The prince's words were carefully chosen, acknowledging the aid while subtly questioning its necessity.

Wymar, the tier 9 mage, seemed more interested in Maelruth than the political dynamics unfolding before him. His eyes lit up with academic fascination as he studied the drake.

"My lord, did you see the drake? It's been a long time since I've seen the Velkynir drakes," he said, his voice carrying the excitement of a scholar discovering a rare text.

"What is it doing here?"

As Remin turned his attention to the drake, Wymar continued, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "It has even evolved. Such a rare find!" His eyes gleamed with barely concealed desire.

"What do you say, my lord? Shall we take this?"

Remin's response was lazy, as he waved him off, "Wymar, stop with your blather."

The rebuke was casual but carried enough authority to silence the mage instantly.

The casual nature of their conversation created a surreal atmosphere on the battlefield.

Here were men of immense power discussing rare creatures as if they were at a scholarly symposium rather than a field of battle.

Even Jolthar, despite his remarkable composure, found himself annoyed by their nonchalance.

They were soldiers, on both sides, injured, dying, and fighting for their lives, and they were simply interested in greeting and chatting.

Yet Jolthar's instincts screamed caution.

Something about Remin set off warning signals in his mind—the same kind of primal alert he had felt in the presence of the Patriarch of Kaezhlar. This was not just a general; this was someone who operated on a level where military rank was merely a convenient label for something far more dangerous.

Meanwhile, Dagur found himself in an increasingly desperate position.

Yilar's words cut through his strategic calculations like a cold blade: "Listen to me, you don't have a chance now. Tell your men to take the pill. While they fight, let's escape."

The suggestion hung in the air like a poisoned dagger.

Dagur knew what the pills meant—a last resort, a desperate measure that no commander took lightly. However, as he assessed the situation, the truth became undeniable.

Remin's presence changed everything.

This was no longer a battle they could win through conventional means. That man alone was an army himself, and his name by itself was enough to make the enemy flee.

His face twisted with bitter resignation as he made his decision.

"Ozug," he called out, his voice carrying the weight of command and regret, "it's time."

Ozug's initial frown of confusion quickly transformed into grim understanding. He knew what those words meant—what they would cost. He knew they had already lost this battle, and wasting any more time would only make them pay with their lives.

Without any further delay, "Men, take your pill!" he shouted, already turning to run toward Dagur's position.

Jolthar, still alert despite the exhaustion of continuous combat, noticed the movement.

But what caught his attention more was the synchronized action of the enemy soldiers.

Each reached for something hidden in their armour, small objects that disappeared between their lips swiftly.

The air seemed to grow heavier with anticipation.

-

The battlefield descended into a scene of horrific transformation as the pills took effect.

The change was instantaneous and grotesque, a testament to whatever dark alchemy or forbidden magic had been engineered into those small capsules.

The soldiers' skin began to shift, not merely darkening but transmuting into a deep, unnatural purple that seemed to pulse with its own malevolent energy.

Their eyes underwent an even more disturbing metamorphosis.

The normal whites and coloured irises disappeared, replaced by absolute darkness—pools of infinite black that reflected no light, showed no emotion, and held no trace of their former humanity.

These weren't just physical changes; they represented a fundamental alteration of the soldiers' very essence.

The transformation continued with brutal efficiency.

Bodies that had been shaped by years of military training began to swell and distort. Muscles expanded beyond natural limits, bones elongated and thickened, until each soldier towered at eight feet tall. Their armour, designed with this transformation in mind, stretched and adapted to accommodate their new forms. The sound of stretching flesh and cracking bones filled the air, accompanied by guttural roars that seemed to come from some primordial depth.

Wymar observed the transformation with professional interest, his brows furrowed in concentration.

As a master of arcane arts, he recognized this was no simple enhancement but a complex fusion of alchemy and forbidden magic.

The soldiers retained their tactical awareness and combat training—a crucial detail that made them far more dangerous than mindless berserkers.

Dagur, Ozug, and Yilar began their strategic withdrawal, moving with practiced efficiency through the ranks of their transforming army.

Yilar's commentary was unwelcome but accurate: "I knew you people would be stronger after consuming that pill."

Dagur's response came through gritted teeth as they moved. "Shut up, Yilar, otherwise I swear I will kill you."

The threat carried genuine venom—a commander forced to abandon his troops, even transformed ones, carried a special kind of bitterness.

The three figures disappeared into the distance, leaving behind an army of monsters that now occupied the entire southern section of the town. Their retreat was not cowardice but a calculated strategy—they had unleashed their ultimate weapon and would not stay to be caught in its destruction.

Remin noticed the three figures running away from the town on their horses. He didn't react, as though it was nothing to pay attention to.

Jolthar found himself surrounded by these transformed warriors, his instincts screaming warnings about their unnatural nature. These weren't simply enhanced soldiers; they were something fundamentally wrong, an affront to the natural order.

He could feel it in the way they moved, in the air that seemed to corrupt around them. The vile energy they emitted, like a veil, blanketed them.

Drawing deep on his connection to the voidwrath, Jolthar summoned his power once again.

The "Blade of Forgotten Void" technique manifested differently this time—more controlled, more focused. He directed the attack specifically at the charging purple warriors, trying to stem their advance.