It’s a little past midday. The wagon creaked along the winding dirt road, each turn carrying them farther from the ashes of Korr’s Maw. The ruins of that bloodstained place were now nothing more than a smudge on the horizon, slowly swallowed by nature’s reclamation.

  Around them, the world was beginning to breathe again.

  Dry earth gave way to patches of grass. Dead trees thinned into tall, green columns. The distant caw of birds replaced the arena’s ghostly roar, and for the first time in weeks, the air smelled of damp moss and growing things rather than sweat, smoke, and blood.

  Joran sat near the back of the wagon, nestled against a crate of rations with his arms loosely resting on his knees. The road stretched quietly behind them, and with every gentle turn of the wheels, the forest seemed to grow greener—its canopy thick with leaves that shimmered beneath the soft light of midday.

  Sunbeams filtered through the branches above, breaking apart into golden shafts that danced across the canvas of the wagon and over the weathered wood at his side. Now and then, Joran leaned out to look at the scenery passing by—twisting roots, patches of wildflowers, the occasional rabbit darting through the underbrush.

  He breathed in the fresh, earthy scent of the woods, letting the calm settle over him like a warm cloak. For once, there were no battles to fight. Just birdsong in the distance, the gentle creak of the wagon, and the rustle of wind through the trees.

  A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

  It was peaceful. And for now, that was enough.

  He eventually ducked back inside, the quiet giving way to a different kind of unease.

  Ragna sat on the other side of the wagon, her arms looped around her knees, chin resting on her forearms. Her golden eyes were fixed on the wooden floor, unmoving. The orc who had once ripped iron doors off their hinges now looked… distant. Like a statue carved in contemplation.

  Joran hesitated. Then, gently, “Hey… Ragna?”

  She looked up slowly. Her expression didn’t shift. No warmth, no annoyance—just a quiet, unreadable stillness.

  Joran swallowed. He knew that look. It said don’t—but that only made the question burn louder in his throat.

  “I was just wondering… back at the Maw… you got pretty upset when I mentioned your clan. I didn’t mean to pry. I just… I thought maybe—maybe you’d want to talk about it.”

  Her gaze didn’t change, but something flickered in her eyes. Memory, maybe. Pain.

  She held his stare for a few heartbeats. Then said, flatly, “No. i do not..”

  Her attention dropped back to the floor, her tone as solid as the armor she didn’t bother wearing.

  Joran lingered a moment longer, debating whether to speak again. A part of him wanted to press—wanted to bridge that silence, be something steady for her the way she had been for him. But as he opened his mouth, an old memory surged up from the depths. Screaming. Restraints. His voice ignored. He closed his mouth.

  He stood and made his way to the front of the wagon, pulling aside the canvas and leaning out beside Takeda.

  The ronin didn’t look up, but he spoke softly, as if he'd expected him.

  “Give her time,” Takeda murmured, his voice barely above the clop of hooves. “She’s not used to friends. She said as much, remember? You remember the tavern wall?.” joran looked at the ronin to see he was wearing a straw hat to shield his head from the sun.

  Joran sighed and let his weight rest against the frame. “Yeah… I know. I just thought maybe if I asked gently...”

  “She’s not stone, Joran,” Takeda said. “But she’s not sand either. You won’t wear her down with waves of kindness. Start small. Ask about what she likes. Her interests. Start with cracks in her shell instead of trying to use a hammer.”

  Joran was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Thanks, Takeda.”

  The older warrior gave a small grunt of acknowledgment.

  Without warning, a head suddenly popped up beside Joran.

  He yelped and nearly lost his balance, flailing to stay inside the wagon.

  Ragna raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, though her voice stayed flat. “What are you two whispering about?”

  Takeda barely twitched. “Something called guy talk. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Her eyes narrowed just slightly, a low growl curling beneath her breath. “Just because I’m female doesn’t mean I can’t comprehend male conversation. I came up here to tell you something useful.”

  Joran blinked, still recovering. “Something useful?”

  “I smell trouble,” she said, her voice like a blade sliding from its sheath.

  That got both men’s attention.

  Takeda straightened slightly. “Trouble how?”

  “Bandits,” she said, eyes narrowing as she sniffed the wind. “Small group. About eight or nine. Lying in wait up ahead. I can smell the burn of cheap magic and unwashed bodies. They’re setting up for an ambush. Probably think we’re easy pickings.”

  Joran leaned forward, peering into the winding road ahead—but saw nothing yet.

  “Should we slow the wagon?” he asked.

  Takeda’s lips curled into a faint smile. “No.”

  Joran glanced at him. “No?”

  The ronin rolled his shoulders, stretching slightly. “Let them make the first move. Then we’ll show them their mistake.”

  Beside them, Ragna cracked her knuckles and rolled her neck. Her golden eyes gleamed with the anticipation of a fight.

  “I call dibs on whoever’s dumb enough to touch the horses.”

  Joran tried to steady his breathing, a strange mix of nerves and adrenaline settling in his chest.

  He’d fought worse. He’d survived worse.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  They were close now.

  The wagon rocked gently along the narrow dirt path, each wooden creak a quiet drumbeat against the forest’s growing silence. Joran shifted up front beside Takeda, pulling the canvas flap closed behind him. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy above, casting fleeting shadows across the road. Birds had gone silent. The wind had slowed. Even the forest seemed to hold its breath.

  Behind them, Ragna crouched low beneath the cover of supply sacks and old blankets. Her patience was wearing thin—Joran could practically feel the tension radiating off her like heat from a smoldering coal.

  “Try to look like frightened merchants,” Takeda murmured.

  “I think I’ve got that covered,” Joran replied dryly, adjusting the folds of his cloak to make it appear more worn from the road. He had swapped out the one Eitri had given him—its enchantments better suited for stealth—opting instead for a simpler, more rugged garment..

  Takeda’s hand hovered near the hilt of his katana, his fingers relaxed but ready. The other rested calmly on the reins as the wagon rolled forward through the forest path. Beneath the shadow of his straw hat, his eyes remained fixed ahead—sharp, unreadable, and alert.

  Hidden beneath his coat, secured against the small of his back, was a dagger unlike any other: The Last Mercy. Its unassuming size belied the power it held—its blade faintly aglow with the enchantments forged by Eitri and sanctified by the followers of Elura. It pulsed with quiet intent, a final safeguard against the darkness that haunted Joran’s soul.

  Takeda never touched it unless absolutely necessary.

  But he always knew exactly where it was.

  Then, the moment arrived.

  “Halt! Or be fired upon!”

  The shout rang out from the trees ahead, cracked and sharp like a whip. Before either of them could respond, a fireball arced from the underbrush, slamming into the dirt just before the horses. Flame and smoke erupted in a small burst, startling the beasts into anxious whinnies. The wagon jolted—but Takeda’s voice remained calm, his hand steady on the reins.

  “Easy,” he murmured, soothing the horses with a firm but gentle pull.

  From both sides of the trail, shadows moved.

  Nine men emerged from the trees in a loose, practiced formation. Three swordsmen strode down the center, their weapons drawn and faces smeared with road dust and arrogance. Two archers took up positions to either side, arrows already nocked, strings taut. A wiry mage stood just behind them, the remnants of flame still dancing across his fingertips as he eyed the wagon warily.

  And then came the one who had shouted—a broad-shouldered man with a ragged black cowl slung over one shoulder and a jagged scar running from his temple to his cheekbone. He strode confidently down the center, the others moving to flank him without command.

  He raised a hand.

  “Drop your weapons. And don’t try anything clever.” His voice was low, gravelly, like boots scraping over stone. “We’re with the Black Cowl Syndicate. If you value your lives, you’ll hand over anything of worth—supplies, coin, weapons, horses. All of it.”

  Takeda responded with the smooth poise of someone utterly unimpressed. He raised his hands slowly, revealing empty palms. “Of course. We are but humble travelers. Nothing here but food, blankets, a few tools. Hardly worth killing over.”

  Joran, after a moment’s hesitation, followed suit—his hands rising, his expression calm but wary. A small bead of sweat rolled down his neck. In the back of the wagon, just beneath the canvas, he heard a low snarl—Ragna’s patience thinning like worn rope.

  Two of the swordsmen moved to circle around toward the rear of the wagon, their boots crunching on dry leaves. The archers kept their bows trained on Takeda and Joran, eyes narrow, fingers tense. The mage—quiet, calculating—focused her gaze squarely on Joran, her head tilting slightly, as if trying to puzzle out something unseen.

  The leader stepped closer, eyeing the ronin with a mocking grin.

  Joran couldn’t stop the words from slipping out.

  “E-excuse me,” he said, voice caught somewhere between curiosity and caution, “but… what exactly is the Black Cowl Syndicate?”

  The man at the head of the group turned slowly, his expression souring as if Joran had interrupted something sacred. His gaze shifted to Takeda with a pointed sneer.

  “You should teach your pup when to keep his tongue leashed,” he said, tone smooth but sharpened with disdain.

  Then, with a roll of his shoulders and the smug satisfaction of someone who enjoyed the sound of his own voice, he went on.

  “We’re specialists in redistribution,” he said. “Patrons of balance. We lighten burdens. Free people from the suffocating weight of ownership.” He grinned. “And today, your little band gets the privilege of being... liberated.”

  At that moment, a sudden, high-pitched scream erupted from the rear of the wagon.

  Two screams, in fact—cut off mid-syllable.

  All eyes whipped toward the sound.

  Then chaos.

  Ragna exploded out of the canvas tarp like a battering ram in motion. Her massive frame tore through the back of the wagon in a single leap, a blur of muscle, fury, and rising war cries. She seized one of the swordsmen by the collar and hurled him into the trees with a sickening crack of impact.

  The second barely managed to turn before she grabbed his leg and whipped him sideways, slamming him down into the dirt with a thunderous thud. The air rushed from his lungs in a strangled gasp as he sprawled, unmoving.

  Ragna rose to her full height, her muscles coiled beneath bare, scarred skin. Her golden eyes gleamed like twin suns beneath the forest canopy. She drew her axe from its harness in a fluid motion, the curved edge catching a shaft of sunlight and throwing it like a flare into the stunned faces of the bandits.

  “Now the fun begins,” she snarled, her voice like the crack of a storm rolling over the hills.

  The leader jumped back, boots crunching through fallen leaves as he raised his sword in a trembling guard. The canopy above filtered shafts of golden light onto the forest floor, casting fractured shadows across the chaos unfolding around him. His archers—pale with fear—stood paralyzed, their eyes fixed not on him, but on the towering orc woman dragging her axe across the ground like a butcher preparing a feast.

  “Shoot them!” he shouted, voice ragged. “Shoot them both!”

  The command snapped the archers from their stupor. They drew and fired in quick succession.

  Takeda moved before the arrows had fully left their bows.

  He surged forward like a phantom, his cloak trailing behind him as he intercepted both projectiles—one in each hand—mere inches from their targets. One arrow would have pierced Joran’s chest. The other had been meant for his own heart. The prince let out a startled yelp, staggering back at the realization of how close death had come.

  Without breaking stride, Takeda rose and snapped his wrists forward.

  The arrows returned to the forest with deadly purpose.

  The first struck one archer’s arm with a wet crunch, knocking him backward into the underbrush with a pained cry. The second archer dove aside, just in time—the arrow sank deep into the earth behind him, quivering in the grass.

  Takeda’s katana slid into his hand like it had always belonged there.

  He lunged.

  Steel met steel with a shriek as the ronin’s blade crashed into the leader’s defense. The man grunted, reeling back from the force, barely holding his footing as he tried to counter. But Takeda was already moving again—fluid, relentless, unreadable.

  Near the wagon, Ragna bellowed with laughter.

  The unfortunate swordsman she’d planted into the forest floor had somehow escaped, though not far. He ran in wide, frantic loops through the trees, crashing through ferns and ducking around trunks as the orc chased him with terrifying glee.

  “Come back here, little man!” she called, voice ringing like a war horn through the woods. “I just want to test my axe’s edge!”

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Joran dropped from the wagon with a grunt, landing lightly on the ground. He scanned the scene—Ragna toying with her prey, Takeda locked in a vicious duel, the trees shifting with motion and fear. It felt surreal, like a memory carved from chaos and wrapped in leaflight.

  Then came the hiss of an arrow.

  It shot past his ear with a snap, slamming into a tree behind him with a thud.

  Joran spun on instinct. The uninjured archer had reset his stance and was already drawing again, this time with fury behind his grip. The fear was gone. What remained was desperation.

  Joran’s eyes narrowed as his fingers curled with magic.

  The archer, teeth clenched in rising panic, loosed arrow after arrow into the forest clearing. He moved without thought now—muscle, instinct, desperation—each shot fired in the hope that one might find its mark and end the nightmare before him.

  But Joran didn’t flinch.

  With a calm, fluid motion, he raised his hand. Mana pulsed in his palm, crackling with a faint blue shimmer. The arrows halted mid-flight—suspended like marionettes whose strings had been cut.

  Then they froze.

  Each shaft turned crystalline, frost tracing their wooden bodies in jagged lines until they shimmered with brittle beauty.

  With a soft flick of his wrist, Joran shattered them all.

  The arrows burst apart, falling as glittering shards of ice that tinkled against the mossy ground.

  The archer’s face twisted in horror. “N-nothing’s worth dealing with this kind of magic!” he yelped, turning to flee, bow abandoned.

  He made it a few steps before the wind turned.

  Joran swept his hand upward, and the air exploded into motion. A violent gust spiraled beneath the fleeing archer, lifting him off the ground in a howling vortex of wind and leaves. He screamed as he was hurled into the air, spinning high above the treetops before the vortex collapsed, vanishing as quickly as it had formed.

  A heartbeat later, the man crashed to the forest floor with a muffled thud and a groan. He was alive—barely—but would not be rising soon.

  Across the clearing, the last remaining mage narrowed her eyes and stepped forward. Arcane runes shimmered around her fingers, pulsing like embers.

  “I knew there was something different about you,” she said, her voice cold with suspicion.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Steel rang nearby.

  Takeda and the leader of the Black Cowl Syndicate were locked in a deadly rhythm, their blades clashing in rapid, precise exchanges. The forest seemed to hold its breath as they danced through shafts of light and shadow, each movement deliberate, every strike met with calm deflection.

  The syndicate leader grinned between parries, confidence creeping into his voice. “I’ve got to say... I’m impressed. You’re a damn good swordsman.”

  Takeda’s face remained unreadable.

  “Why don’t you drop the pup and the tusk-faced freak?” the man continued, tone turning conspiratorial. “Join us. You’ve got the skill. The boss would—”

  “You have a boss.” Takeda’s voice cut in, sharp as his blade. “Good to know.”

  The leader blinked. “Wait, that’s not—”

  But the words never finished.

  In a blur, Takeda stepped in and slashed down with merciless precision.

  The leader’s sword hand flew free, spinning into the undergrowth. His scream pierced the trees as he clutched the bleeding stump, eyes wide in disbelief.

  Before he could fall, Takeda’s katana thrust clean through his chest.

  The breath left the man in a gurgle, and he slumped forward against the blade before Takeda slid it free, letting the body fall soundlessly to the forest floor. Blood seeped into the roots beneath them.

  Takeda exhaled slowly and turned.

  Not far off, Ragna’s axe was carving through trunks and underbrush with reckless abandon.

  The bandit swordsman, bruised and scraped from earlier, had bolted through the woods in blind terror. He dove behind a thick bundle of bushes, panting through clenched teeth, limbs trembling. Somewhere behind him, Ragna’s heavy steps crashed through the forest.

  “Where are you, little bandit?!” her voice boomed like thunder. “The longer it takes to find you, the longer your death will be!”

  Her footsteps faded.

  The swordsman remained still, holding his breath until silence blanketed the forest once more. He finally allowed himself to exhale and began crawling out from the brush.

  He rose to his feet—and froze.

  Ragna stood in front of him.

  Her eyes gleamed with savage delight, muscles rippling beneath her armor as her axe rested lazily over her shoulder.

  “There you are.”

  His scream echoed through the trees, short-lived and wet. Then… nothing.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Moments later, Ragna emerged from the forest’s edge, brushing a smear of blood from her cheek as she strode back toward the wagon. Takeda was already waiting, wiping his blade clean with a torn strip of cloth.

  “Where’s the boy?” she asked, cracking her neck.

  Takeda gestured toward the treeline, where Joran and the final mage stood facing off. “Still has an opponent left.”

  Ragna followed his gaze, then shrugged, arms folding across her chest. “Why haven’t you stepped in?”

  “I want to see what he’s like against another mage.”

  She smirked. “Who am I to get in the way of another’s kill.”

  Takeda’s eyes slid toward her. “Aren’t you bound to protect him?”

  “I am,” Ragna replied, tilting her head. “But I’m not here to fight every battle for him. Just the ones he’s too weak to win…. Or if I feel like it.”

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  The dirt path wound like a serpent through the dense forest, flanked on both sides by towering trees whose limbs wove a patchwork of shadows across the road. Leaves rustled high above, and shafts of golden light filtered through the canopy, casting flickers of warmth across the cool, shaded earth.

  Joran stood in the center of the path, his cloak fluttering faintly behind him, boots dusted from travel. A light breeze played through his hair, but his eyes remained fixed on the figure across from him.

  The mage.

  She stood with one hip cocked, a smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Her robes, once fine, were smudged with dirt and ash, but her posture radiated confidence—no, arrogance. Fingers flexed at her sides, already pulsing with faint traces of magic.

  “I knew there was something off about you,” she said at last, her voice low and cool. “You carry yourself like prey, but your aura says otherwise. Strange combination.”

  Joran said nothing.

  She chuckled, stepping forward, her boots pressing softly into the packed dirt. “Let me guess—strong friends, lots of luck, and just enough magic to look impressive from a distance?” She cocked her head. “I’ve met dozens like you. Would-be heroes. They always burn out fast.”

  Joran’s brow furrowed. He didn’t rise to the bait. His right hand drifted slightly, fingers brushing near the hilt of his sword. Not to draw it. Just to ground himself. He took a breath. The forest was still around him. The road behind and ahead stretched into shadow and light.

  He would not falter.

  “I’m not here to impress you,” he said simply.

  The mage blinked, then gave a short laugh. “Oh, I like that. A little spine after all.” Her hands lifted slightly, and a faint shimmer sparked between her fingers—ether coiling, forming unstable threads of light. “Still, it’s a shame. I’d hoped for more of a challenge. You’re out of your depth, boy.”

  Joran didn’t move. His stance remained relaxed, but the mana beneath his skin stirred, ready to respond. He could feel the forest breathing with him—roots beneath the road, winds shifting through leaves, power waiting to be shaped. His nerves were still there, of course. But they were outnumbered now. Overwhelmed by something steadier.

  Purpose.

  “I’m not here to run either,” he said.

  That made her stop smiling.

  The breeze died for just a heartbeat. The forest stilled.

  Then the mage’s lips curled once more—but this time, there was a flicker of annoyance in her eyes.

  “Very well,” she said coldly. “Let’s see what you’re made of, then.”

  The mage didn’t hesitate. With a flick of her wrist and a crack of thunder, bolts of lightning erupted from her fingers—forked, jagged streams of white-blue energy that tore through the forest air like vengeful serpents.

  Joran’s response was immediate.

  He raised one hand and conjured a mana shield, a shimmering arc of translucent force that crackled to life in front of him. The lightning slammed into it with a deafening crack, exploding outward in sharp angles. The blasts scattered, ripping bark from nearby trees and sending bursts of heat into the undergrowth—but none touched him.

  As the last bolt deflected, Joran surged forward.

  With a thought, he summoned his mana blade—a gleaming construct of focused arcane energy. It hummed in his grasp, vibrating with power, its edge radiant and sharp as truth. He closed the distance between them quickly, cloak flaring behind him as he brought the weapon down in a vicious arc.

  The mage leapt aside, narrowly avoiding the strike—but her instincts screamed too late.

  From Joran’s flank, a second figure flickered into being—an afterimage, a shimmering ghost of his motion. The echo blade slashed toward her ribs, forcing her to throw up a mana shield of her own. Sparks erupted as steel met spell, and she skidded back through the dirt with a snarl.

  “Really?” she spat, catching her balance. “An Echo Slash? How basic.”

  But Joran pressed forward.

  He unleashed a flurry of strikes, each one followed by a ghostly double—a barrage of motion and mirrored aggression. The echoes surged from different angles: high, low, and from behind, forcing the mage to twist, pivot, and parry with growing frustration. With a shout, she thrust her palm forward. Her shield exploded outward in a pulse of concussive magic, knocking Joran off balance and sending him stumbling several paces back.

  Breathing hard, she lifted her arms, and a circle of flame ignited above her head. One by one, fireballs took shape—nine in total—each one swirling, pulsing, alive with blazing heat.

  “I don’t understand how someone as weak-looking as you could gather such powerful allies…” she hissed. “Pathetic.”

  With a snap of her fingers, the fireballs shot forth in a storm of burning light.

  Joran moved.

  He ducked the first two, felt the third graze past his shoulder, then rolled through the dust as two more slammed into the ground behind him—exploding in twin bursts that flung soil and smoke into the air. But he wasn’t fast enough to dodge them all. Two caught him squarely in the chest, erupting in violent flashes that hurled him backward into the brush.

  He hit the ground hard with a grunt, smoke curling from his cloak, limbs sprawled across the dirt road.

  The mage laughed, slowly approaching, her steps deliberate and mocking.

  “See?” she said, voice syrupy with cruelty. “So weak. It’s like putting down a lost puppy.”

  The smoke began to part.

  Joran stirred, coughing. His hair was disheveled, the hem of his tunic scorched and torn—but his skin beneath was unburned. He looked down in mild surprise, then clenched his jaw.

  Ever since the battle with Dain, when he’d lost control and gained the power of a standard western dragon, something had changed. The fire didn’t hurt anymore. At least—not the way it should have. His skin shrugged off heat. His blood resisted flame.

  The mage didn’t notice. She was too busy reveling in her perceived victory.

  But Joran rose.

  Joran wiped the soot from his brow, his hand trembling slightly before he forced it still. Through the haze of drifting smoke, he lifted his gaze to the battered mage, her eyes steady and unblinking.

  In that moment, clarity struck him like a hammer blow.

  He couldn’t afford to hesitate.

  Not here. Not now.

  Every second spent battling small-time threats like this was a second lost—a second that could be costing Druna McLerva her freedom, or worse. They had already delayed longer than they should have, lingering in Korr’s Maw to ensure the freed slaves had supplies and a safe path to Lothara. It had been necessary. It had been right.

  But time was slipping through his fingers.

  Druna was out there somewhere—alone, enslaved after saving his life—and he was wasting precious moments sparring with mercenaries and bandits.

  He couldn’t hold back anymore. He couldn’t let nerves or uncertainty chain him down.

  He had to find the beastman. He had to find her.

  And he had to end every obstacle in his path swiftly and without mercy.

  And this time—he didn’t wait for her to move.

  The air thickened around Joran.

  Not with heat, not with smoke—but with power. Raw mana shimmered off his skin in faint waves as he straightened his shoulders and stepped forward, his cloak fluttering behind him in the rising current. His hand lifted, palm crackling with unshaped energy, and for the first time, the mage faltered.

  Still, she grit her teeth and fought to suppress the rising fear.

  "You think some flashy tricks will save you?" she snarled, lifting both hands. She wove a complex barrier array—a lattice of elemental wards locking over her body in a brilliant blue web.

  Joran said nothing.

  With a flick of his wrist, he summoned Aetheric Lances—three shimmering spears of dense mana that ripped through the air like shooting stars.

  The mage shouted a command and forced more power into her shield. The first lance hit—her barrier buckled, but held. The second—her knees bent under the force, boots skidding back in the dirt. But the third lance twisted mid-flight—unnatural, guided by Joran’s will—and slammed into her from the side, breaching the barrier and sending her sprawling across the road in a spray of dust.

  She rolled to her feet with a snarl, coughing blood, and launched a counterstrike: a chain of ice spikes erupted from the ground, lancing toward Joran’s legs.

  Joran barely moved—he sidestepped with supernatural grace, his mana blade still gleaming in one hand.

  He pointed two fingers forward—and cast Voltaic Pulse.

  Electricity exploded beneath the mage’s feet, the ground flashing white-blue. She screamed as the arcs of lightning struck her, forcing her to one knee, her hair standing on end. Gritting her teeth, she roared and retaliated with a storm of fireballs, hurling a barrage of burning orbs with both hands.

  The sky lit up with flame.

  Joran swept his arm in a crescent arc—Arcane Tempest Shield sprang to life, a spinning shield of condensed wind and mana. The fireballs slammed into the tempest, bursting harmlessly outward in radiant showers of embers.

  He advanced through the falling sparks without pause.

  The mage backed away in disbelief, desperately weaving a mana net in front of her—designed to trap and constrict anything that passed through.

  Joran’s eyes narrowed. He snapped his fingers—and cast Cyclone Edge.

  A razor-thin disk of compressed air howled into existence and shot forward, slicing straight through the net like a blade through paper. The cyclone crashed into the mage, spinning her violently off her feet and into a tree with a heavy thud.

  She slumped for a moment—but with a furious gasp, she dragged herself up, blood streaming from her brow. Rage and panic warred in her eyes.

  She screamed a spellword, summoning a phantom hydra made of shadow and arcane fire—its three heads snapping and lashing toward Joran.

  Joran didn’t flinch.

  He stamped his foot into the dirt—Gravity Well triggered instantly beneath the hydra and the mage both. The phantom beast collapsed into flickering mist as the crushing force flattened it. The mage herself staggered, legs trembling, unable to keep upright as the very earth seemed to pull her down.

  “Stay down!” she shrieked, throwing a desperate arcane scattershot—wild bolts of force in every direction.

  Joran lifted his hand calmly.

  A pulse of Aetheric Repulsion radiated from his body, disintegrating the incoming blasts midair with soft pops of magic.

  The mage’s arms dropped to her sides, disbelief painted across her battered face.

  And Joran finally struck the last blow.

  With a sharp gesture, he conjured Stellar Darts—a constellation of miniature, blazing projectiles. They hovered for a breath, then streaked toward her, faster than arrows. Each dart struck with pinpoint precision: joints, torso, shoulder—non-lethal, but brutal.

  The mage cried out and was thrown backward. She hit the ground hard, tumbling across the dirt before coming to a halt in a broken heap, groaning weakly.

  The battle was over.

  Joran stood there, breathing evenly, mana still humming low around him like a distant storm.

  From the trees, Ragna let out a slow whistle, arms crossed.

  Takeda simply watched, silent, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of his hat.

  The mage twitched, trying—and failing—to push herself upright. Her mouth worked as if to form a curse or a plea, but no sound came out.

  Joran approached her slowly, standing tall over the fallen mage.

  "You never stood a chance," Joran said, his voice low and steady.

  He stood tall amid the settling dust. His hand brushed over the scorched hem of his tunic—the place where her fireballs had struck him earlier—and for a brief moment, his fingers lingered there, feeling the roughness of the singed fabric.

  "I let my nerves get the better of me at the start," he admitted, lifting his gaze to meet hers. "But after you landed those hits..." He let the words hang for a breath before continuing, his tone hardening, "I realized I can't waste time with hesitation. Not anymore."

  A soft crackle of mana surrounded his hand as he raised his fist, forming a glowing Arcane Lance—a spear of pure condensed energy that hummed with lethal power. The air rippled around it, the light reflecting in his eyes as he prepared to deliver the final blow.

  "I have someone to find," Joran said, voice almost a whisper now. "Someone I owe a debt to. And every second I waste here... she could be slipping further away."

  He took a step forward, the lance pulsing brighter, ready to strike.

  But then—

  "Wait!" the mage cried out, her voice cracking with panic.

  Tears welled in her wide, frantic eyes. She stumbled backward, hands raised in desperate surrender. "Please! Don't kill me! I'm sorry! I swear, I'll leave you alone! I only needed the money—I was desperate! Please... I beg you... have mercy!"

  The raw fear in her voice stabbed at him.

  Joran hesitated—just for a moment.

  And in that moment, memories surged up from the depths like a black tide.

  The crushing sound of his knuckles pulverizing the troll knight’s skull.

  The sickening crack of bones as his boot shattered the Graviol's chest.

  The smell of burning flesh as Vaelin’s severed arms dropped to the ground—followed by the charred ruin of his head.

  The blood. The screams. The sick, gleeful rush he had felt...

  His hand trembled.

  The Arcane Lance flickered in his grip, then slowly unraveled, dissolving into harmless strands of mana that vanished into the air.

  Joran lowered his arm, his face grim and heavy with something deeper than exhaustion.

  "Go," he said quietly. "Leave. Now."

  The mage stared at him, wide-eyed and stunned for a breathless moment.

  Then, without a word, she scrambled to her feet and darted across the dirt road, nearly tripping over herself. She stumbled toward the unconscious archer Joran had downed earlier, grasped his limp arm, and with a muttered incantation and a flash of magic, vanished from sight—likely using a teleportation spell to flee.

  Joran stood alone in the road.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t even flinch when the soft crunch of approaching footsteps sounded behind him.

  Ragna and Takeda appeared out of the thinning mist, stopping a few paces away.

  Neither spoke right away.

  They simply watched their prince—the boy who fought with a heart too big for the world he had been thrown into—stand in silence, grappling with demons far worse than any mage.