Rakshas: Tales of the Summoned Lord

As the night stretched thin and the air grew tense with the anticipation of bloodshed, a sudden commotion outside the command tent made Allen glance up from his map.

The flap of the tent was thrown open, and Dublin, one of the academy students, rushed in, panting and gripping his injured arm.

"Lord Styles, the enemy is preparing to attack us again!" he gasped, sweat dripping down his forehead.

Allen leaned back, a smirk curling on his lips. "So, the slavers decided to come back for more, huh? I suppose wiping out forty of their men wasn't enough of a lesson."

He stood, stretching as if he had just woken from a nap rather than preparing for battle. "Alright, let's go meet them properly this time." He turned his gaze toward his followers. "Dublin, fetch me a few quivers worth of arrows from the carriage. Serene, it's your turn again. Seraphina, stay close."

Seraphina gave a small nod, understanding his unspoken command. A soft shimmer of energy pulsed around her as she cast her buffs. It was subtle—too subtle for ordinary warriors to notice. Yet, as the invisible power spread through Allen's summons, their strength, speed, and endurance surged beyond their natural limits.

She hesitated for a moment before whispering, "Master, I can manage for now, but if I enhance you as well, I won't have much mana left for healing throughout the day."

Allen's expression remained unreadable, but his tone was firm. "Keep a reserve for healing. That comes first."

Seraphina nodded again. As a fourth-circle magician, she was at her limit enhancing those below the silver rank, but even so, her magic gave Allen's troops an overwhelming edge. The illusion remained intact—the world still believed that all of Allen's forces were merely exceptional warriors, rather than strengthened by unseen hands.

Meanwhile, Serene checked her bow. The moment Seraphina's magic wrapped around her, she could feel the difference—her arrows would strike harder, her aim sharper, and even a fully armored silver-ranked swordsman would struggle to take her head-on.

By the time they reached the camp's entrance, Hilter was already issuing commands with the precision of a seasoned commander.

"Form ranks. Those who are armed, with me. Knights, prepare to charge. Jasper, take a few mounted soldiers and stock up on javelins. I want those slavers torn apart before they even reach our lines."

The men roared in response, the sound of their weapons clashing against shields ringing in the night. "Kill them all!"

The wooden gates of the camp groaned open, and Jasper led the vanguard charge. The slavers, numbering around 240, had been moving steadily toward the camp, their battle cries echoing in the open fields. But as they saw the sudden mobilization, they faltered.

Their hesitation grew as they noticed something else—the slaves in Allen's camp were no longer cowering and defenseless. Armed with spears and crossbows, they now stood in formation, their backs straight, their eyes burning with newfound resolve.

One of the slaver captains, a yellow-faced man with a One-Star Gold Battle Force badge, cursed under his breath. "Damn it! We should have crushed them when we had the chance. Now that they've armed themselves, we're going to take serious losses."

Beside him, a burly middle-aged man, a Two-Star Gold warrior, spat on the ground. "No use complaining now. We underestimated them, that's all. Even if they've armed themselves, they're still just a bunch of rabble."

An older man wearing another Two-Star Gold badge rubbed his chin in concern. "We might have made a mistake. If they're really from the Styles Family and not just another slaver group, this could get complicated."

"Enough with the doubts!" the burly man barked. "Didn't our scouts report that they only had a handful of silver-ranked warriors? The only reason they survived was that our men were careless. If we push them back into their camp, we'll still have the advantage."

Meanwhile, Hilter had already closed the distance. The ever-perfectionist butler, Allen's trusted second-in-command, rode ahead with the grace of a noble-born warrior. His sharp eyes locked onto the yellow-faced captain.

"You dare obstruct my master's path?" Hilter's voice was smooth, mocking. "Your only choice now is to kneel and offer your necks. Perhaps then, I'll grant you the mercy of a quick death."

The insult landed hard. The yellow-faced man's face twisted in rage. "You've got some nerve, you bastard. I'll enjoy watching you beg for mercy once I'm done with you."

Hilter chuckled, his sword already drawn. The moment Seraphina's buffs surged through him, he felt his body lighten—his movements sharper, his reactions faster. For this fight, he would be standing at the very edge of Gold rank.

"Come then," Hilter said, his voice like silk. "Let's see if you can back up that mouth of yours."

The yellow-faced man sneered, raising his sword. With a flash of movement, he sent a crescent blade of energy slicing through the air toward Hilter.

But Hilter was already gone.

In an instant, his silhouette blurred. The light blade missed by a hair's breadth, carving a deep scar into the dirt where he had stood. Before the yellow-faced man could react, Hilter was upon him.

"You look surprised," Hilter said, tilting his head. "Didn't you say you were going to make me beg? Let's see who's really begging in the end."

*Clang*

The battle erupted, air was thick with tension, the battlefield a cacophony of steel clashing, roars of pain, and the guttural grunts of combat. The Styles Family's newly-formed army was facing off against the Steven Slaver Group, a ruthless band of mercenaries and slavers who had been terrorizing the region for years.

Allen's eyes blazed with cold resolve as he stood atop a small rise, his gaze locked on the battlefield below. The skies were overcast, the threat of rain hanging heavy in the air. To his left, Hilter, now empowered by the Seraphine, stood ready to engage his foe.

The odds were heavily stacked against them—two 2-star Gold Ranks and one 1-star Gold Rank among the slavers.

Allen nodded to his right. Seraphine, standing with a calm expression, her eyes glowing faintly with a dangerous aura undetectable by swordsman, was already preparing her curse, her power swirling around her like a dark wind.

"Hold your ground, Hilter," Allen said, voice low but filled with certainty. "This is your test."

Hilter nodded back, sweat already beading on his forehead as he raised his blade, the air crackling around him. The Seraphine's power surged through his body, granting him strength beyond his usual limits—but even with that advantage, he knew this would be no easy fight. He could already feel the weight of the 2-star Gold Rank opponent looming over him.

Hilter's adversary—a yellow-faced man with an intimidating sword style—grinned as he lunged forward, his weapon aimed for Hilter's midsection. The blow was fast, brutal, and Hilter had no choice but to dodge to the side, barely avoiding the lethal strike. His body felt sluggish, the Seraphine's energy keeping him alive but struggling to give him the speed and power he needed to outclass his opponent.

The ground beneath him cracked as Hilter staggered to regain his footing. The Gold Rank slaver was on him immediately, swinging his sword in wild arcs, forcing Hilter to backpedal. The air was filled with the sound of clashing steel as the two fought—Hilter's strikes barely deflecting the ferocious blows from his foe.

Meanwhile, Allen had his own battle to fight. The other Two-star Gold Rank was locked in a deadly dance with him, their blades flashing as they tested each other's defenses. Allen had always been fast and precise, but this man was a true monster. Each of his strikes carried an almost unholy weight, enough to make even Allen's enhanced reflexes feel like he was slowing down.

But Allen wasn't alone. From the periphery of the battle, Seraphine had already begun her work. She was not on the frontlines—no, she preferred to stay in the shadows, letting her power work its magic. Her curses were subtle, wrapping around the enemy like chains, debuffing them, weakening their will to fight.

The One-star Gold Rank was her target. A hulking man with a sword that gleamed in the gray light of the overcast day. As he engaged Jasper, Fredrick, and the others, his movements began to slow, his swings becoming more erratic.

From her position, Seraphine muttered a soft incantation. Her fingers moved delicately through the air, weaving the threads of her magic. The ground beneath the 1-star Gold Rank cracked as dark energy began to swirl around him. His armor seemed to grow heavier, his steps more sluggish, and his blade was soon as slow as a rusted tool.

He was engaged by the Jasper, Fredrick, and the two Silver-ranked recruits at level 4. They fought with relentless precision, every strike they made a testament to their years of training. With Seraphine's debuffs weakening their opponent, the One-Star Gold Rank swordsman was no longer a big threat.

Jasper was the first to make a move. His blade flashed like lightning, carving through the air with grace and precision. He struck at the 1-star Gold Rank's exposed side, and the giant slaver staggered, just barely managing to parry the blow. But it was clear that the balance had shifted.

Then Fredrick, the strongest of the senior students, moved in with a roar, his sword a blur. Together with the other two Silver Ranks, they pressed the 1-star Gold Rank from all sides. The man was struggling to defend himself, his once-pristine blade now tarnished with blood and sweat.

Seraphine's curse was relentless, her magic digging into his soul, draining his vitality. The once-mighty slaver was starting to falter, his attacks becoming less and less coordinated.

As the battle raged on, Serena stood at the rear, her crossbow ready. Her eyes tracked the Silver Ranks, her targets always in her sights. She was the silent predator, picking off one enemy after another from a distance. Each bolt she fired found its mark, piercing the armor of the slavers with deadly precision.

One by one, the Silver Ranks began to drop like flies, their bodies falling to the ground, crumpling in the dirt. Iron-ranked soldiers were also falling under the combined pressure of the Styles army.

Serena's attacks were surgical—she didn't need to be in the front lines to change the course of the battle.

Finally, the tide of battle began to shift. The 1-star Gold Rank was clearly no longer able to keep up. He staggered under the combined assault of Jasper, Fredrick, and the two Silver Ranks. His movements were sluggish, his body weighed down by Seraphine's curse. He let out a guttural roar as he swung his blade in a final, desperate attempt to strike one of his attackers.

But it was too late.

With a swift, coordinated move, Jasper and Fredrick delivered the final blow, piercing the Gold Rank's defenses and sending him crashing to the ground, lifeless.

With the 1-star Gold Rank dead, the battlefield had shifted entirely. Allen, still engaged with his own opponent, made the call.

"Jasoer, divide your forces, half go to help Hilter and other half focus on the remaining slaver! I'll finish up here!"

Jasper didn't need another word. With a determined shout, he and Fredrick went toward the final 2-star Gold Rank. The slaver, now outnumbered and surrounded, gave one final defiant roar before raising his sword in a last-ditch attempt to cleave through the oncoming onslaught.

But he was no match for the combined forces of Hilter and his team.

The fight was brutal and bloody, but with Jasper, Fredrick, and the rest of the Styles army's Silver Ranks backing him up, Hilter was able to land the fatal blow. The 2-star Gold Rank crumpled to the ground, his body a tangle of broken bones and torn flesh.

With two Gold Ranks dead, the battle began to wane, The Two-Star Gold Rank fighting Allen immediately retreated and left the battlefield, Allen didn't pursue him rather commanded his army to finish the battle.

The remaining slavers were either captured or killed, and the Styles army—bloody but triumphant—gathered to assess the aftermath.

Hilter wiped the sweat from his brow, panting heavily but holding himself upright. "We've done it," he said, looking around at the carnage. "The Styles Family's revenge has begun."

Allen, injured from fighting a stronger opponent and grime, nodded. "We're not finished yet. But today… today is a victory."

Serena, standing a little further away, her eyes cold and calculating, nodded as well. "The battle is won. But there are many more to come."

And so, with the bodies of their enemies scattered across the blood-soaked earth, the Styles army prepared for the next phase of their journey. There would be no turning back now. The path to reclaiming the Northlands had begun, and they would stop at nothing to see it through.