was a stagger, not a strike. Time was on Curtis ‘s side.

Around him, spears of water shimmered into being—one after another, identical in form, like twins born from a mirror.

WHIP-CRACK! WHIP-CRACK! WHIP-CRACK!
The spears flew as swiftly as they formed, a ceaseless storm of liquid wrath.

The wyverns, too slow to evade and too stubborn to retreat, took the full brunt. Their scales held, yes—but pain was not absent. Each impact slowed them, staggered them, pushed them back.

And that was all that was needed.

Panting and battered, the beasts collapsed just shy of the group, bodies unable to match their will.

“Keep watch, just in case,” Curtis  murmured, not yet easing the spell.

“Yes, sir!”

He turned his gaze toward the battlefield’s edge. There, Lilia fought alone—and she needed no help.

“Haah! Hah!”

Her sword now sheathed, she wielded a massive flail, smashing down upon the wyvern with wild yet deliberate force.

CRACK! THUD!
Her fierce cries were deceptively sweet—but the sounds of impact were anything but.

The beast’s scales were impervious to normal steel, but Lilia was no mere warrior. Her strength was sanctified by the blessing of force, and wherever her flail struck, the armored hide buckled and split.

SCREEEEECH!
The wyvern flailed, tail whipping through the air like a scythe, a last desperate blow. But Lilia danced above it, leaping with the grace of a fox, then brought her flail down again—

BOOM!
Right into its chest. The wyvern reeled, breath sputtering, though somehow it still stood.

“Shall I assist?” Curtis  called out.

Lilia glanced his way—and spotted the two wyverns crumpled by his side.

“Yes!” she called back, without hesitation.

Pride, competition—those were foreign to her. The only victory that mattered was thinning the enemy’s numbers, not proving one’s prowess.

Curtis  smiled faintly. Practical. Efficient. Admirable.
He swept his hand once more.

The pool at his feet surged, gathering into a wave that rushed forward.

SHHHHH-WHAM!
The wave looked ready to consume all—wyvern and Lilia alike. But just before it struck, it coalesced into a single spear of water aimed directly at the wyvern’s skull.

GURRGH!
It inhaled without thinking, filling its lungs with water and regret. Bubbles rose in a frantic stream, its movements growing sluggish.

And Lilia, ever relentless, delivered more punishing blows. With each strike, the beast slowed further.

THUD!

The third wyvern crumpled under her blows.

Curtis  turned to the clerics.
“Movement?”

“None, sir!”

He narrowed his eyes. Surely even a creature like this wouldn’t play dead—not after all that. If so, they deserved the mistake. He released the watery prisons.

“I’ll double-check, just in case!” Lilia chirped.

With brutal precision, she brought her flail down on the limp creature’s skull.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!
Each blow rang like a war drum. Even the wyvern’s legendary resilience could not withstand her unyielding might. The skull cracked—then shattered.

“Should I check the others too?”

“If you would,” Curtis  replied, watching her skip off with light steps and lethal intent.

He exhaled slowly, the breath of a man between battles—but not yet at peace.

 

It had been an age since Curtis  had unleashed his magic with such relentless force.
Not since he departed from the stone towers of Nizerthe had he drawn so deeply from the well of his power. Back then, there was no need. A rabble of bandits here, a stray panghog there—none worthy of earnest spellcraft.

This… this had been different.

Though weary, he couldn’t help but feel a quiet satisfaction bloom within him. He recalled the days when vanquishing a single troll had required him to scrape his mana reserves raw, clawing for strength. But now? Now he conjured at will. His command of water—though only marginally stronger in rank—was bolstered by the presence of a bound spirit, an elemental wellspring without end.

Where once he had relied on trickling creeks, recycling every droplet of streamwater like a pauper rationing gold, now he wielded torrents drawn from the very breath of the world. He no longer measured each spell’s worth—he unleashed.

“Had I simply continued hurling spears of water, perhaps I could’ve felled them before my mana ever gave out… Two of them, at least.”