The town of Oustar lay in ruins. Broken buildings, scorched earth, and jagged ice formations stood as haunting reminders of the chaos that had unfolded. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood and lingering frost, an unnatural contradiction.
At the heart of the devastation, a vast crater cut through the town, stretching from shattered homes to the very edge of the settlement. The ground within it was uneven, frozen solid in places, yet stained with streaks of blood.
The IID (Ignir Investigation Department) had barricaded the battle site, their presence unmistakable. Investigators combed through the wreckage, analyzing traces of magic left behind. The remnants of Maloi’s magic still clung to the air, an eerie coldness that sent shivers through the town.
Kaelan stood at the outskirts, watching. His breath came out in white mist.
he muttered to himself.
A voice interrupted his thoughts.
a man asked, his tone grim.
A medic in a white uniform responded,
Kaelan’s gaze shifted toward the destruction. He followed the trail of the crater, his eyes narrowing at the sheer devastation. Whatever had caused this had torn through multiple buildings, obliterating anything in its path.
He approached a civilian wrapped in thick layers, still trembling.
Kaelan asked.
The man’s face twisted with unease. his voice faltered,
Kaelan frowned.
The man shivered.
Kaelan remained silent, glancing at the jagged frost still coating parts of the street.
the man continued, his voice rising in distress, His fists clenched.
Kaelan’s eyes darkened. This was no ordinary battle—this was the aftermath of monsters clashing.
Kaelan asked.
The man’s expression soured.
Kaelan nodded.
the man replied, shaking his head.
Kaelan exhaled.
He turned and walked away, his mind racing.
At the edge of the town, he stopped, his gaze drawn toward the frozen sea.
The vast body of water was no longer fluid—it was solid ice, stretching endlessly toward the horizon. A bitter wind howled across its surface, carrying a deep chill that seeped into his bones.
He sat on a nearby rock, staring out at the landscape. He was alone in a foreign kingdom with no allies, no direction, and no idea where Ziraiah was.
A distant commotion caught his attention.
Turning his head, he spotted a group of men examining something near the water’s edge. His sharp eyes picked out a massive, metallic structure partially buried in ice.
A submarine—a relic of the invading Unbound. Whatever had happened here, it wasn’t over yet.
His gaze drifted back toward the sea, his heart heavy.
He clenched his jaw.
The wind howled louder, whipping against his cloak.
---
Yardrad, a vast continent within Yilheim, was home to numerous kingdoms, each vying for power and influence. Among them stood Ignir, a formidable nation renowned for its military and magical prowess.
However, not all lands bowed to a ruler’s command.
Scattered across the continent were vast, lawless territories that belonged to no kingdom, untouched by the governance of kings and queens. These regions were known as No Man’s Land—the refuge of criminals, the sanctuary of the Unbound, and the resting place of ancient ruins long forgotten by time.
Here, law was dictated by the strong, and survival belonged to those ruthless enough to carve their own fate.
It was in one of these forsaken territories that a small, struggling news organization called Constant Update operated.
Inside a worn-out building, the air was thick with dust, the wooden walls cracked, and cobwebs clung to the corners of the ceiling like ancient decorations. Papers were strewn across the floor, books piled haphazardly on broken shelves, a chaotic mess reflecting the current state of its occupants.
Seated at the center of it all, laughing hysterically, was Orian, a young Dragoon. Like all Dragoons, his red skin, orange hair, and piercing red pupils gave him a striking, almost menacing appearance. His sharp canines gleamed under the dim light as he cackled, his 8’9” frame barely contained by the rickety chair beneath him.
This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.
Orian shot up from his chair, nearly tripping over a pile of books.
He slammed his fist on the table, scattering papers everywhere.
He pointed dramatically at the door.
Silence.
No one moved.
No one said a word.
Orian blinked, his enthusiasm faltering as he looked around.
From the corner, Omria, a female Dragoon with red skin, orange hair and sleek crimson scales on her fingers, leaned lazily against the wall, her arms crossed. She raised an eyebrow.
she yawned, stretching.
She smirked.
A beat of silence.
Then, from the far side of the room, Omar, a broad-shouldered Dragoon with his orange hair falling on his face muttered,
Ola, another young female Dragoon, her long orange hair shimmering faintly in the light, sighed.
Orian huffed, folding his arms.
Omar raised a brow.
Orian rolled his eyes.
Omar exhaled sharply and stretched his arms.
Orian’s eyes widened.
Omar scratched his head, glancing at the broken walls and cracked ceiling.
he muttered. "
He sighed, standing up to his full 9’3 height.
Ola sighed, tapping her fingers on the old wooden desk.
She gestured around the crumbling office.
She leaned in.
Orian’s heart sank.
Omria sighed, her arms still crossed.
Orian clenched his fists.
Ola gave him a knowing look.
Orian inhaled sharply, then took a step forward.
Then, much to their surprise, he dropped to his knees.
His voice was raw, desperate.
The room fell into a tense silence.
The others exchanged uncertain glances.
Finally, Omar let out a long sigh.
he muttered.
Orian grinned, his confidence returning in an instant.
And just like that, the ragtag news agency prepared for their biggest story yet.
---
The King's Retaliation
One day had passed.
The countdown to the Beniek Mission continued—only three days remained.
Far from Ignir's royal city, deep within the heart of the Imperial Military Base, preparations were underway for a full-scale rescue operation. The air crackled with tension as the forces of Ignir gathered, an overwhelming display of military might unlike anything seen in years.
Before the towering gates of the base, five thousand armed soldiers stood in perfect formation, their armor glinting beneath the morning sun. Two hundred and fifty combat cruisers, sleek machines equipped with mana-powered cannons and reinforced runes, waited, each capable of carrying twenty men. The battlefield was set, and at the center of it all—
The Spellbounds were preparing for war.
Inside the grand barracks, the elite warriors of Ignir readied themselves, donning their signature uniforms—a symbol of their authority and strength. Golden boots gleamed as they slipped them on, gloves tightened over their fingers. The women draped their skirts over their trousers, while the men adjusted their coats, straightening their collars with disciplined precision.
Each Spellbound’s number was boldly inscribed on their chest, a testament to their rank.
As Maloi adjusted her hair, she turned to the Fifth Spellbound, Lizzy Dorfilia, her sharp eyes narrowing.
Maloi remarked.
Lizzy, an experienced warrior who had served for decades, glanced at her while fastening the belt over her uniform.
Maloi frowned.
Lizzy chuckled, shaking her head.
Maloi’s breath hitched.
Lizzy nodded.
Maloi crossed her arms.
Lizzy chuckled.
Maloi frowned.
Lizzy straightened her coat before grinning.
Maloi raised a brow, clearly not expecting that answer.
Lizzy then draped an arm over Maloi’s shoulder. At 9’1 in height, her presence was both reassuring and commanding.
She hesitated for a moment before adding,
Maloi’s body stiffened.
Her hands clenched into fists.
A lump formed in her throat, but she turned away before Lizzy could see the tears welling in her eyes. She wiped them quickly, inhaling sharply.
Lizzy's voice softened.
Maloi cut her off, her voice barely above a whisper. "I’m okay."
But they both knew that wasn’t true.
---
The Spellbounds Assemble
Minutes later, the grand gates of the barracks creaked open, their colossal weight grinding against the stone.
A gust of wind rushed into the field, billowing their coats and skirts, shaking their hair as they marched forward.
One by one, the Spellbounds emerged—the elite warriors of Ignir, walking with an aura of unmatched authority. Each step they took resonated through the military base as if the very ground acknowledged their presence.
At the forefront stood the youngest among them.
Spellbound Number 10 – Heinzel Maigrain
A young prodigy, only 17 years old, yet already among the strongest in Ignir. At 8’5, he was the youngest Spellbound in history, a prodigy among prodigies.
Spellbound Number 9 – Maloi Enria
At 27 years old, she had ascended from humble beginnings, proving that talent alone could carve a place among the elite.
Spellbound Number 7 – Arthur Suspain
A 97-year-old Elvhein who had joined the ranks at 80, now standing tall at 9’5.
Spellbound Number 6 – Maria Synclary
Once a noble scholar, she became a Spellbound at 69. Now at 86, she stood at 9 feet, her piercing eyes filled with wisdom.
Spellbound Number 5 – Lizzy Dorfilia
One of the few Spellbounds who had reached the rank in her 80s. Now 90 years old, she stood at 9’4, a fierce warrior known for her adaptability.
Spellbound Number 4 – Jeron Hevier
A tactician at heart, 9’6, and known for his keen intellect. His glasses reflected the sunlight as he adjusted them.
Spellbound Number 3 – Anisa Belcruver
The strongest woman in Ignir, and a rare silver-haired Elvhein, she had become a Spellbound at 42 and now, at 59, carried a presence that could silence an entire battlefield.
Spellbound Number 2 – Elvis Grifion
The Vice-Captain, standing at an imposing 9’8. A man of terrifying might, he had been a Spellbound for a decade, earning his place through sheer dominance.
And behind them all—
The King of Ignir.
King Gozay, clad in ornate golden battle armor, a symbol of his unyielding authority. His towering frame radiated power as he stepped forward, his gaze sharp as a blade.
A deep silence fell over the field.
Then, the king raised his voice.
---
The King’s Speech
His voice thundered across the military base, each word carrying the weight of absolute command.
His golden cape fluttered in the wind as his piercing gaze swept across the assembled forces.
The soldiers stiffened, their hearts pounding in unison.
His voice grew sharper, heavier, like a blade unsheathed.
"Today, we march upon them. We march with the fury of an empire. And in 3 days, when the sun rises on that battlefield—"
His eyes burned with a king’s fury.
A thunderous roar erupted from the army.
The Spellbounds remained silent, their expressions cold and resolute.
They already knew.
This mission wasn’t just a rescue.
It was retribution.
And soon—war would come.
---
To Be Continued...
