In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

The silence was broken by the sound of flapping wings cutting through the air. From the distant edge of the camp, flying beasts began taking to the skies. It was Crown Prince Oswald, the five chieftains, and their chosen few attempting to escape.

Wings tore through the clouds as the escapees soared upward, but their retreat was far from smooth. From the cover of the clouds, Marcus, Miaomiao, and the gargoyles descended with ferocious speed, their sudden appearance a harbinger of battle.

Oswald's face darkened with despair as he watched their carefully laid escape plan crumble. "So, this was their plan all along," he muttered bitterly. "They lured us into this trap with their silence."

The failure of their escape was more than a personal loss—it would crush the already fragile morale of the soldiers left behind. Betrayed and abandoned by their leaders, the remaining troops would undoubtedly surrender without resistance. The thought made Oswald's already dim eyes lose their light entirely.

Marcus took a deep breath and unleashed a torrent of fire. The flames roared through the air, engulfing the flying beasts. The sky filled with their tortured cries as the searing heat consumed them, and the wounded beasts spiraled down to the ground in a fiery descent.

Michael's voice rang out across the battlefield, sharp and commanding:

"Capture them alive! Each one of them is worth their weight in gold!"

Buoyed by his words, Michael's forces attacked with precision. Miaomiao darted through the chaos, its sharp claws tearing through the wings of enemy beasts. Flesh and bone shredded mid-air, and the crippled beasts plummeted toward the earth.

The gargoyles joined the fray, releasing explosives that detonated against the enemy's ranks. The night sky lit up with fiery explosions, filling the air with the stench of burning flesh and the anguished cries of dying beasts. Amidst the chaos, pieces of charred bodies and fiery debris rained down upon the battlefield.

The Pamir forces fought back desperately, their claws and fangs lashing out in all directions. But Michael's Special Operations Unit evaded each attack with practiced ease, countering with deadly precision. The battle raged on, a maelstrom of fire, steel, and blood.

Below, the spectacle in the skies stunned the remaining Pamir soldiers. Emerging from their tents, they gazed upward in disbelief, their faces pale with fear.

"This must be an enemy assault!" one soldier exclaimed, his voice trembling. But another, whose sharp eyes caught the truth, scoffed.

"Assault? No, look closely. Those are our own leaders, trying to flee!"

Realization dawned, and another soldier gritted his teeth in rage.

"So they planned to abandon us all along."

Disgust and anger filled the camp as the soldiers exchanged bitter remarks.

"Cowards! They wanted to save their own skins and leave us here to die."

"That explains why they took the flying beasts. If it were an assault, they'd have hunkered down in their tents."

The betrayal was unmistakable. As the air battle reached its peak, the soldiers below were consumed by resentment for their leaders. Any lingering loyalty had been shattered.

Above, the conflict drew to a decisive close. Despite their best efforts, Oswald and the chieftains could not match Michael's meticulously prepared forces. Their escape was decisively thwarted, leaving them no choice but to surrender.

Oswald, his face pale as a ghost, finally descended to the ground. The Crown Prince now stood face-to-face with Michael, his crimson eyes gleaming with the same cold resolve that had orchestrated this victory.

'So, this is the infamous Michael,' Oswald thought bitterly, meeting his captor's gaze.

Michael's sword hovered near Oswald's neck as he spoke.

"Surrender?"

Oswald lowered his head, his voice tinged with bitter pride.

"Show me some respect. I am the Crown Prince of the Empire."

Michael's lips curved into a wry smile.

"You're my prisoner now. Seize them all!"

At his command, the Special Operations Unit swiftly subdued Oswald and the chieftains. Enthusiasm electrified the ranks of Michael's forces as they restrained their captives.

Meanwhile, the soldiers in the Pamir camp watched the scene unfold with cold disdain. Not a single one moved to aid their fallen leaders, their eyes filled with contempt for the ones who had tried to abandon them.

Prince Oswald and the five tribal chiefs, bound humiliatingly with ropes around their entire bodies, trudged across the vast plains. They had been walking for nearly three days, restrained and under constant watch. Though their captors neither starved them nor inflicted physical abuse, the prisoners' spirits were thoroughly crushed.

The plains stretched endlessly, the cold, harsh air biting at their skin. Every gust of wind carried dust and sand that scratched their faces. Sweat beaded on foreheads, while feet unused to long marches were raw and blistered. The scorched, charred land bore silent testimony to the scorched-earth campaign waged by the Kingdom of Elonia. Once-fertile fields lay desolate, with only burned haystacks and torn furrows hinting at the land's former vitality.

Prince Oswald staggered forward, his breath labored. His feet, numb for some time, were covered in blisters, and his sweat-soaked, worn-out shoes made dull, squelching sounds with every step. The high-quality magical armor he once wore had long been stripped away. Instead, he had been given tattered footwear that was utterly unsuited for traversing the rough plains, allowing stones and gritty soil to work their way between his toes. Yet, the physical discomfort paled in comparison to the reality he was now forced to face.

Following close behind were the prince's closest aides and the tribal chiefs, equally bound and rendered powerless. Their once-bright eyes were now hollow, their movements robotic. Among them were warriors renowned for their prowess, now reduced to prisoners, shackled and unable to summon the ancestral powers that had once defined their might. Their numbers reached nearly five hundred.

Behind them marched the soldiers who had surrendered without raising a single weapon. Trained as the elite of their tribes, their betrayal by their leaders was a greater wound than the humiliation of defeat. For these men, the sting of treachery eclipsed even the shame of their capture. Although most walked silently, some muttered scathing criticisms of their commanders.

One soldier broke the silence, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I get that things were dire, but couldn't they have made a decision sooner?"