CHAPTER 119: _MAKE THE LAND HIS

Elian’s POV

*****

Elian’s heart skipped a beat when Kyren’s hands lit up with a dark red light, his skin tingling with an odd warmth that surged through his body.

The intensity of the sand storm increased as he—little Kyren—yelled out in a language he couldn’t understand.

’Back when I relied heavily on casting spells through the old tongue.’ Kyren’s voice sounded excited in his head. ’Good times...’

Meanwhile, the male witch reacted quickly to the sand storm, chanting something in a language of his before pointing his index finger at Kyren.

The floating book in front of him pulsed with a bright silver red light, a red lightning bolt crackling through the air above before heading straight at little Kyren.

"Shit!" Elian cursed, his body tensing up... But little Kyren was no pushover.

He suddenly shifted through the sand, sliding on it until he was several meters away from the lightning’s hit zone. But the impact was still felt, pushing him even further backwards until he gritted his teeth.

"You want to see true magic? True power?!" The male witch snapped coldly, levitating into the air while the other witches charged toward little Kyren.

[I have a feeling things are about to get bloody. And not for whom most would expect.]

Elian’s lips parted, little Kyren’s voice coming out of it. "I’ve seen true magic. I breathe it every day!"

Suddenly, gales of wine sharpened by the sand storm swirling around him formed, taking shape into blades several meters high.

All of them surged toward the incoming witches one by one, but they were prepared.

Some drew out chains sparking with blue electric currents, two held out plasma blades glowing with the energy of runes, and one of them held out a plasma rifle with glowing crystals on its edges.

[Arcadia truly is a powerhouse when it comes to magi-tech.]

The witches scattered, their cloaks whipping in the storm as Kyren’s sand-forged blades screeched against chains and weapons. Sparks flew, sand hissed, and the desert became a cacophony of shrieks and roars.

Elian’s chest heaved as though he were fighting— his blood rushing, heart pounding, every nerve in his body trembling with borrowed fury.

The first witch lunged with his chain, electricity snapping in the air.

But little Kyren didn’t flinch.

He twisted his wrist, the sand around him swirling tighter, coiling like a serpent. The chain lashed forward—only for the sand-serpent to wrap around it, absorbing the shock until sparks sputtered harmlessly against the grains.

With a vicious pull, Kyren yanked the witch off balance. Elian felt the boy’s small muscles strain, tearing at the limits of his frame, but adrenaline surged him forward.

He dragged the witch close, snatched a shard of crystallised sand sharpened like glass, and drove it into the man’s throat.

Blood sprayed on little Kyren, causing Elian to gasp as he felt the hot gush as though his own hands had pierced the flesh. The witch crumpled to his knees, choking, while the sand devoured his final scream.

"Gods..." Elian whispered, but little Kyren didn’t pause. He pivoted, the boy’s crimson eyes narrowing, feral and hungry for survival.

The plasma-blade wielders charged, twin arcs of glowing light slicing through the storm. One blade grazed little Kyren’s shoulder.

The boy shrieked, pain flooding Elian’s nerves like molten fire. Blood spilt down his arm, soaking his ragged clothes.

He stumbled—small, fragile—but refused to fall.

[He’s ten. Ten! And he’s still alive against a strike squad. What the actual fuck?!] The system seemed like an excited onlooker.

Little Kyren grit his teeth, raising his good arm.

The storm thickened, grains of sand condensed, glowing faintly red as if infused with his blood. They hardened midair, turning into jagged shards.

And then he flung them like daggers.

One plasma blade wielder blocked, sparks flying as the shards shattered against his blade. But the other wasn’t so lucky.

Two shards pierced his abdomen, one jamming deep into his chest. He screamed, his blade flickering as his body hit the sand.

The surviving plasma wielder roared in fury, swinging wildly.

Little Kyren ducked and rolled, but Elian felt his skin tear as the blade carved a shallow gash across his thigh. Pain made his vision blur.

The child stumbled again, but desperation drove him on. He dragged himself to his knees, clutched the sand, and whispered that old tongue again.

The ground beneath the plasma wielder cracked open, swallowing the witch waist-deep before sealing tight. His screams rattled the storm until Little Kyren ended them with a shard to the skull.

Elian panted, his body trembling though he wasn’t truly fighting. He swore he could taste iron in his mouth.

"You’re insane..." he whispered, but Kyren’s child-voice snapped back through his lips.

"I had no choice."

And still—they weren’t done.

The rifle witch had been waiting and was aiming steadily even in the chaos. The plasma crystal whined as it charged, runes flickering along its barrel.

Then—

Bang!

The blast ripped through the sandstorm.

Little Kyren screamed as the bolt tore across his side, searing flesh. He crumpled, his small body writhing in agony, blood staining the sand crimson.

Elian’s breath caught, tears pricking his eyes. The pain was unbearable, sharp, relentless, like fire gnawing his ribs.

[Kid’s gonna die if he doesn’t—]

But Kyren pushed himself up, shaking and barely breathing.

He wasn’t done.

His eyes flared bright red, glowing like burning coals. The sandstorm twisted into a cyclone, dragging the rifle witch off his feet.

The man shrieked as the storm shredded him alive, skin flaying, bones snapping under invisible force until he was nothing but bloody tatters carried into the wind.

The leader was all that remained... the floating witch, his silver-red book pulsing brighter with rage.

"You think you’ve won, half-blood?" he thundered. "This land will bury you. Even if you survive today, you’ll never escape the curse of what you are!"

Little Kyren bared his teeth, panting, his body torn and trembling. "Then I’ll make this cursed land mine."

He raised his hands, summoning the storm tighter. But before he struck, his gaze snapped to the nearest warcraft, its doors still open.

With a sudden sprint, Little Kyren dashed toward it.

Elian felt every agonising step, every tear of muscle. His vision blurred with blood and grit as the boy threw himself inside the metallic craft.

Arcadian runes glowed across its panels, strange consoles buzzing with life. The leader roared behind him, spells booming through the desert.

Bolts of light struck the craft’s walls, but little Kyren ignored them.

He staggered toward the central console, his tiny fingers dragging through blood as he slammed them against the runes. Sparks erupted, alarms blaring, the entire system screeching in protest.

And then... CRASH!

Little Kyren drove his hand, coated in blood and sand, into the glowing core. The runes sputtered.

The comms crystal shattered, splintering across the floor.

The leader’s voice thundered in outrage just then. "NO!"

Little Kyren collapsed against the wreckage, coughing blood, but his lips curled into a vicious grin.

Elian trembled, tears streaking his face as he whispered the words forced from his lips: "If I can’t be controlled, then I’ll control you."

The craft erupted in sparks as Kyren dragged himself out, limping, his body broken but eyes burning.

’That day,’ Kyren’s adult voice whispered in Elian’s mind, cool and calm, ’I learned two things: blood terrifies even those who spill it... and Arcadia’s magi-tech was more valuable than their lives. I studied every broken shard, every crystal, every rune. I grew stronger. Smarter. And when they came again...’

Images flashed through Elian’s mind: more witches descending, more blood, more sandstorms raging across the dark lands. Kyren stood taller with each battle, his body scarred, his eyes harder.

’They thought I was prey. But I made myself a predator. Centuries passed. The dark lands bent to me. And the rogues...? They followed the strongest wolf. A sovereign. Me.’

Elian’s chest heaved, his mind swimming in the flood of carnage and triumph.

After everything he just experienced, he wanted to scream. To weep. To run.

Suddenly, the desert bled away like ink, and the sand storm dissolved. His body snapped back into place...

... And then his mind came back to his body.

Elian gasped, clutching his chest. Sweat drenched his skin, the taste of blood still lingering on his tongue.

He blinked wildly, trying to focus...

Only to realise Kyren wasn’t on the bed anymore.

The rogue king stood directly in front of him, so close Elian could feel his breath ghosting over his lips. His crimson eyes bored into his own, unreadable and endless.

Elian froze, his heart thundering while Kyren leaned in, his face mere inches away as his smirk faded into something darker.

"Now," Kyren whispered, low and dangerous, "do you understand me, little flame?"