The group was resting for the night.
They had successfully overcome the ambush, but exhaustion was etched on the knights' faces. They were now several leagues away from the ravine where the attack had taken place, just to be safe.
They had quickly set up camp. Tents were pitched, fires lit, and sentinels posted.
Cassian sat by the fire, staring intently at Eric.
"Didn't you say orcs were strong?"
Eric, who was cleaning his sword, looked up.
"Mere orcs are no match for the kingdom's elite."
He gestured toward the knights around them.
"These men have been trained since childhood. As for me, I was raised with the best resources, making me incredibly powerful."
He sheathed his sword.
"Only strength ensures you see another tomorrow."
"It's because of mana, isn't it?" Cassian asked.
"Indeed. But it's still the foundation for defending yourself."
Eric settled more comfortably.
"Humans have the best control over mana. It reflects their desire to master their environment."
Cassian tilted his head.
"Why didn't anyone use big attacks to quickly kill the orcs during the ambush?"
Eric mentally noted that Cassian was far too curious, then answered:
"The principle of friendly fire. Attacks that are too powerful, too wide, too destructive risk hitting allies."
He drew a circle in the dirt with a stick.
"That's why everyone stuck to normal attacks. In such a confined environment, favoring close-quarters combat was the best choice."
"But before the clash between the two groups, the orcs had plenty of time and space to launch projectiles."
Eric gave a slight smile.
"Launching magical projectiles requires precision and excellent mana control. It's rare to see orcs capable of that. You need to manage distance, trajectory, power…"
He shook his head.
"They're generally good at using mana to enhance their physical abilities. Strength, speed, endurance. But fine manipulation? Not their strong suit."
A few meters away, Gus was quietly eating a piece of bread.
"It's been a while since the prince started answering Cassian's questions," he remarked aloud. "Every time he answers one, another comes up."
A veteran knight sitting beside him chuckled softly.
"Indeed, the prince is very patient. Children always have so many questions."
"It's a good thing," Gus said. "Curiosity is a sign of intelligence."
---
Elsewhere
On a battlefield at the border of the Nazhir kingdom.
The first Prince Stryd stood back, stunned by what he was witnessing.
He was a man in his thirties, lean, with light brown hair. His armor was adorned with medals and scarred from past battles. His reddish-brown eyes scanned the battlefield with utter disbelief.
This can't be possible.
Not long ago, Cassian had entrusted his Manticore to the army, allowing them to use it.
So, they decided to send the Manticore to attack a fortress that had been impregnable for four months, to test the beast's strength.
The rumors about its power needed verification.
Who could have predicted the fortress would fall in mere minutes?
From his vantage point, Prince Stryd could see Nazhir's soldiers panicking, running in all directions, abandoning their posts.
The Manticore had cleared the way for his troops, who were now pouring through the breaches.
The Manticore was wreaking havoc.
It had been ordered to destroy everything.
The creature leaped back, its tail bristling with spines coiling like a giant whip.
With a sharp motion, it lashed its weapon against the ramparts.
WHOOSH.
A hail of spines shot out, capable of piercing shields and armor.
Nazhir's soldiers behind the battlements fell like flies, and the already weakened stones shattered under the impact.
"RETREAT! RETREAT!" shouted an officer.
But it was too late.
The Manticore scaled the wall, its monstrous claws sinking into the stone like clay.
It tore out large chunks one by one, then hurled them like projectiles at the defenders.
CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.
The blocks crushed everything in their path. Men. Siege machines. Entire sections of the fortress.
"WHAT IS THAT THING?!"
The Manticore took to the air, beating its wings powerfully.
Then it folded its wings and dove toward a tower.
The impact of its massive body, reinforced by its horns and brute strength, shattered the already cracked stone.
BOOM.
The tower collapsed, crushing Nazhir's soldiers and siege machines in a cloud of dust and debris.
Ninety percent of the fortress still stood, but the defenders' morale was broken.
Suddenly, a cry echoed from the sky.
A giant bird swooped down, its wings spanning nearly ten meters.
On its back stood a man.
Drenvar Kors.
He was a senior officer in Nazhir's army, recognizable by his scruffy beard and black armor adorned with silver feathers. He was well-known on this battlefield, by both allies and enemies.
There he is, the reinforcements.
He hadn't been warned in time, and the fortress was being overrun from all sides.
He leaped from the bird, landing in the middle of the inner courtyard with an impact that shook the ground.
BOOM.