[Chapter 197. The Severed Pride]

With a sheer, desperate force of will, he summoned his two Intermediate drones once again. The absolute instant their forms materialized into physical reality in a flash of light, the towering archer’s head snapped toward him with unnerving, supernatural speed. There was no hesitation, no drawn-out aim. A massive, crude arrow the size of a ballista bolt slammed violently into the defensive drone's projected hexagonal shield.

The advanced energy barrier flared a brilliant, blinding blue for a fraction of a microsecond, the shield groaning under the immense kinetic load, before completely shattering into a shower of dissipating energy fragments. However, the precious, fleeting seconds the defensive drone had bought him with its sacrifice were just enough. Hovering just inches above him, the soothing green light of his Intermediate Healing Drone bathed his mangled, ruined side. The potent regenerative magic forcefully closed the massive, gaping puncture wounds, aggressively knitting his shattered ribs and torn muscle tissue back together with agonizing but life-saving speed.

Just as the second, inner layer of the defensive shield collapsed under the residual force of the strike, Searanox acted recalling both units. They vanished into a harmless cloud of blue sparks mere moments before a third massive arrow tore through the space, an impact that would have shattered them completely.

As soon as his drones disappeared from the battlefield, the riders attention immediately shifted entirely away from him. They re-engaged the colossal six-limbed beast.

Searanox let out a ragged gasp and tried to push himself up from the sucking mud, but his broken body flatly refused to obey the command. The excruciating, white-hot pain was mostly gone, forcibly erased by the drone's localized regenerative magic, but the traumatic memory of it remained deeply etched into his nervous system, leaving his muscles trembling and weak.

He took a shallow breath and tried again, this time consciously bracing his core and attempting to push up with both arms. His right hand sank deeply into the soft, wet earth, finding solid purchase against a submerged root. But nothing met the mud where his left hand should have been.

Confused, his brow furrowing, he lay there for a long heartbeat. He was absolutely certain he had attempted to push with both arms; his brain had fired the signals, and he could almost feel the resistance of the earth. He tried once more, shifting his weight and attempting to use his left arm as a counterbalance to rise.

Nothing happened.

A cold, terrifying stillness hung over his left side. His breath hitched in his throat as his gaze slowly darted to the space beside him.

There was nothing there.

His eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing disbelief as he stared at the empty patch of bloody mud where his arm should have been. Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced through the haze of his shock. He rolled frantically onto his back and stretched both arms upward toward the canopy—or rather, one arm.

His left arm, the limb that had been caught in the beast's crushing jaws, was entirely gone. Only a mangled, jagged stump remained, ending abruptly just below his shoulder joint. The flesh was healed, and yet violently torn rather than cleanly cut, and it glistened wetly with the remains of blood under the pale, silvery moonlight filtering through the trees. The thick magitech armor plating that usually protected his shoulder had been sheared off as if it were made of fragile glass.

In the immediate background, the chaotic, ground-shaking battle between the ashen riders and the massive six-limbed beast raged on, the swamp echoing with roars and the sickening crunch of bone weapons against thick hide. Yet, for Searanox, the world had gone entirely silent.

There was no physical pain from the stump, nor was there the explosive rage he usually felt when bested. There was only a hollow, echoing void where his emotions and his limb should have been. The sheer, existential shock of his sudden, violent loss was far too overwhelming for his mind to process in the middle of a warzone. It was infinitely easier for his fractured psyche to focus on absolutely anything else in the environment rather than the empty, bleeding space where his arm used to be.

After several agonizing seconds of staring blankly at his ruined shoulder, his tactical instincts forcibly rebooted his mind. His attention snapped back to the distant, chaotic fight.

His eyes locked onto the pale turquoise light emanating from the six-limbed creature's lure. As the hypnotic light flared to life once again, attempting to ensnare the attacking riders, the sharp, deafening crack of a heavy bowstring cut cleanly through the stagnant swamp air. A wet, explosive splashing sound immediately followed as another thick, spear-like arrow pierced the creature's appendage and violently exploded the bioluminescent lure.

The mesmerising turquoise light vanished instantly, plunging the immediate area into shadow. The six-limbed beast released a deafening, agonizing shriek that rattled Searanox’s teeth and echoed endlessly through the dense mangrove clusters.

Using the creature's distraction as cover, Searanox pushed himself to his knees using only his remaining right arm. He glanced nervously at the towering archer, but the grey-skinned entity had not fired another arrow in his direction. The riders were entirely, singularly focused on bringing down the massive amphibian. Taking advantage of the chaos, Searanox staggered unsteadily to his feet, his balance completely thrown off by the sudden loss of weight on his left side. He was preparing to do something he had sworn to himself he would never, ever have to do again.

As he stood, swaying slightly in the humid breeze, a glint of metal caught his eye. He spotted something laying half-buried in the blood-soaked mud a few meters away. It reflected the pale moonlight filtering through the canopy above.

It was his severed arm.

The heavy armored plating was completely ruined, riddled with holes ranging from small, deep punctures to massive, fist-sized craters where the beast's needle-like teeth had completely compromised the structural integrity.

He slowly, methodically made his way toward his lost limb, his gaze remaining fixed defensively on the battle raging a dozen meters away. To his utter astonishment, the deadly archer never even glanced in his direction. Not a single time. None of the towering tribal riders had paid him any mind whatsoever since the disappearing of his drones.

He stood there for a moment, bending down with immense difficulty to clutch his heavy, severed armored arm in his remaining right hand. He felt the sickening, dead weight of his own flesh encased within the ruined metal. He briefly, foolishly considered drawing his rifle one-handed and joining the fray to exact his revenge on the beast that had maimed him.

Then, reality set in. He shook his head, clicked his tongue in bitter self-reprimand, and turned away. He did the one thing he thought he had outgrown.

He ran.

His heavy combat boots sank deep into the thick, clinging mud with every panicked stride, each step a desperate, exhausting effort to create distance between himself and the nightmare unfolding behind him. He had absolutely no idea if he was heading in the correct direction, but getting away from the apex predators was all that mattered to his survival instincts.

After putting almost a hundred meters of dense swamp between himself and the battle, he risked accessing his skill. He summoned an Intermediate Recon Drone, sending the small, silent unit soaring high above the suffocating tree line. As he had grimly suspected, his blind panic had led him in the wrong direction—not completely off course, but deviated enough to cost him precious time. Accessing the drone's aerial topographical view via his mental link, he adjusted his route, dashing through the stagnant water directly toward the floor's exit portal.

His broken body ached with the terrifying phantom memory of his recent, near-fatal wounds. Though his side was mostly healed by the drone's magic, the lingering, deep-tissue discomfort spurred him onward.

As he splashed through a particularly dense thicket, a massive floating piece of driftwood caught his eye. Without breaking his stride, Searanox summoned an Intermediate Offensive Drone. Its concentrated violet beam tore through the crocodile's thick, armored hide without resistance, instantly vaporizing the beast's brainpan.

The sight of the easy kill filled him with a sudden, blinding fury that eclipsed even the horror of his lost arm. `A single, effortless shot to kill a massive beast.` He thought bitterly. `Yet against those riders and that ambush predator, I was utterly powerless. I was forced to flee like a frightened child.`

His desperate sprint eventually slowed to a heavy, laborious jog as his lungs burned for oxygen. The phantom pain of his missing arm screamed endlessly through his nervous system, a constant, throbbing psychological reminder of his catastrophic failure. He trudged through the murky, waist-deep water, each subsequent step vastly more difficult than the last. The thick swamp mud clung to his boots, sucking greedily at his legs, threatening to pull him under the dark surface. The air filled his nostrils with the nauseating scent of decay, blood, and stagnation.

He felt a primal, overwhelming urge to look back over his shoulder—to see if the towering grey riders or the mangled beast were silently pursuing him through the trees. But he violently fought the urge down.

So he kept his eyes locked forward, moving one agonizing step at a time.

His mind obsessively replayed the fight—the brutal, highly coordinated battle between the tribal riders and the six-limbed beast—over and over again. He analyzed their pack tactics, their fluid movements, their complete lack of hesitation. He saw the towering archer, its massive arrows finding their marks with unnerving, mechanical accuracy. He saw the spear-wielding riders, their eight-legged mounts charging forward with a relentless, suicidal fury. He saw the beast, its hypnotic lure, its razor-sharp needle teeth, its impossibly thick hide.

And then, he saw himself. Lying broken, bleeding, and entirely helpless in the mud. His advanced drones completely shattered. His arm casually severed.

`There is absolutely no way I could take them all on myself... not without any TP, not in this compromised state.`

He viciously berated himself as he pushed through the water. He had considered fighting both the apex beast and the tribal riders simultaneously. He had been so incredibly arrogant, so blinded by his past victories. He had vastly underestimated the Grand Labyrinth's deeper floors, its native inhabitants, and its lethal, unforgiving dangers. He had paid the ultimate physical price for his hubris. He swore to whatever gods were listening that he would never make a mistake of that magnitude again.

"They have an archer that instantly shoot at anything that even remotely glows," he muttered aloud to himself, his voice hoarse and raspy.

The vivid image of the massive arrows piercing his advanced drones, effortlessly plucking them out of the air like clay pigeons, flashed painfully through his mind. He remembered the terrifying sound of the heavy projectiles tearing through the humid air, the devastating sight of his defensive units barrier shattering into a pieces, and the sinking, hollow feeling of his only chance of survival crumbling to dust. He gritted his teeth, the acidic taste of bile rising sharply in the back of his throat.

The swamp water grew deeper, the underlying current slightly stronger. His recon drone, acting as a silent, watchful eye in the dark sky, hovered high above him. Its continuous navigational signal was a lifeline in the suffocating darkness of the floor. It perfectly guided him through the endless, confusing maze of ancient trees and submerged roots, its hovering presence a small, vital comfort in an otherwise entirely hostile environment.

He could physically hear the portal now. It emitted a low, resonant humming sound that steadily grew louder and more distinct with each exhausted step he took. Through a break in the trees, he finally saw its light—a massive, swirling vertical vortex of brilliant green and deep blue energy. It was a beautiful beacon of salvation in the endless, humid night. He pushed himself harder, his legs pumping with the last dregs of his adrenaline, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribcage. He was close. So incredibly close.

He finally dragged himself onto the small, raised rocky island where the Labyrinth's exit portal stood. The swirling, energetic vortex was the greatest sight he had ever laid his eyes upon, and the solid, unyielding stone beneath his boots felt like a blessing after what felt like an eternity drowning in the water and mud. He collapsed heavily onto his knees before the gateway, his chest heaving violently, his entire body trembling uncontrollably from a mixture of profound exhaustion, blood loss, and overwhelming relief.

He had made it. He was maimed, humbled, and broken, but he had survived.

The blinding sunlight that bathed the pristine streets outside the Grand Labyrinth building stung his dilated pupils the moment he stepped out of the portal and into the real world.

He immediately lifted his right hand in front of his face, shielding his sensitive eyes from the harsh glare of the sun. As he did, his gaze involuntarily fixed upon the object he was still clutching in his grip: his own severed, armored arm.

A fresh, violent wave of cold anger and self-loathing ran down his spine. The pathetic sight of the ruined limb, still dripping swamp water onto the polished floor, was a visceral, undeniable reminder of exactly what had transpired down in the dark.

He stood there in the courtyard for a several long seconds, letting the ambient heat of the city wash over his soaking, ruined coat. Then, his expression hardening into a mask of pure, sociopathic indifference, he turned and made his direct way toward the Central Tower. The walk across the plaza was mercifully short. The massive arched entrance came to view and he entered the sprawling, luxurious Atrium of his Tower, he was immediately greeted by Samantha.

A collective, audible gasp ran through the crowded Atrium.

The hundreds of low-level awakened present froze in their tracks. They stared in absolute, unadulterated horror as they saw the man they collectively viewed as an untouchable paragon of power standing before them. His magitech armor was completely destroyed, he was covered in foul-smelling swamp mud, and he was casually holding his own severed arm in his remaining hand. Whispers instantly broke out like wildfire—confused, terrified, and deeply shocked looks plastered across the faces of the onlookers.

But out of all the seasoned people in the room, absolutely none of them dared to approach him. The aura of cold, suppressed murder radiating from Searanox kept them pinned to the walls.

Samantha, however, did not waste a single second. She broke through the frozen crowd and rushed toward him, her heels clicking rapidly against the polished marble floor.

"My Lord," she said, her voice maintaining a professional calm, though her expression was tightly drawn with clear, undeniable concern. "I..."

Her words died in her throat as her eyes fell from his stoic face down to the heavy arm clutched in his right hand, and then slowly drifted over to the empty, bloody space on his shoulder where the limb should have been attached.

"Not now," Searanox said. His tone was icy, flat, and completely devoid of human emotion. He did not even bother looking in her direction as he walked past her.

He moved with aggressive purpose directly toward the first fully-equipped team of awakened he could spot gathered near the logistics desk.

"You there, with the sword. Cut it off," Searanox commanded. His tone remained icy and dangerously cold as he addressed a heavily armored warrior standing in line to return loaned gear.

Searanox stopped walking and forcefully held the mangled, jagged stump of his left shoulder out, angling it away from his body. The torn flesh and ruined bone fragments needed to be fresh wound for what he was about to attempt.

The warrior, a massive, heavily muscled man with a gigantic greatsword strapped to his back looked utterly bewildered. He stared from Searanox's ruined, bleeding shoulder, down to the severed arm Searanox casually held, and then back up to the cold, dead eyes of the man making the request. The warrior swallowed hard, nodded slowly in fear, and took a cautious step backward.

"I am... I am not a doctor, my Lord. I... I don't think I should—"

"I did not ask for your opinion. I gave you a direct order," Searanox interrupted, pivoting smoothly to fully face the terrified warrior. "Draw your blade. Now."