For a brief moment, silence settled over the battlefield. The flickering campfire crackled softly, its flames casting long, jagged shadows across the bloodstained ground.

  Elara and her team stood poised amidst the bodies of the fallen Grellocks, weapons ready, breath steady. Their first strike had been flawless, precise—eliminating nearly all resistance before the enemy even knew they were under attack.

  But something was wrong.

  The air was too still. The forest too quiet.

  Lucian’s grip on his sword tightened.

  Then—a sound.

  A deep, guttural growl rumbled from the largest hut. Low, deliberate—not the shrieking cries of the Grellocks they had fought before, but something else.

  Something aware.

  Tarek, still crouched near the tree line, exhaled through his nose. “They’re coming.”

  A heavy thud echoed as the first figure stepped out of the hut.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Lucian’s breath slowed as his eyes took in the new enemy.

  The first to emerge were not the weak, scavenger-like Grellocks they had cut down before.

  These were different.

  Taller. Broader. Their bodies bore thickened, scarred hides, their eyes sharper, colder—like those of warriors who had seen countless battles and survived them all.

  They wore crude, piecemeal armor—leather, bone, and metal that did not belong to them. Some of it was stained, aged with rust and dried blood. But the terrifying part? Some of it wasn’t Grellock-made.

  Lucian’s stomach turned slightly as his eyes landed on a shoulder plate—human-forged steel, battered but unmistakably real.

  A trophy.

  The Grellocks had killed fighters like them before.

  The largest one stepped forward, rolling his shoulders, cracking his neck. His weapon—a curved, cleaver-like blade—was already coated in dried black and red stains. He scanned the battlefield, gaze flicking from one fallen Grellock to the next.

  He took in the massacre. The utter silence of his dead kin.

  Then—he smirked.

  Lucian’s breath caught.

  Not a snarl. Not a shriek.

  A smirk.

  The Grellock understood.

  Not just that they had been hunted—but that now, he was hunting them.

  He raised his weapon.

  The others followed—silent, disciplined, controlled.

  And just like that, the battlefield had changed.

  Captain Elara’s eyes narrowed as she slowly unsheathed her second blade.

  “Well then,” she murmured. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

  The embers of the dying campfire flickered weakly, casting ghostly shadows over the battlefield as Elara and her team stood motionless, their weapons drawn. Across from them, the Grellocks—not the frail, scavenger-like creatures from before, but hardened warriors—measured their foes with eerily calm, calculating eyes.

  This was no ambush.

  This was a test.

  The largest of the Grellocks, the one who had smirked, took a single step forward. His hulking form loomed over the others, his armor a patchwork of scavenged steel and bone. Unlike the lesser Grellocks, his stance was poised—the stance of a fighter who understood combat.

  Lucian’s heart pounded in his chest, but his grip on his sword remained firm.

  These Grellocks were different. Not mindless. Not reckless.

  They were hunters.

  A cold breeze rustled through the trees, and for a brief moment, no one moved.

  Then—the lead Grellock raised his weapon.

  A signal.

  The first Grellock lunged, its movement too fast for something its size. Lucian barely had time to react before steel was already flashing toward him.

  He sidestepped, his training taking over, and his sword lashed out in response. A quick, precise slash— meant to wound, to slow the creature down.

  But the Grellock moved like a trained warrior.

  It deflected the strike with its rusted blade, the impact sending a shudder up Lucian’s arm. This wasn’t like fighting the weaker ones from before—this thing had technique.

  Lucian barely had a moment to reassess before it pressed forward again, relentless.

  He met the next strike head-on. Their weapons clashed, sparks flying as steel grated against steel.

  But Lucian was no stranger to strength.

  He pivoted, shifting his stance, using the Grellock’s own momentum against it. His blade twisted downward in a clean arc—cutting deep into the creature’s side.

  It snarled but did not fall.

  Lucian grit his teeth. This would not be easy.

  Across the camp, the others had engaged their own opponents.

  Holt’s massive axe cleaved through the air, but his Grellock opponent met him with surprising agility, dodging the brunt of the strike.

  Fey fought like a whirlwind, her twin blades dancing, but her foe was just as fast, matching her step-for-step, forcing her onto the defensive.

  Tarek, ever the ghost, had disappeared the moment the battle began. Lucian didn’t know where he was. That was the point.

  Renn’s bowstring thrummed as she loosed arrows at a precise, rapid pace, but even the Grellocks that fell did not fall easily.

  And Captain Elara…

  She was smiling.

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  Her daggers flashed in the firelight, carving deep, precise cuts into the Grellock facing her. She was testing him. Letting him think he had the upper hand.

  And then, when he made the mistake of overextending—

  She ended him.

  A dagger to the throat.

  A clean kill.

  Lucian had no time to be impressed.

  His Grellock was still very much alive.

  And it was learning.

  The next exchange came faster, sharper. It was adapting to his attacks, mirroring his adjustments.

  Lucian shifted his stance, adjusting just as quickly. His training under Malric had taught him not to rely on pure instinct alone. He needed to be unpredictable.

  Instead of matching the Grellock’s aggression, he faked a retreat.

  The creature lunged—overcommitting.

  Lucian stepped into the attack.

  His blade cut deep into its gut.

  This time, the Grellock staggered.

  Lucian didn’t give it a chance to recover.

  One swift motion. A final strike to the heart.

  The creature collapsed.

  Lucian exhaled, his chest heaving.

  Another enemy down.

  But the battle wasn’t over yet.

  A shriek pierced the night.

  The team turned just in time to see—

  The largest Grellock—the leader—

  Was still standing.

  His blade was coated in blood.

  But not his own.

  Lucian’s stomach dropped.

  Tarek.

  The scout had reappeared—barely standing, gripping his side where dark blood seeped through his tunic.

  Elara’s eyes darkened.

  The Grelock leader turned to her, smirking once more.

  Then, he raised his hand—and pointed his blade directly at her.

  A challenge.

  Elara exhaled slowly. Then she grinned.

  "Fine."

  She flipped her dagger.

  "Let’s dance."

  The battlefield was painted in the glow of dying flames, flickering light casting elongated shadows against the Grellock leader’s towering form. His smirk remained, unfazed by the blood of his kin soaking into the dirt at his feet.

  Lucian steadied his breathing, sweat dripping from his brow. Every instinct screamed at him that something was wrong.

  The silence stretched—unnatural.

  Then—

  Laughter.

  Low at first. A guttural chuckle that rumbled from the Grellock leader’s chest, growing into something far more insidious. His head tilted slightly, his jagged teeth bared in amusement.

  Then he spoke.

  “Ah… what a shame.”

  Lucian froze.

  The words were not guttural noises. Not snarls. Not the crude, animalistic sounds that monsters made.

  They were spoken. Clearly. In the human tongue.

  The battlefield went deathly still.

  Fey’s grip on her blades tightened. Holt’s axe lowered slightly. Isla’s expression remained unreadable, but Lucian could see her fingers twitch—as if she, too, was processing what she had just heard.

  Even Captain Elara, who had faced countless horrors before, narrowed her eyes.

  “…It spoke.” Renn’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  The Grellock leader’s lips curled further. “Surprised?”

  Lucian swallowed hard. Yes.

  Monsters did not talk.

  Monsters did not mock.

  And yet, here it was.

  Elara took a slow step forward, daggers still poised. Her voice was steady—controlled, but edged with curiosity.

  “Who… are you?”

  The Grellock leader let the silence drag before he finally answered.

  “My name is Vraxxis.”

  The way he said it was unnerving. Confident. Amused. Like he had been waiting to introduce himself.

  His inhuman, golden eyes flickered across the battlefield, lingering on the corpses of his fallen warriors. He let out a long, exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as if truly mournful.

  “And here I was… hoping to see something better from them.”

  His gaze turned to Elara’s team, his smirk widening.

  “But they were still just… incomplete.”

  Then—his expression twisted.

  And he laughed.

  Not like a monster. Not like a beast.

  Like a man who had lost all reason.

  "Hah… ha… hahahahaha!"

  Lucian felt a chill crawl up his spine.

  Something was deeply wrong.

  "Still… not enough,” Vraxxis mused, his clawed fingers flexing. “Still too… weak. They were just failures—half-formed things.”

  His voice lowered, deep with mock regret.

  "But perhaps… the next breed will be better."

  Lucian’s breath hitched.

  Next breed?

  Before he could ask, Vraxxis tilted his head slightly—fixing his gaze directly on Lucian.

  “And you… You fight well for a pup.”

  Lucian stiffened.

  This monster was studying him.

  Elara exhaled through her nose, her grip tightening on her daggers. "You talk too much for something that’s about to die."

  Vraxxis' smirk never faltered.

  “Hah… then come.”

  His claws extended, the air around him growing thick—almost suffocating.

  Lucian’s pulse quickened.

  This fight… was going to be unlike anything before.

  Vraxxis was waiting for them.

  And he was ready.

  The moment Vraxxis moved, the ground trembled beneath his weight.

  Elara barely had time to react.

  A black blur—he was fast. Too fast. More than just a beast—this was a predator.

  CRACK!

  The force of his first strike sent splinters of earth flying as Elara twisted away just in time, narrowly avoiding the swipe of his massive clawed hand.

  But he was already pivoting.

  Lucian barely caught it with his eyes—the way Vraxxis moved wasn’t just brute force. It was practiced. Calculated. A warrior’s footwork.

  Elara gritted her teeth. She had underestimated him.

  Not again.

  Her daggers flashed as she lunged, aiming for his ribs—fast, precise, aiming to bleed him out.

  Vraxxis shifted.

  Not dodging. Not blocking.

  Reading.

  His arm came up just in time, knocking her strike aside with a backhand so brutal that Elara barely managed to slide away before it could shatter her ribs.

  He’s adapting.

  Elara clicked her tongue, spinning backward to regain distance—

  But Vraxxis was already there.

  A foot slammed into her gut.

  The world blurred.

  Elara was airborne. The force of the impact sent her crashing through the dirt, flipping twice before she slammed against a ruined cart, splinters of wood digging into her back.

  “Captain!” Lucian started forward, but Holt’s arm shot out, stopping him.

  “Wait.”

  Lucian snapped toward him. “What do you mean wait?! She—”

  “She’s not done.” Holt’s voice was steady. Unshaken.

  Lucian turned back.

  Elara… was smiling.

  She wiped blood from her lip with her thumb, then rolled her shoulders. Her eyes sharpened.

  And then—the air changed.

  Lucian felt it before he saw it.

  A pressure. A weight in the air so thick it made the battlefield feel smaller.

  Vraxxis tilted his head. “Oh?”

  Then—Elara exhaled.

  And the flames ignited.

  A blazing inferno erupted from her body.

  The flames did not consume her. They obeyed her. Danced around her like living entities, wrapping around her arms, coiling at her feet. The ground beneath her blackened from the sheer heat.

  Lucian felt sweat gather at his brow.

  Her Ascen was fully awakened.

  A deep, searing orange-red aura burned around her—a wildfire barely restrained.

  Vraxxis chuckled. “Ah. That’s more like it.”

  Elara cracked her neck.

  “Try and keep up, monster.”

  BOOM.

  She vanished.

  Lucian barely registered what happened—one second, she was standing still. The next—

  She was behind Vraxxis.

  Vraxxis jerked sideways.

  A trail of fire followed Elara’s daggers as they sliced across his side, searing into flesh.

  Vraxxis grunted.

  It was the first hit that actually wounded him.

  Elara didn’t stop. She pressed forward, her movements now enhanced by the sheer explosive power of her Ascen.

  Her feet barely touched the ground as she weaved through Vraxxis’s counterattacks. Fluid. Deadly. Each strike carried not just precision, but force.

  Vraxxis lashed out—but Elara ducked, her body twisting unnaturally, the flames fueling her movement.

  She kicked upward—a trail of fire followed her boot as it smashed into Vraxxis’s jaw.

  He stumbled.

  The tide of battle shifted.

  Lucian’s heart pounded.

  She’s actually pushing him back.

  The Grellock leader let out a low growl, licking the blood from his lips. “Interesting.”

  Elara grinned. “Not done yet.”

  Then, she did something different.

  She threw her daggers aside.

  Lucian’s eyes widened.

  What?

  She was—disarming herself?

  Vraxxis narrowed his eyes.

  Then—it happened.

  The air crackled.

  The flames surged.

  Lucian’s breath hitched.

  Something was coming.

  The Relicarn.

  Elara thrust out her hand. The fire around her collapsed inward—condensing—reshaping. Then—it materialized.

  Lucian’s breath caught.

  A weapon.

  A sword of fire.

  No.

  A whip.

  The flames hardened into a long, segmented chain blazing with raw power—the length coiled like a serpent waiting to strike.

  Vraxxis stiffened.

  “…So this is your fanged relic?” he murmured.

  Elara gripped the burning chain.

  “Ignite, Incendria.”

  Lucian could barely breathe. This was her Relicarn. The weapon within her Ascen.

  Elara smirked.

  Then—she swung.

  The blazing chain-whip lashed out—faster than before.

  Vraxxis barely dodged, the flames licking against his shoulder, searing his flesh.

  Elara was relentless.

  The whip lashed out again, wrapping around his arm.

  Then—she yanked.

  Vraxxis ROARED as flames surged up his body.

  Lucian’s heart thundered.

  Elara was driving him back.

  The battlefield was now hers.

  And this was only the beginning.

  As Vraxxis roared in pain, the flames of Incendria seared his flesh, wrapping around his arm like a serpent of fire. His blackened claws flexed, embers rising from his skin as he gritted his teeth.

  The Emberfang team tensed, ready to join the fight—but before any of them could move—

  Elara lifted a hand.

  A single motion.

  A command without words.

  Lucian froze. Holt, Fey, Renn, even Isla—all of them hesitated.

  She wasn’t asking them to hold back.

  She was ordering them.

  Her eyes never left Vraxxis as she spoke.

  “Stay back.”

  A pause.

  Then—a grin spread across her lips.

  “He’s mine.”

  The battlefield stood still.

  Vraxxis chuckled, the deep, guttural sound full of amusement. “Oh? You’d rather die alone?”

  Elara rolled her shoulders, flexing her grip on Incendria’s burning links. The fire around her flared, the heat intensifying as if responding to her sheer will.

  “You talk a lot for someone who’s bleeding.”

  Vraxxis glanced at his arm—his burned flesh steaming—but instead of anger, his grin widened.

  "Heh. A true warrior after all."

  Lucian felt his heart thunder.

  This wasn’t just a fight.

  This was a clash of predators.

  Two warriors who lived for the thrill of battle.