Chapter 31

  The outcome of the brawl felt inevitable—yet strangely uncertain.

  Luken had become a force of nature, twisted and empowered by the raw, primordial presence that was Gravor. A monster cloaked in darkness, rage, and unholy might. But across from him stood Gunnar—the Crytomancer—not a demon, not a god, but a man with unbreakable willpower. A man who simply refused to fall.

  And yet… one of them would.

  The next barrage from Gunnar came fast and furious, a rain of magically reinforced punches, conjured blades, and runic flares. Luken met them all with his wings, hardened like black steel, curving around him like a living fortress. Each strike echoed like thunder, the shockwaves cracking the frozen landscape around them. But Luken didn’t budge. Not anymore.

  Then, without warning, Luken lowered his defense.

  It was time to experiment.

  If this really was my mind, the thought slithered through what remained of his rationality, then why not try everything?

  His claws twitched, and two long spears materialized in his hands—sleek, dark, etched with glowing veins of corrupted gold. He moved like liquid shadow, twirling the weapons with supernatural grace, jabbing and thrusting at Gunnar in lightning-quick feints. The Crytomancer blocked the strikes, retreating just enough to stay safe—but it was clear: he was on the back foot.

  Luken was testing him.

  Then came the shift.

  The spears melted into smoke, replaced by twin axes—massive, jagged, grotesque. Each one bore a gaping maw at its center, rows of glistening, hooked fangs embedded in the iron. The hilts pulsed with something alive. Eyes opened on the blades—six each—unblinking and twitching with hunger.

  Luken smirked, or whatever the twisted thing that had once been a smirk now looked like on his face.

  With a sudden burst of speed, he lunged. He feinted toward Gunnar’s right shoulder—a wide, overhead swing—forcing the Crytomancer to pivot and raise his runed arm to block.

  It was a trap.

  The real attack came from the left, where the second axe drove deep into Gunnar’s side, burying its fangs into flesh with a sickening, wet schlrrrk. The second axe followed a heartbeat later, tearing into the muscle just beneath the first strike. Blood splashed across the ice in heavy droplets—only to be immediately slurped up by the axes themselves.

  The sound was obscene. Wet. Hungry. Alive.

  Gunnar roared in pain. It wasn’t a cry of fear, or even panic—it was pure, animal fury. But the damage was done. The axes didn’t just wound; they fed. And in doing so, they drained more than just blood—they stole strength.

  Before… before the transformation, Luken might have dropped the weapons in horror. He might’ve gagged at the smell, flinched at the sight of something so disturbingly wrong.

  But that Luken was gone.

  Buried under armor, wings, talons, and venom.

  The thing that remained didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. It watched as the axes feasted, eyes unblinking, breath calm.

  It knew one thing. It would not stop.

  And somewhere, far in the back of its darkening mind, a faint voice whispered: "You’re not going back after this. Not full."

  But Luken didn’t answer.

  Instead of pressing his advantage with the twin axes, Luken released them, letting them dissolve into black mist that hissed and sizzled as it vanished. He then conjured a new weapon—no, not just a weapon. A horror.

  A halberd, tall and jagged, formed in his clawed hands, pulsing with a grotesque, fleshy texture. It writhed as if breathing. Dozens of eyes opened across its surface, blinking independently, some weeping ichor, others darting madly in every direction. The shaft twitched like a spinal cord. The blade at the end was jagged, not forged but grown, more bone than steel. It moaned.

  For a heartbeat, something in Luken faltered. A flicker of the old Paladin stirred within him. His grip loosened slightly, as if his very soul recoiled at the abomination he had summoned. He nearly dropped it.

  But the creature he had become growled lowly and shook its horned head. The doubt was purged. His grip tightened.

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  With a guttural snarl, Luken swung the halberd in a wide arc, aiming directly for Gunnar’s skull.

  The Crytomancer didn’t flinch.

  His hands, glowing and laced with blue runes, caught the incoming blade mid-air. The flesh of the halberd sizzled against the protective wards carved into Gunnar’s palms, and for a moment, the weapon hissed in protest like a wounded animal. With a burst of strength, Gunnar shoved it aside, creating distance between them.

  He raised his hand to counter, preparing to launch a blast of compressed force—but then his fingers twitched violently. His hands spasmed, locked in place. The skin blackened, then began to peel. Flesh rotted in seconds, veins turned to sludge beneath the surface.

  It was a infection from the axe wounds—spreading, multiplying, corrupting.

  “You vile creature!” Gunnar bellowed, his voice cracking with fury and pain. He focused every ounce of his will to halt the decay, weaving his will into blue runes that wrapped around his hands like chains. Slowly, the necrosis began to recede.

  But Luken gave him no time.

  A shriek of air was the only warning before a storm of barbed, venomous spikes erupted from Luken’s arms and wings, hurled like a volley of arrows toward Gunnar. The Crytomancer raised a wall of runes just in time—the projectiles splintered against the glowing surface—but Luken was already moving, flickering behind him in a shadowy blur.

  Claws struck toward Gunnar’s spine, but the mage twisted. The blades met a defensive rune etched into the small of his back. It flared bright blue and discharged a pulse of energy, knocking Luken several paces away. But Gunnar wasn’t done.

  He spun on his heel, feinted a swing to Luken’s ribs—then drove a punch directly between the demonic Paladin’s eyes.

  The impact cracked something. Not just the bone beneath the scaled helm, but something deeper. The ringing in Luken’s skull was deafening, and for a moment he staggered, eyes wide, balance faltering.

  Gunnar saw his chance.

  With a snarl, he surged forward, building momentum. But before he could land another hit, Luken gritted his teeth and summoned a new weapon mid-motion: a massive scythe, dark as pitch, its blade long and curved like the crescent of a moon. The moment it appeared, it wailed—a sound like a soul being torn in half.

  Luken swung.

  The blade intercepted Gunnar’s punch, deflecting it harmlessly—but not without cost. The scythe’s aura leaked into Gunnar’s runed hands, and again the rot began. Black veins spread up his arms. His muscles quivered and clenched, and the faint scent of burning flesh filled the air.

  Luken stepped forward with the momentum, twisting the scythe in an upward arc that nearly took Gunnar’s head. The Crytomancer ducked just in time, stumbling back, his breathing ragged.

  Luken didn’t relent. He raised the scythe again—but before he could strike, a shimmering wall of transparent force bloomed between them. The scythe struck it with a clang that echoed across the frozen plain. The feedback knocked Luken backward, skidding across the cracked, groaning ice.

  For the first time in minutes, both combatants paused.

  Gunnar's chest heaved. Blood dripped from his side. His hands were nearly numb, fingers trembling from the struggle to fight off the corruption.

  Luken slowly stood, tail flicking behind him, wings twitching in anticipation. The scythe still hissed in his grip.

  Their eyes met.

  And then, despite everything—the gore, the pain, the shattered armor, the screaming madness of the battlefield—Luken smirked.

  “You know,” Luken hissed, his voice no longer his own but a guttural, distorted mockery of it, low and layered with unnatural resonance, “I’ve actually enjoyed our little duel. Truly. But I’m not really in the mood for a Round Four. You aren’t either, are you?”

  Gunnar’s chest rose and fell in ragged rhythm. Blood poured freely from the wound in his side, soaking his tattered robes and the ice beneath him. But his glare remained unwavering. He growled through gritted teeth, “I’ll fight until your damned soul rots in the deepest pit of Hell. And if, by some cosmic mistake, you kill me before that… I’ll claw my way out of this mindscape and haunt you until the day you bastards finish Dwin and Lira’s lunatic ritual—if you survive it at all.”

  That struck something in Luken. Somewhere, buried beneath layers of corruption, spikes, and scales, a shred of the original Paladin’s mind stirred—just enough for him to wrest a moment of control.

  His next words came not in a hiss, but in his real voice, shaky and faintly hoarse.

  “You’re Gunnar Ashwinter, aren’t you?”

  The Crytomancer gave a shallow nod, one hand pressed against his side as he tried to will the bleeding to slow. His eyes didn’t leave Luken’s for a second.

  Luken exhaled slowly, tilting his head. “You’re a legend on both continents. I read about your feats. About the Wyrmgate siege, the Pillars of Stonefall, the duel in the Emberwood… hell, I even had a little statue of you when I was a boy.” He chuckled, but it was dry, humorless. “So tell me—why the hell are you working with two Crytomancers who are trying to summon a nightmare from the Lower Realms?”

  For a few heartbeats, Gunnar said nothing. Luken could sense the runes weaving across the man’s skin, healing and sealing, blood clotting under shimmering sigils. Maybe he was stalling. Maybe he was trying to decide how much of the truth to give. Luken waited. Despite the hunger in his corrupted veins, his curiosity overpowered it.

  Finally, Gunnar straightened, his hand falling away from the wound. His voice was quiet, steady, but heavier than anything he’d said before.

  “No one on this continent escaped Varnedor’s wrath.” He looked up, his eyes not glowing now, but utterly human. “Everyone lost something during the Dragon Wars. You know that, don’t you?”

  And there it was again. That boiling rage in Luken’s chest, rising at the mere mention of the past—the fire, the smoke, the wings blotting out the sun. The screams. He clenched his fists, but forced the memories down.

  Gunnar’s voice dropped even lower. “In my case… it was my daughter.”

  Luken’s breath caught.

  “She was buried alive,” Gunnar said, each word like a stone dropping into a bottomless pit. “When our home collapsed during one of Varnedor’s raids. The ceiling crushed her chest. She was six.”

  Silence fell. The battlefield was quiet, save for the crackling of distant runes and the slow, dripping sound of melting blood hitting frozen water.

  Luken nearly asked—Was it the Crimson Dragon?—but stopped himself. If the Ashwinters had lived in his city, he would have remembered. He would have known. Wouldn’t he?

  But there were so many cities. So many fires. So many corpses.

  He said nothing.

  And for the first time, both monsters stood still. Watching. Breathing. Hurting.