Zafran caught Isolde’s arm, steadying her. Her shoulder bled openly, ice sealing it only enough to keep her moving.
“You alright—?”
Her voice cut in like frost. “He’s mine.”
She tore free from his grip and launched forward—white cloak trailing like a blade through fog.
“Wait—!”
Zafran moved to follow, but a massive blade cleaved down in front of him, halting him mid-step. Steel kissed dirt with a hiss.
“Your opponent is me,” the tattooed man growled, stepping into view—silent, wide-shouldered, already ready to swing again.
But Zafran’s attention flicked past him—because Isolde was already closing in.
She surged through the haze, blade low, body angled. The ground split beneath her feet—spikes of stone lunging up in jagged lines. She weaved through them, dancing between death. One spike scraped her thigh, tearing through cloth, drawing blood—but she didn’t slow.
She moved like winter wind.
And Varzen? He didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
No chant. No gesture.
Just a lift of one hand.
Reality tilted.
Isolde reached him and struck—her sword aimed for the throat.
Clang!
Steel rang off iron.
A quarterstaff—metal-wrought, capped with a violet gemstone the size of a fist—had intercepted her strike with ease. Varzen barely moved. His eyes gleamed, unfazed.
She twisted her stance, lightning crackling in her free palm—ready to release.
But the ground rebelled again.
Another earth spike launched upward—faster this time, sharper. She pivoted mid-air, dodging—but not clean. It ripped across her side, blood spilling hot over white.
Varzen twisted his staff—once—and the next moment, she was airborne.
She slammed into a crumbling stone wall. Ice cracked across her arms and back from instinctive defense, but the blow still hit deep.
She slumped forward, coughing.
Snow stained red.
Varzen stepped forward casually, resting the base of his staff on the broken earth.
“Still just a cub,” he said, amused.
Zafran barely caught the first strike.
Steel screamed against steel. The sheer weight behind it jarred his arms and forced his footing to stagger.
The tattooed man didn’t speak. He advanced with relentless rhythm—each blow faster, sharper, heavier.
Zafran blocked, pivoted, slipped sideways, barely keeping up. His body already burned with the effort.
It felt less like a duel and more like surviving a collapse.
The man’s movements weren’t refined—they were brute efficiency wrapped in monstrous strength. Every swing cracked the air. Every clash bit deep into the dirt. One mistake, one misstep, and Zafran would fall.
He held on.
No flair. No flourish. Just raw defense, minimal motion.
The tattooed swordsman narrowed his eyes. “You’re not bad.”
Zafran didn’t respond. His eyes flicked—just once—toward Isolde’s motionless figure, half-buried in rubble and frost.
And that was enough.
The swordsman twisted low, using the moment to drive a cleaving arc toward Zafran’s exposed side.
Zafran turned just in time, catching the blow with his blade—but the power behind it hurled him back like a thrown doll.
He tumbled, rolled, boots skidding, and slammed against a trunk.
“Do you really have that much free time to care about someone else?” the man called out, straightening.
Zafran’s breath was ragged—but he didn’t stay down.
He kicked off the tree, launching forward with a burst of practiced acceleration.
“I don’t have time for you!”
Their swords met mid-air—another shattering clash. Zafran twisted at the last second and slammed a knee into the man’s gut. The swordsman grunted and staggered—but raised his blade again.
Zafran was already inside his guard.
A swift elbow. A shallow cut across the shoulder. Then a snap-kick to the jaw.
The swordsman reeled, crashing into the ground.
He rolled quickly, dirt grinding into his tattoos, and spat blood. “Why the hell did I get the most annoying one…?”
But before he could rise—
Zafran was there again. No pause. No wasted second.
His blade came down—hard.
The tattooed man barely raised his own weapon to parry. Sparks exploded as steel ground against steel.
“Grrr… this bastard—!”
He shoved Zafran back with a burst of force, pushing him away just enough to breathe. But not far.
Zafran reset his stance, circling. His breath shallow. His arms trembling from the strain—but his feet still solid.
The swordsman eyed him now—not with disdain, but with wary calculation.
Zafran said nothing.
His stance spoke for him.
The next clash came with no warning.
And neither of them intended to retreat.
The air twisted again—this time not with magic, but with sound.
Fwip.
An arrow split the distance between Ysar and Elsha.
They dove apart just as it struck the ground—and exploded in a sharp burst of smoke.
“Explosive arrows!?” Ysar coughed, waving the haze away. “Are you kidding me—!”
He didn’t finish. Another arrow whistled down—Elsha deflected it midair with her blade, sparks flashing off the edge.
They looked up.
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The bowman stood perched on a rooftop, one knee bent, posture too relaxed. His cloak fluttered, but his eyes were dead still—locked on them.
And he was already nocking the next shot.
“I’ll go up,” Elsha said, already moving.
“I’ll keep him distracted!” Ysar shouted, charging the base of the building.
A third arrow came—aimed for Ysar’s thigh.
A wall of fire roared up just in time, deflecting it with a sizzling hiss.
Karin stood at a distance, breath short, eyes narrowed. “Watch it!”
“Thanks!” Ysar called. “Keep doing that!”
“I can’t see him clearly!”
“Guess you’ll have to aim where I will be, then!”
Another arrow flew—curved unnaturally, guided mid-flight by magic. It arced toward Elsha.
She flipped sideways, barely dodging. The blast scorched the wall beside her.
She gritted her teeth, leapt, and caught the edge of the second-floor balcony. Pulling herself up, she vanished from sight.
Ysar reached the base, kicked in the door, ducking just as another shot punched through the wood behind him.
Karin’s fire lanced upward—wild, searing a line across the rooftop. The bowman shifted a step and fired down through the smoke.
“Damn it—!” Karin flinched as the blast cracked into the dirt beside her.
Inside, Elsha moved fast. No hesitation. No wasted breath.
She burst through the top floor doorway just as the bowman turned.
He didn’t fire.
He kicked.
The heavy arc of his boot slammed her sideways. She stumbled but caught herself—and brought her blade around in a flash.
Steel rang.
The bow clashed with her sword—reinforced with metal. It wasn’t just for show.
He spun—fast—and landed a clean elbow into her ribs. Elsha gasped. But she didn’t go down.
Downstairs, Ysar launched up the stairwell, blade drawn.
“Don’t die before I get there!”
“Late as usual!” Elsha called, parrying again.
The bowman ducked, reached into his quiver—not for an arrow, but a small orb.
He tossed it.
Flashbang.
CRACK—light and sound.
Elsha and Ysar both reeled, blinded. He fired again in the same motion—one arrow, two targets.
But Karin had been watching.
Her hand snapped up—fire curved midair, intercepting the shot in a burst of flame.
“I’m starting to hate this guy,” she muttered.
And that’s when the bowman shifted focus.
Still perched high, he drew a breath—and for the first time, looked directly at Karin.
She felt it.
That still, cutting focus.
Fwip.
The arrow streaked toward her—not explosive, but sharpened, silent, and meant to kill.
Karin’s hands moved before her thoughts did.
A burst of flame erupted beneath her feet—not outward, but downward. It blasted her backward, skimming her across the dirt just as the arrow punched into where she’d been.
“Dammit,” she coughed, singed and scraped. Her sleeves scorched from her own fire, but alive.
Another arrow nocked.
He was targeting her now.
“Kar—!” Ysar shouted, but the rooftop flared.
The bowman loosed two more shots—one aimed for where she’d just landed, another anticipating her retreat.
She didn’t move.
A wall of fire exploded upward.
One arrow melted midair. The other curved off course.
He pull another arrow, about to shoot again, with magic humming,
But Elsha intercepted, her blade crashing against his bow, knocking the arrow off.
The bowman barely parried—when Ysar slammed into his side, dragging him down.
Karin dropped to her knees—gasping, smoke curling from her palms.
She looked up, blinking sweat and heat—and now the bowman was locked between the two blades that refused to let him look at her again.
They moved as one.
Steel met steel in a blur of motion.
Soon enough, the bowman pulled his long dagger out.
His blade moved like his arrows—precise, surgical. But Elsha matched him—step for step.
Her blade carved a tight line through his guard, forcing him back. He countered with a low sweep—she leapt, spinning, her reverse slash nearly catching his throat.
He ducked. Pivoted. Slashed upward.
And Ysar crashed in from the side, roaring.
Their blades met him at once—one high, one low.
The bowman twisted unnaturally, bending like a reed, and kicked Ysar square in the ribs. Ysar staggered—but kept his footing. Then the bowman followed up with a precise slash—blood spilled across his vest. Ysar stumbled back and hit the wall.
“Ysar!” Elsha shouted, intercepting another strike.
“I’m fine—” he lied, breath ragged.
She had already drawn blood—a clean slice across the bowman’s thigh—but it only made him more vicious.
He tossed another smoke bomb.
The world went gray.
Inside the fog: footsteps, breath, steel.
A flash—Elsha blocked, but too late. His dagger slashed deep across her side. She grunted, stumbled.
He surged forward—blade raised, ready to finish—
And the world turned white.
The fog caught fire.
A wall of searing heat punched through the rooftop.
The entire corner of the building erupted—white-hot, furious, alive.
The smoke twisted into flame-tongues that lashed skyward.
The bowman screamed.
Cloak ablaze, he was hurled off the rooftop—crashing into the dirt below. He rolled once, twice, finally still—body smoldering.
Half his body burned black.
Karin stood.
Arms outstretched.
Hair scorched at the tips.
Eyes wide.
Shaking—not from fear, but from the weight of what she’d just done.
Elsha dropped to her knees, coughing, hand pressed to her bleeding side.
Ysar hit the far wall, breath gone, slumped—but conscious.
Karin’s voice, when it came, was hoarse.
“…Don’t you touch them.”
Varzen’s head tilted.
The fire still danced in Karin’s wake—curling along shattered roof beams, smoke spiraling skyward like a second sun’s shadow.
The bowman lay crumpled at the foot of the house, half-burned, still groaning.
Varzen’s grin faded.
He turned from Isolde—who still struggled to push herself upright—and fixed his glowing eyes on the flame-touched girl across the clearing.
“Ah,” he murmured. “So… not just frost in this litter after all.”
He began to walk.
Not rushed. Not slow.
Each step was deliberate. Quiet. Like the world moved around him, not with him.
Karin felt it first—his presence pressing against her skin like a humid wind before a storm.
Elsha forced herself up, her blade shaking in her grip.
Ysar leaned off the wall, bloodied, breath shallow.
Varzen stopped a few paces short—close enough for the air to shift.
“You’ve got teeth,” he said, eyes never leaving Karin. “And here I thought you were just another loud apprentice with flashy tricks.”
He raised a single hand, lazily.
Air warped around it—threads twisting in directions that made no sense. Sideways. Inward. Wrong.
“Ishtan is one of my best hand,” He said, “How would you cover for my loss if he’s gone?”
Karin didn’t answer.
Her chest rose and fell, heat pulsing under her skin.
“Back off,” Elsha growled, stepping in front of her.
Varzen didn’t even glance at her. “I’m talking to the flame.”
His fingers clenched.
The air screamed.
A rift tore open—not a spell, but a wound. Chaos bled through in tendrils of sound, pressure, force.
“No—!” Ysar lunged, trying to intercept.
The blast struck.
A twisted wave of energy slammed into him. Earth cracked. He flew backward like a ragdoll, crashing through debris and into a broken cart. Then still.
Varzen didn’t pause.
He kept walking.
Elsha slashed—fast, clean, aimed to kill.
He parried with the shaft of his staff, barely shifting.
“How old are you, kids?” he muttered. Not a question—just a breath before a storm.
Then came the surge.
Chaos magic erupted from him—raw, unstable. Elsha was flung back into the side of a shattered wall with a cry.
Karin hurled flame, desperate, but it dispersed mid-air—shredded by the chaotic field that now rippled around Varzen.
The backlash sent her skidding through the dirt, coughing, stunned.
“I thought the ice one was the threat,” he said softly. “But you… you’re louder than I expected.”
Karin tried to rise. Her knees buckled.
Elsha staggered upright, blade dragging. “Don’t—touch—her.”
Varzen tilted his head. “Still standing? Let’s fix that.”
He flicked his fingers.
A lance of black energy screamed toward her.
But this time—ice intercepted it.
The bolt shattered.
So did the shield.
Isolde stood—blood down her face, ice creeping along her arm as it struggled to hold her broken body together.
“You talk too much,” she rasped.
Varzen’s grin returned. “Now that’s the tone I missed.”
He turned his staff. The gemstone pulsed once.
Isolde lunged.
Wounded. Slower.
He caught her mid-strike—staff meeting sword with a sharp clang—then reversed it, slamming the iron shaft into her gut.
She doubled, lifted from the ground, and crashed to the dirt again.
Elsha roared and rushed—but he vanished.
He reappeared behind her. One palm pressed to her back.
A pulse of inverted gravity knocked the air from her lungs. She collapsed like cloth.
Ysar groaned—barely conscious, crawling through the wreckage.
Isolde tried to rise again. Failed.
Karin braced herself—fire flickering—but her limbs betrayed her.
They were losing.
Falling apart.
Varzen took one step back, surveying them all—broken, scorched, bleeding.
And smiled.
“I’ll give you this,” he said. “You made it farther than I expected.”
He raised his staff.
The violet gem gleamed.
Then—
Crack.
A sword sang.
A thin red line bloomed across his cheek.
Varzen froze.
Behind him—Zafran stood.
Sword in hand.
Blood on the blade.
Breath like a beast.
No words.
Just steel.
—Just a moment earlier —
Steel clashed. Again.
And again.
The tattooed swordsman grinned through grit teeth. “You’re persistent.”
Zafran didn’t answer.
He was already moving—redirecting the next blow, angling to the side, drawing him away from the others.
He kept his stance low. Controlled. Every movement was pure efficiency—no power wasted, no breath spent on flourish.
But his arms burned. His footing slipped on broken dirt. He could feel it. The fight was even—barely. And that man wasn’t tiring.
The tattooed swordsman lunged again. Zafran deflected—twisted—returned with a diagonal slash that barely missed.
“You’re good,” the man muttered. “But not enough.”
Another clash with too much power from the swordman, sending him off again,
He landed on the ground, rolling to redirect the impact,
and at that very moment, he saw it.
The village burned.
Elsha was down.
Ysar unmoving.
Karin also being pushed back.
And Isolde, lying in a pool of blood.
His knuckles tightened.
Isolde’s voice echoed in his memory—
“If you keep holding back, Ocean Tide… you’ll regret losing someone.”
Zafran took one breath.
One.
Then something shifted.
Light.
A pulse beneath his skin.
Green, tinged with deep blue. Like ocean currents catching moonlight.
His breath slowed.
Then vanished.
When he moved, the earth didn’t know it yet.
The swordsman blinked.
Too late.
Zafran vanished and reappeared behind him—
A line of silver drawn through the air.
A hiss.
A pause.
Then—
The head dropped.
No sound. Just a soft thump as it landed.
The body stood for a second longer.
Then crumpled.
Zafran exhaled.
Mist curled faintly from his shoulders.
His sword dripped red.
And he turn quickly, to the place where every one is.