<div> Chapter 126: Ritus Lineae III
 Pereneth’s group vanished down the left corridor, boots fading into the labyrinth’s acoustic maze. Amron led his five down the right path. The walls rose high on both sides, smooth stone that offered no handholds. No shortcuts. Just the paths the prince’s power had created.
 They reached a junction. Four corridors this time, branching like roots.
 "Split again," Amron ordered. "Pairs. First to find a marker, signal."
 In a maze with no vantage points, dividing in pairs was the safest balance between coverage and survivability. Too many together slowed them. Too few invited ambush.
 Two attackers peeled off down the leftmost path. Two more took the right. Amron and his remaining partner chose the center corridor. The passage narrowed slightly, forcing them into single file. Amron went first, blade ready.
 A sound reached him. Distant, rhythmic. Metal on stone.
 Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.
 He froze. The pattern repeated, echoing from somewhere ahead. Not random. Deliberate.
 "That’s a signal," his partner murmured.
 Amron nodded. Military standard. The intervals between taps carried meaning, a language of rhythm and pause.
 Which meant the defenders were sharing information he couldn’t hear.
 But in a maze, hearing someone meant nothing if you couldn’t reach them in time, and without knowing the paths, you never could. Walls didn’t just block sight, they broke pursuit.
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 </div> He pressed forward, more cautiously now. The corridor opened into a wider chamber. Three exits, no marker. Just empty stone and shadows.
 Another sound. Closer this time. Not taps. Footsteps.
 A figure emerged from the left exit. Staff in hand, posture low. One of the defenders. Amron didn’t recognize him, but the bronze gage-rings gleamed on both arms.
 The defender didn’t speak. Just settled into a guard stance, blocking the passage.
 A chokemaster.
 Amron’s partner moved to flank, but the defender shifted, keeping both of them in view. Smart positioning. He wasn’t trying to win the fight, just delay. Buy time for the rest of his team to adjust.
 "Through him," Amron said.
 They attacked together. Amron went high, blade angling for the staff. His partner went low, trying to sweep the legs. The defender blocked the blade, then twisted, using the staff’s length to create distance. He gave ground, backing into the corridor he’d emerged from.
 Amron pursued. The passage narrowed again. Perfect chokepoint. The defender could hold here for precious seconds while his teammates repositioned elsewhere.
 But Amron had numbers. He pressed harder, forcing the defender to commit to blocks rather than counters. His partner circled, looking for an angle. The staff whirled, intercepting attacks from both sides, but the defender was breathing hard now. Effort showed in the tension of his shoulders.
 Then the defender made a mistake. He overextended on a block, staff sweeping too wide. Amron’s partner lunged, blade tip driving toward the exposed gage-ring.
 The defender twisted, but too slow. The ceremonial blade struck bronze. The ring shattered with a sharp crack.
 One ring down. One more to eliminate this defender.
 But the defender didn’t retreat. He shifted his grip, protecting his remaining ring while swinging the staff in a defensive arc that forced both attackers back a step.
 Stubborn. Amron approved despite himself. The defender had to know he was one strike from elimination, but he held his ground, buying every second he could.
 Amron feinted high. His partner went for the second ring. The staff came down to intercept, and Amron changed trajectory mid-swing, blade hooking around the staff and driving into the defender’s other arm.
 The second ring broke. The defender lowered his staff, expression grim. He stepped aside, eliminated.
 "First elimination, defender!" The moderator’s voice boomed across the arena, amplified somehow despite the maze walls. "Hamlen of the defense!"
 Amron and his partner pressed forward. One defender down. Six remaining. The math was shifting in their favor.
 The corridor forked again. They chose left. Another empty chamber, another set of exits. The maze was designed to disorient, to make every choice feel arbitrary.
 A shout echoed from somewhere distant. One of Pereneth’s team, maybe. Amron couldn’t tell if it was triumph or alarm.
 "First marker located!" Pereneth’s voice rang out, clear and confident. "Left quadrant, defended by two. They ran the moment we showed teeth."
 Laughter rippled down from the nobles’ gallery, brief and sharp, the sound carrying farther than it should have in the maze.
 Good. One marker found. Now to find the others and coordinate the push.
 Amron moved faster, trusting his partner to keep pace. They burst through another intersection and finally spotted it—a raised platform with a blue banner. The second marker.
 Two defenders stood on the platform. One was Rapheldor himself, stave in hand, posture commanding. The other held a staff, positioned slightly behind and to the left.
 Rapheldor saw them and smiled. Not friendly. Eager.
 "Only two of you?" Rapheldor called. "You’ll need more."
 Amron stopped at the edge of the platform. His partner flanked right. They’d have to climb to reach the marker, which meant exposing themselves during the ascent.
 "More are coming," Amron said. "You can’t hold against all of us."
 "Maybe." Rapheldor shifted his weight, stave angling to cover the steps. "But I don’t need to hold forever. Just long enough."
 The staff-wielder said nothing. His eyes tracked both attackers, calculating distances.
 Before Amron could advance, another shout carried through the maze: "Second elimination, attacker! Wrain of the attack!"
 Amron’s stomach dropped. One of theirs already down. That made it nine against six. Still favorable, but the margin was thinner.
 What had happened? Wrain had been with one of the split pairs. Had they run into an interrupter? Or had the defenders set a trap?
 "You look surprised," Rapheldor observed. "Did you think we’d just stand on markers and wait for you to break through?"
 Amron didn’t answer. He gestured to his partner. They rushed the platform together.
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 Vencian stood in shadow, staff resting against his shoulder. The corridor behind him was empty, the one ahead just as bare. No attackers in sight. No teammates either. Just stone and silence.
 Quenya hovered overhead, invisible to everyone but him. Her voice reached him through the pact, a whisper in the back of his mind.
 "Harrick and Detar were able to escape from first mark unscathed. Pereneth’s group is holding the marker."
 They’d hold position, of course. Leaving a captured marker undefended was suicide. Splitting meant weakness; staying meant certainty. It was exactly what Pereneth should do—and exactly what Vencian wanted.
 "Three attackers moving through the eastern passages. Two heading toward Tor’s position. One separated, lost."
 Vencian tapped his staff against the ground. Once, twice, pause, once.
 The pattern meant: Pressure east. Tor, prepare.
 Somewhere in the maze, Tor would hear the taps echoing through the corridors and understand. He’d brace for contact, adjust his footing, ready the defense.
 The plan was simple in concept. Appear orthodox, act unpredictably. Let the attackers think they understood the formation, then exploit the gaps in their assumptions. Quenya’s aerial view gave Vencian what no one else had: perfect information. He knew where every attacker moved, where they clustered, where they split apart.
 The attackers expected defense to be reactive. Hold the markers, contest the chokes, trade blows.
 That expectation was the trap. They would lose people not where they pushed hardest, but where they stopped looking.
 Vencian intended to be proactive.
 "Two attackers engaging Tor," Quenya reported. *".They’re chasing, but not able to corner him.
 That was the point. Tor wasn’t meant to contest them, only deny them certainty.
 "Third attacker doubled back, heading south."
 South. That would bring them toward Detar’s patrol route. Vencian tapped again: three short, one long.
 Interrupters south, target isolated.
 The signal was meant for Detar and Harrick. They’ll move to intercept, find the separated attacker, and if the opportunity presented itself, break a gage-ring before the attacker’s teammates could respond.
 Vencian waited. Sound was everything in this maze. He listened to the distant clash of weapons, the scuff of boots on stone, the rhythmic taps of other defenders signaling their positions and intentions.
 "Detar made contact," Quenya signaled. "Harrick cut the retreat. One ring broken."
 Good. One ring down. Not an elimination, but damage. The attacker would be cautious now, protecting their remaining ring.
 The moderator’s announcement followed seconds later: "Second elimination, attacker! Wrain of the attack!"
 Vencian allowed himself a thin smile. Detar had finished the job. One attacker fully removed from play.
 Nine against six now.
 But the math would only hold if they kept the pressure uneven. If the attackers massed and pushed as a coordinated unit, the defenders would be overwhelmed. The key was to prevent that mass from forming. Break their rhythm. Force them to split, to second-guess.
 "Amron’s group moving toward Rapheldor," Quenya said. "Two attackers."
 Two against two. Rapheldor and Varon held the second marker. They could contest that for a while, but Vencian was not sure whether they could retain the position.
 He tapped: two-two-one, pause, one-one.
 Marker two under pressure. Rotate support.
 Hamlen had already been eliminated, which left six defenders still in play. Rapheldor and Varon at marker two. Tor at his choke. Detar and Harrick mobile somewhere. And Vencian himself, unaccounted for.
 The attackers thought Vencian was either at a marker or patrolling the perimeter. That was fine. Let them think it.
 He moved, keeping to the shadows, navigating by sound and Quenya’s guidance. The maze wasn’t truly unfamiliar to him anymore. He’d listened to the echoes, mapped the acoustic signatures of each corridor. He knew which paths curved, which dead-ended, which opened into larger chambers.
 "Tor’s engaged with two attackers. Holding but pressured. Three more attackers moving to flank his position from the west."
 Vencian stopped. Flanking meant they’d identified Tor’s choke and were adapting. Smart. That was what good attackers did. Find the block, go around it.
 He tapped: one-three-one, long pause, two-two.
 Flanking attempt west. Tor, withdraw to secondary position. Detar and Harrick, intercept.
 Tor would fall back, ceding the corridor but not the marker. The attackers would think they’d broken through, but Detar and Harrick would be waiting where the flanking corridor rejoined the main path. Another isolated targets. Another opportunity.
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 </div> Quenya descended slightly, her presence brushing against the edge of his awareness. "Tor’s moving. Attackers pursuing. Detar in position."
 Vencian waited. He counted breaths, listening to the maze’s rhythm.
 Then a second, almost immediately after.
 "Third elimination, attacker! Nalis of the attack!"
 Eight against six.
 "Fourth elimination, attacker!"
 Quenya hesitated. "Both Harrick and Detar took damage. One ring each."
 Acceptable, Vencian thought. They were not meant to emerge intact.
 Seven against six. The momentum was shifting.
 But Amron’s group was still pressing Rapheldor. two attackers, and Rapheldor only had Varon for support.
 "Fifth elimination, defender! Varon of support!"
 Vencian didn’t wait for the announcement to finish before he changed direction, heading toward the second marker.</div>
 

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Chapter 126: Ritus Lineae III

Chapter 126: Ritus Lineae III Pereneth’s group vanished down the left corridor, boots fading into the labyrinth’s acoustic maze. Amron led his five down the right path. The walls rose high on both sides, smooth stone that offered no handholds. No shortcuts. Just the paths the prince’s power had created. They reached a junction. Four corridors this time, branching like roots. "Split again," Amron ordered. "Pairs. First to find a marker, signal." In a maze with no vantage points, dividing in...

The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master

Chapter 126: Ritus Lineae III

The Last Godfall: Transmigrated as the Young Master - Chapter 126: Ritus Lineae III