The Age of Martial Enlightenment.

Chapter Eleven – Emerald Death

The soil changed.

The trees thinned.

The air turned still.

And under the pale morning sun, the Emerald Sea of Sylvestris spread out before them—rolling hills of lush green grass stretching for miles, glistening with dew and danger.

Merzhin's breathing was ragged.

His robes were torn, his shoulder still bleeding from the saber wound. But his feet were steady as they crossed into forbidden territory.

Behind him, silent as ever, came the Assassin.

The black-robed killer hadn't let up in three days. Still fast. Still cold. Still flawless with the Willow Leaf Saber—but Merzhin wasn't planning on winning with fists anymore.

Now he gambled everything on instinct, terrain… and ancient beasts.

There were whispers told by hunters and herbalists across Sylvestris: Do not enter the Emerald Sea. Not for berries. Not for shelter. Not even for a child lost.

Why?

Because the sea belonged to the BattleTusk Mastodons.

Ancient creatures. Massive. Towering. With skin like stone, muscle like steel, and tusks long as war chariots. The largest stood three stories tall, their trumpets shaking the skies.

But most importantly—

They were territorial to the blade of grass.

They saw all movement as intrusion.

And they could smell steel, sweat, and killing intent like predators smell blood.

Merzhin didn't look back.

He didn't have to.

He could hear the soft thud of his pursuer's steps through the damp grass, light as shadow, trailing just outside of striking distance.

Just where Merzhin wanted him.

A wind swept across the plain. The tall grass swayed.

Then—

a deep, primal trumpet thundered from the east.

The assassin froze mid-step.

Merzhin turned his head just slightly. "You do know where we are, don't you?"

The assassin's eyes narrowed.

"I guess i've given you too much credit."

The tremor came first.

Then the second.

And then the ground began to quake like something sacred was rising beneath the world.

From over a ridge emerged a behemoth—gray, wrinkled, taller than a two-story house, with jagged tusks that gleamed like ivory swords. Its breath came out in foggy bursts. Its eyes locked onto the two men below.

More followed.

One.

Two.

Three BattleTusk Mastodons.

All of them staring.

All of them angry.

Merzhin knew better than to run now. Running would trigger the chase.

So he lowered his stance, emptied his killing intent, and planted his feet.

The assassin, by contrast, raised his saber in a half-guard. A fatal mistake.

The nearest mastodon bellowed like a god of war—and charged.

Not at Merzhin.

At the one who still reeked of murder.

At the one who still held his weapon high.

At the one who had yet to adapt.

The mastodon was upon him like a landslide.

He twisted, saber slicing upward—but the blade barely scratched the beast's hide.

A tusk slammed into the earth inches from his feet, flinging dirt skyward. He leapt back, eyes wide for the first time.

"WHAT—"

BOOM.

Another mastodon charged in from the right.

The assassin was forced to use his full speed to evade, darting between hooves and tusks like a demon—but even a 7th Pillar Martial Lord could not afford to be surrounded by such ancient monsters.

Merzhin didn't smile.

He simply slipped back toward the treeline, movements slow and measured, never looking directly at the mastodons.

From the shadows of a tree, Merzhin paused. He could still see the assassin dancing between trampling behemoths—his movements fast but increasingly ragged. He wouldn't die today. He was too skilled for that.

But he'd be wounded.

He'd be humbled.

He'd remember Sylvestris.

Merzhin exhaled.

The blood loss was starting to catch up to him.

But he had bought himself time.

Time to recover.

Time to plan.

Time to strike back.

He vanished into the foliage as the mastodons roared.