Not just warriors. Not rebels. Beasts.
As one might expect of the strongest within this land's Banu Sasan.
Though they were yet to become Jinn, these four were the best a Nadhir could be, an Al-Saif, a Sword of Guidance.
Kabir cleaved the bastards' worlds with every swing of his long sword. Light followed him like a cloak, the ground cracking beneath his feet at each step.
He was fast, not as fast as Malik, of course, but more than fast enough for the tide around him.
Behind him, surrounded by the cohort, Rami never stopped moving.
Her illusions blurred the line between real and fake so well that even the dead seemed to scream twice.
Each arrow shot from her bow danced in the air, either twisting, splitting in two, or hitting targets that weren't even in the arrow's trajectory.
A bandit would duck, grin, think he survived, and then fall to the ground with three holes in his chest.
Many fell from the illusion alone, their minds forcing their bodies into a state of death.
Sarah, meanwhile, was somehow even faster than she looked. Not on par with the man of light, but close.
She moved like the rivers of spring after the north's ice melted—relentless, beautiful, but also incredibly lethal.
Her spear was thrust and spun in whirlpools, followed quickly by lashes of water cracking like whips.
She disarmed them, drowned them, then left them skewered all in one breath.
The last but not least of them, Tarek, was chaos on legs.
His great sword was somewhat sloppy, revealing his inexperience, but passionate, talented.
He screamed when he fought, spikes of ice erupting wherever he looked, slipping through cracks, catching ankles, and freezing throats. He was unpredictable. Unstable. But alive.
The four were relentless, driven by more than just survival.
They fought because Malik was there.
They fought because he was their Lord, their anchor.
And they would follow him to the very end, wherever that end might be.
They lasted through the seventh night.
Even into the ninth morning.
That alone made them legends.
But, as shown by those who came before them, legends bled too.
And by the ninth, they were covered in it. Not all theirs, but not all the enemy's either.
The bandits had gotten a lot more aggressive. No longer conserving their arrows, no longer hesitating at their sight—no. They rained the arrows like it was the end of the world. Fire-tipped, poison-laced, and hateful.
And to make things even worse, they didn't only aim at the cohort.
No. Most of their arrows were aimed at the camp.
Malik's cultivation was at risk of being interrupted at this most critical moment.
Somewhere behind them, the order had come.
The coward was ready to end it.
Maybe he feared Malik's silence.
Maybe he finally noticed the metaphorical hourglass, the countdown to his ascension.
Or maybe he just wanted to move on. Cross this last stretch of snow. Get to the west and leave his failure behind him.
Whatever the reason, the order had come.
And they couldn't go against it, despite their fear of Malik's retaliation.
The fifth cohort didn't know what to do.
They knew that the elemental walls and barricades weren't going to hold for long, but they were too deep in enemy lines to even think of reaching the camp in time.
Meanwhile, inside the camp, the returning cohorts were still broken and healing.
None were there to sustain the elemental walls that began to crack under the barrage.
And those that were there, that were alert, that could move, held no Aether.
They were useless in the face of this attack.
Still, that didn't stop them from trying.
Some limped toward the center and stood, shielding Malik with their own scarred bodies, standing between him and the sky. Ready to catch arrows. Ready to fall before their Lord could be interrupted.
They didn't know what else to do.
Malik, for his part, didn't seem to care.
He didn't speak. Didn't move. Didn't have to.
Because he had the best guard around.
His little brother, Sinbad.
The owl that loved adventure.
With a beat of wings that broke the wind, Sinbad rose.
He flew directly towards the rain of death, unfazed.
Once there, he flapped his wings once.
Arrows met air, only to be cast aside by gale-force downbursts.
They fell to the blood-colored snow at once, none getting past.
And yet the opposition didn't relent.
Volley after volley, volley after volley, they shot.
And volley after volley, volley after volley, was shot down, like leaves in a storm.
Sinbad circled, each pass wider, each swoop lower. Screeching warnings. Watching. Protecting.
The camp breathed a sigh of relief, though they didn't yet celebrate, afraid that tragedy was awaiting them, too on guard, nervous.
Seeing Sinbad pass way over them, the fifth cohort felt the same relief, though not for long, as they too were on their last legs. Barely managing to hold on, to "survive."
Kabir's shoulders were beyond busted now, sword dragging behind him like an anchor. Sarah had taken a blade to the ribs. Her sides bled constantly, but she kept moving, wrapped tight in frozen bandages made by Tarek's robes. Tarek, whose ice had long since melted, Aether core nearly depleted, used his great sword, swinging with awkward force.
Rami's quiver was empty. She was stabbing now. With arrows.
They weren't fighting to win.
They were fighting to delay.
And even that was becoming impossible.
The people in the camp knew it. No one said it out loud—but they knew.
The children trembled. Mothers pulled them close. Their fires low. Food far from their minds.
Everyone was burnt out. Out of breath. Simply scared.
Sinbad couldn't block everything forever.
And Malik still hadn't broken through.
That terrified everyone more than the arrows.
They weren't Magi, and they were far from knowledgeable about such things, but even they could see it.
Malik was still a fair distance away from his breakthrough.
The cold and gold fire that had danced around his body flickered too often.
It wasn't as strong as it should be, not as stable.
And so Malik had to choose.
Step into battle one more time.
Kill until his body gave out and risk entering a death loop.
Something that no one in the world could survive.
An impossible more impossible than any that came before it.
Much, much, much worse than that time he shoved that flaming monkey's core into his own.
Still, he would try it anyway. He saw it as the only viable option.
Malik opened his eyes.
A golden lake now dry.
In a near instant, he had siphoned everything.
All the Aether within him.
Only Divine Essence remained.
The body of a Sultan was reduced to sand.
Dry as the Shams-scorched ruins of the South.
He had reached a state near Hollow.
His hair, once glistening gold, now glimmered with streaks of red.
Unfathomable pain assaulted his entire being.
Yet, he didn't blink.
At the ice core in his lap.
It pulsed. Gently. Softly. Cold.
A completely incompatible element.
...What he planned to do was completely insane.
It was like forcing an ocean of water into a furnace and expecting it to roar louder.
It wasn't supposed to work.
No one in the world could honestly claim to have survived the implantation of a second core, much less one that opposed their own.
But Malik didn't hesitate.
He took it in his hands.
He pressed it to his chest.
And everything went still.
The wind itself stopped.
Even Sinbad paused mid-flight.
Even the bandits—who had just loosed another volley—watched in silence.
It was as if the world held its breath.
Waiting to see if a symbol of faith could hold true.
Or finally break into nothing.