Chapter Fifteen: Fierce Battle

The troops began to form up in attack formation. One mage prepared an area-wide enhancement spell, while another constructed a spell for area damage. Battle was inevitable; the threat of the trolls had to be completely eradicated, or there would be no peace for places like the Farstrider Lodge, the Tower of Dath’Resir, and Suren’s farm.

With Alan’s support, the mental plane unfurled, establishing a three-dimensional remote sensing image akin to satellite positioning. Every enemy within Patrick’s psychic range was marked, just like the cutting-edge digital systems of later ages.

“Begin the assault,” Aurelia commanded.

Arcane energy gathered in Patrick’s palm. Through the effect of Arcane Mimicry, the pale blue arcane power gradually transformed into a searing, bright red. His psychic field tightly restrained the fire, compressing the magic.

He locked onto his target with his mind, and the compressed firebolt shot forth. Across from him, the Amani shadow priest drew together a mass of dark green voodoo energy from a carved totem, sending it hurtling to meet Patrick’s spell.

The firebolt and the voodoo energy collided violently. These two forces didn’t simply cancel each other out; instead, their impact caused a fierce explosion in midair. The blast sent a gale roaring through the trees, tearing up clods of dark green earth and even scattering worms through the air.

The rangers, nimble and enhanced by magic, dealt effective blows to the trolls. Still, the trolls’ witch doctors and priests prayed ceaselessly to their animal gods, sending out wisps of green energy that floated toward the Amani berserkers. The green aura swirled around the troll soldiers, quickly staunching their wounds.

At the same time, the divine blessing drove the troll warriors into an even greater frenzy, sharpening their bloodlust and battle fervor. The trolls now attacked with reckless abandon. The divine blessing was both a shield and a curse—obliterating all else in their minds except the urge to kill.

“Hawksbill, can you keep those troll warriors off me? I’ll take out that troll priest,” Patrick said, pointing at the priest in the troll camp.

Under the priest’s hex, the nearby waiting troll berserkers swelled by a third, veins bulging on their muscles, and the last glimmer of clarity faded from their eyes—leaving only thirst for blood and the will to slaughter.

At the same time, Patrick gathered arcane energy, compressing it into a deadly pyroblast—a gift for the trolls. Another mage with the unit imbued Arcane Brilliance and Arcane Blessing, enchanting every comrade’s weapon with arcane damage.

By now, the Amani berserkers had become tireless, unfeeling engines of carnage, charging straight for Patrick. The intention of the opposing troll priest was clear: eliminate the spellcasters first.

On the perimeter, the troll soldiers began to falter, but the troll priest showed no sign of retreat, refusing to abandon the assault on the Farstrider camp. Was he scheming something else?

Patrick’s pyroblast shot from his hand, locking directly onto the troll shadow priest. Patrick’s lips curled in a faint smile. Spellcasting through a psychic model looked no different from conventional casting, but his spell model was constructed in the mental plane, and the target was psychically locked—this pyroblast was guaranteed to hit.

The pyroblast exploded, but was blocked by a layer of green barrier around the troll priest. It appeared the troll priest was protected by their animal god, making him fearless.

Patrick prepared to conjure another pyroblast, but something felt off. In the psychic world, he sensed a large number of trolls approaching, and a wide area of voodoo curses being woven.

“Something’s wrong. Another divine protector has arrived—it’s Chieftain Zul’Marosh of Zeb’Watha,” he sent magically to Aurelia. Voodoo could draw on the power of animal gods to manipulate reality, much like the school of Transmutation in magic—altering or redefining the rules of other things.

[It’s confirmed—the one from Zeb’Watha, Chieftain Zul’Marosh. I suggest we fight while withdrawing. Your mana is nearly depleted; even if I supply you with arcane energy, you’ll collapse from psychic exhaustion.] Alan advised.

“Hahaha! Prepare the altar for our new guests!” boomed the laughter of Chieftain Zul’Marosh from afar.

A mass of troll figures emerged from the edge of the forest, surrounding Aurelia’s squad and forming a pincer with the troll priest—a dire situation for Patrick and his companions.

In the psychic world, the trolls’ forms appeared and were locked onto, confirming their numbers: 820 troll soldiers, seven spellcasters, and Chieftain Zul’Marosh himself—all present. The overwhelming difference in numbers plunged Aurelia’s squad into near despair.

“Lady Aurelia, the troll reinforcements have arrived. What should we do?” Hawksbill asked her.

“We break out with all our strength—carve a path. Even if we can’t destroy the trolls’ plot, we must get this intelligence back.”

The tide of battle turned instantly due to the disparity in numbers. Patrick’s heart pounded with panic. It was his first experience of war, the first time he saw a comrade fall dead at his feet, skewered by a spear—his own face splashed with blood. Kicking the corpse aside, he looked around; the elf beside him lay dead, a spear piercing both his right arm and chest.

Thus erupted a bloody battle between elves and trolls, sudden yet inevitable. The trolls had painstakingly laid this trap—whether the elves advanced into the Living Forest or not, the trolls could execute their plan. It was a masterstroke of cunning.

In a flash, the sounds of carnage shook the heavens. Countless axes, spears, and hexes flew through the air. The trolls, wielding their numerical advantage, tightened their encirclement, aiming to annihilate the high elf force completely.

“Aurelia, order everyone to drop their packs! Take only weapons and rations, rally together, and charge in one direction!” In this moment of crisis, Patrick disregarded all elven decorum, shouting directly to Aurelia.

“What? You want to break out?”

All the elves could feel the arcane energy gathering around Patrick, the air nearly drained of arcane power.

“Alan, give me all your mana reserves—pour everything into the Arcane Core!” Patrick had no choice but to prepare this unfinished spell.

[You want to use that now? Such an incomplete spell will have a severe impact on your mind.]

“If we can’t get out alive, there will be no future.”

[…Very well!]

Alan steadily funneled all the energy she had absorbed into Patrick. Normally, Patrick only drew a little from her, fearing arcane addiction and always restraining himself from recklessly absorbing energy from the Sunwell. But Alan’s reserves filled Patrick’s depleted mana in an instant. At the same time, he drew in every scrap of arcane energy from the surrounding air, forming an arcane sphere in his hand.

The inspiration for this spell came from an anime Patrick had loved in his previous life—a sealing technique used by a ninja, capable of inflicting devastating shock on enemies. Patrick had intended to perfect it, but now, necessity forced his hand.