Chapter 442 Wheel

Chapter 442: Chapter 442 Wheel

Two months later, the land had changed.

So had Riley.

Standing atop a jagged ridge overlooking the desolate plains, Riley remained completely still, as though carved from ancient stone.

Yet beneath that unmoving exterior, his senses were in constant motion, spreading outward in all directions like an invisible tide.

The movements of the savage army were laid bare before him—every march, every halt, every faint shift in their formation.

What he possessed could not truly be called divine sense.

At least, not the kind cultivators boasted of.

Those cultivators relied on spiritual energy, on dantians and spirit roots refined through countless years of meditation.

Their awareness was born from the heavens. Riley’s, however, was born from something far older.

Instinct.

Within a radius of one hundred thousand miles, the world existed vividly inside his mind.

The wind carried with it countless scents—blood dried under the sun, rusted iron, rotting flesh, and the wild musk of beasts.

Each smell painted a different story.

Sound followed soon after: distant footsteps shaking the ground, the grinding of armor, guttural roars echoing through canyons, even the subtle cracking of soil beneath marching feet.

Even the air itself betrayed movement.

Minute fluctuations in pressure and temperature formed clear outlines in his perception, allowing Riley to discern shapes and distances without ever opening his eyes.

Hills, valleys, rivers, and bodies—everything within that enormous range was rendered into perfect clarity, as though the world had been stripped bare and handed to him in its rawest form.

To Riley, blindness no longer existed.

This was the result of the path he had chosen.

Riley had not cultivated spiritual energy. He had not refined qi or condensed a golden core.

The traditional road of cultivators had been closed to him long ago. Instead, he had pursued something far more dangerous—the absolute transformation of the body itself.

Step by step, he had discarded the limitations of humanity, reforging flesh, bones, and organs until they echoed the might of primordial beasts that once ruled the ancient world.

His blood roared like a storm.

His bones carried the weight of mountains.

His instincts surpassed reason itself.

And now, those instincts told him one thing clearly.

The savage army was close.

Closer than before.

Their numbers had grown, swelling as they consumed everything in their path.

Villages had vanished. Forests had been trampled into wastelands.

The stench of slaughter clung to them like a curse that even the wind could not wash away.

Riley slowly opened his dead blind eyes.

There was no panic in them—only calm, cold calculation.

Riley went back to his training room fast and unseen and sat down in his wheelchair.

As the door closed behind him, the vitality drained from his body, and in the span of a breath, he became old once more.

He reached into his robes and withdrew a small, worn notebook.

Its pages were simple, unadorned, yet every word written inside carried absolute authority.

After a brief moment of thought, Riley picked up his pen and wrote a single sentence.

"Summon Monique."

Sarah, the maidservant who stood quietly behind him, stepped forward and read the words.

Her posture straightened at once.

Though her face remained composed, her heart stirred.

She understood what it meant when her master called for Lady Monique at a time like this.

Something decisive was about to happen.

"I’ll call Lady Monique immediately, Master," Sarah said, bowing deeply, her voice filled with respect and unwavering obedience.

Riley gave a faint nod, his attention already returning to the distant movements of the army.

The next instant, Sarah moved.

Her body blurred, dissolving into streaks of motion as she launched herself forward.

The ground beneath her feet cracked softly as she vanished, faster than the eye could follow.

A heartbeat later, even her presence was gone—leaving behind nothing but a fleeting ripple in the air, like a shadow that had never truly existed.

Riley remained alone on the ridge, the wind tugging at his robes.

Far away, the savage army continued its advance—unaware that it had already entered the hunting range of a primordial beast.

***

A full week later, the horizon beyond White Bone City darkened beneath a sea of marching figures.

More than a thousand soldiers advanced in disciplined formation, steel armor glinting beneath the sun as banners snapped loudly in the wind.

The unmistakable insignia of Deep Coast City flew proudly above them, white and blue cloth embroidered with the sigil of Duchess Monique Mason.

The moment the city gates opened and the army began to file inside, White Bone City erupted into celebration.

Cheers rang through the streets. Children ran alongside the soldiers, wide-eyed and laughing.

Merchants fell to their knees in gratitude, while exhausted refugees wept openly.

To them, the arrival of this army meant only one thing.

They were saved.

Deep Coast City’s forces did not march without reason, and where they appeared, Duchess Monique herself was never far behind.

Her reputation preceded her—decisive, ruthless when necessary, and unwavering in defense of her territory.

Hope, long suppressed by fear and exhaustion, finally took root in the hearts of the people.

But that hope did not reach Monique.

From the moment she arrived and surveyed the troops gathered outside the city walls, her expression remained grim.

Her sharp eyes moved across the ranks, counting, assessing, measuring.

The number before her was clear.

Just over a thousand.

To the untrained eye, it was an impressive force. To Monique, it was an insult.

"This is far too little," she said, her voice low and edged with displeasure. "Some of those fools didn’t send a single knight."

She turned slightly, her cloak fluttering as she faced Riley. "They think their men would only be slaughtered here. So they hide behind their walls and pray someone else bleeds for them."

Earlier, she had personally issued summons to the nobles under her authority, demanding reinforcements.

Yet many had ignored her call, choosing cowardice over duty.

Others had sent token forces, hoping to avoid her wrath while risking nothing of value.

Monique clenched her fist.

"If they won’t answer the call," she continued, "should I hire mercenaries instead, husband? I can have them here within days."

Riley did not reply aloud.

As always, he reached for his notebook, movements calm and unhurried despite the tension in the air.

He wrote quickly, his pen scratching softly across the page before tearing it free and handing it to her.

"No. This is enough. Let the men rest tonight. Tomorrow, we march to meet the enemy."

Monique read the words twice. Then, slowly, she exhaled.

"I understand, Riley."

There was no doubt in her voice.

She had sparred with Evelyn. She had trained under Valery.

She had personally experienced the crushing pressure of their strength and witnessed the terrifying growth of those closest to Riley.

And even among them, Riley stood on an entirely different level—silent, overwhelming, absolute.

In her heart, Monique could not imagine a single being in this world capable of standing against him.

As night descended upon White Bone City, campfires ignited across the fields.

Soldiers ate, rested, and sharpened their blades, unaware that the battle ahead would not unfold as they expected.

High above the sleeping city, Riley gazed toward the distant horizon.

Beyond it, the enemy waited.

And by dawn, the hunt would begin.

***

The moment the order spread through the camp, disbelief rippled through the ranks like a sudden shockwave.

At first, many thought it was a cruel joke.

"March out tomorrow?"

"Against that army of savages?"

Then reality set in.

"This is madness! They’re sending us straight to our deaths!" someone shouted, his voice cracking as panic bled through his anger.

Another soldier slammed his fist against a crate. "Why would we leave the city? White Bone City can hold! We should stay behind the walls and let them waste themselves on a siege!"

Shouts of agreement echoed through the camp.

Knights and foot soldiers alike gathered in tight circles, faces pale beneath firelight.

Rumors had spread faster than orders—stories of entire towns wiped off the map, of beasts tearing men apart like paper, of armies swallowed whole without leaving bodies behind.

No one wanted to be the first to test those rumors.

"This isn’t strategy," a veteran growled. "It’s suicide."

Fear gnawed at discipline. Whispers replaced commands.

Hands trembled as weapons were gripped tighter than necessary, as if steel alone could keep death at bay.

Then, near the outskirts of the camp, a man made his decision.

He bent down, slung his worn pack over his shoulder, and turned away from the fires.

"Hey! Where the hell are you going?" someone called after him.

The man spat onto the dirt. "To live," he snapped. "Fuck these damned nobles. I’m not marching willingly to my death."

Without waiting for permission—or forgiveness—he walked into the darkness beyond the torchlight.

For a long moment, no one followed.

Then another soldier quietly stood, grabbed his belongings, and went after him.

Then another.

And another.

Soon, small groups began peeling away from the camp, avoiding eye contact, moving silently as if afraid even their footsteps might draw judgment.

Some left with clenched jaws and burning shame. Others left with hollow relief.

No horns sounded. No officers intervened. No punishments were declared.

Because too many were thinking the same thing.l

What glory lay in a death that achieved nothing?

As the fires continued to burn and the night deepened, the army slowly bled men—not to battle, but to fear.

By dawn, the ranks would be thinner, their morale fractured long before the enemy was ever met.