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On the other side of the stone gate, the sudden shift in the wind had already reached Sol’s senses.

Standing on the parched gravel flats of the barren wasteland, his molten Golden Silver pool had given a massive, violent thrum that felt entirely different from the clumsy vibration of the Coalition’s scattered rats until now.

It was a dense, noble, and suffocating spiritual pressure that seemed to slow the very air currents passing through the gorge.

Sol didn’t waste a micro-second.

He turned his body away from the empty northern horizon, his heavy boots crushing the white limestone dust as he crossed back through the narrow, five-man-wide neck of the mountain pass.

He emerged into the boundary clearing just as Veylara and the elders reached the floor of the valley and heard their murmuring.

”Why are the Zharun here?!” one elder hissed, his voice filled with raw shock and betrayal. ”They ignored our call for help! They didn’t even send a single messenger! Their promised camp was completely empty when we checked!”

”Betrayers!” another elder spat, his wrinkled face twisting with fury. ”They abandoned us when we needed them most, and now they show up with their full force? What kind of game are they playing? Are they here to finish us off while we’re weakened?!”

”Has the Coalition already absorbed them?” a third elder growled, gripping his bone staff until it creaked. ”Or did they sell us out completely? This is too convenient! They wait until we’re stretched thin and then appear like vultures!”

The panic spread like wildfire through the hidden positions.

”They betrayed us once... are they here to stab us in the back again?”

”We’re trapped! If they attack from this side while the Coalition comes from the other...”

”We’re going to die here! All of us!”

Sol didn’t say anything and stepped to the very front of the line, his black Rockhorn carapace glistening with a cold, dull sheen under the harsh midday sun.

His hand rested on the hilt of the Dreadwing Blade, the Golden Silver energy inside him humming with restrained tension. The situation had just become far more complicated than expected.

The tension in the air was thick enough to choke on.

The Zharun army continued its steady march toward them, the ground trembling under their thousands of footsteps. Their formation was disciplined.

The ones in front rode upon Grave-Hounds... monstrous, six-legged wolves entirely devoid of skin, whose exposed red muscles pulsate while thick, black shadow-smoke continuously drips from their maws.

No one knew what was about to happen.

But everyone could feel it... the next few minutes would decide everything.

The trap that had been so carefully prepared now hung on a knife’s edge.

Soon the air in the clearing grew uncomfortably cold.

The loose pebbles on the ground, which had been trembling from the heavy footsteps of the thousand-man march, suddenly stopped vibrating.

They seemed to freeze solid under the raw, suffocating weight of the essence radiating from the Zharun frontline.

It was an overwhelming physical pressure that made the Veynar warriors choke on their own breath, their bodies almost dropping onto their knees as the sheer spiritual pressure of Layer 4 powerhouses began to flatten the clearing.

Sol stood straight against the wind, his golden-essence circulating through his body at maximum capacity to ward off the suppressive weight.

He stared through the settling dust, his eyes locking onto the front ranks of the Zharun army as they came to a heavy, synchronized stop exactly one hundred paces away.

The visual impact of their formation was jarringly different from the chaotic, unrefined hordes of the Gray Marauders or the scattered, twitching swarms of the Zerith stalkers.

The Zharun moved like a single, massive, dark-green serpent. Their heavy infantry stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their dark-green drake-scale armors absorbing the harsh sunlight rather than reflecting it.

The air around them was thick, carrying the foul, suffocating stench of stagnant swamp water mixed with the that characteristic foul grave hounds stench.

But it was their mounts that truly set the Veynar warriors’ teeth on edge.

The front vanguard was mounted on Grave-Hounds.

These were monstrous, six-legged wolves the size of small huts, entirely devoid of skin. Their raw, exposed red musculature pulsated wetly with every breath they took, their thick veins pumping a sluggish, glowing purple fluid.

Thick, black shadow-smoke continuously dripped from their jagged maws, dissolving the dry limestone gravel wherever the dark droplets landed. Instead of growling, they simply stared with hollow eye sockets, their very presence lowering the temperature of the valley.

In the center of this terrifying formation, the ranks parted smoothly. A massive, towering figure stepped forward.

It was Zharun Chief Vane.

This was the first time Sol was seeing the leader of the Zharun tribe, and his physical presence was undeniable.

Vane stood over seven and a half feet tall, but unlike the bulky, fat-laden Marauders, his physique was carved with lean, hyper-dense muscle that looked like moving tense ropes beneath his dirty brown skin.

But the most terrifying thing about him wasn’t his muscles or his height. It was his core.

Vane was a true Layer 4 powerhouse. Even standing a hundred paces away, his spiritual pressure was a physical weight that pressed down on the clearing like a heavy slab of granite.

Sol could feel the molten Golden Silver pool inside his ribs reacting aggressively, spinning and flaring with intense heat to neutralize the invasive spiritual gravity trying to force his knees to bend.

Seeing the Zharun Chief break the line, Warchief Veylara narrowed her eyes. Without any fear or hesitation, she gripped her massive spear, and took a heavy, defiant step forward.

Her own Layer 4 essence flared, pushing back against Vane’s aura to create a small pocket of breathable air for her gasping warriors behind her.

She opened her mouth, ready to demand answers, to ask why they had abandoned the promised camp, and to explicitly inquire if they had come to stab the Veynar in the back while the Coalition was marching on their front.

But before a single syllable could leave her scarred lips, Chief Vane stopped.

He didn’t raise a weapon, nor did he issue a war cry.

Instead, the massive Layer 4 powerhouse bent at the waist, lowering his head, and executed a deep, formal, and absolute bow.