Chapter 28

  It was a man—middle-aged—who stepped through the tear in the sky. Tall, broad-shouldered, his frame muscular like that of a seasoned warrior. A short, neat beard traced his jawline, and his head was completely bald, reflecting a faint shimmer from the cold, white light of this unreal space. A long, dark-blue coat flowed around him, heavy with invisible weight, the fabric itself humming faintly with latent energy. Something about him—his posture, maybe, or the set of his jaw—reminded me a little of Simon… but this man was taller, more imposing, and carried with him a raw, restrained aggression. His eyes weren’t cruel or cunning. Just… unaware. Empty of deeper insight. He didn’t look like a schemer. He looked like muscle. The kind that didn’t plan—just enforced.

  If he was one of the Crytomancers—and I was almost certain of it—he wasn’t the one performing the rituals. He was the one standing in front of the circle, arms crossed, daring someone to interrupt. He was the blade, not the hand.

  And this man… he wanted a fight. I saw it instantly. In his stance, in the way his muscles coiled beneath his coat. The way he measured me with his eyes—hungry, focused. He had the look of a fighter who hadn’t had a proper brawl in far too long. Not just a warrior. A brawler. A wrestler. The kind who charged, grappled, slammed you into the earth until your bones sang with pain.

  And I knew him. Or at least, of him.

  He was one of the Travelers.

  The three had kept to themselves since the beginning. Watching. Whispering. Waiting. But this one? A mountain like that couldn’t hide, not really. His size, his presence—it marked him.

  “I take it you’re one of the Crytomancers?” I asked, my voice steady. The question was rhetorical. I already knew the answer.

  He smiled, not bothering to deny it. “So you really did try to sabotage us,” he said instead, his voice deep and unhurried. “But a mana cage and a fake soul-bargain? Please. You can’t stop three elite mages with that.”

  That counted as a yes.

  I smirked under my helmet. “Maybe you saw through the trap… but only just before the fake exchange, right?”

  His grin didn’t waver. His words were calm, but I already sensed the tension in his body—he was going to strike. “Let’s just say your priestess still has a lot to learn about invisibility spells.”

  And that was his final sentence before the storm broke.

  He roared—not like a man, but like a beast—and with a sudden gesture, conjured a blade from thin air. It shimmered in his hand for a moment, before solidifying with a hiss of cold steel.

  Then he charged.

  No fancy footwork. No magical warning. Just pure, brutal force—like a bull lunging for the kill.

  I pivoted hard, the ice cracking beneath my boots, narrowly dodging as his shoulder grazed past me. A second later and he would’ve slammed into me like a wrecking ball.

  He spun fast—too fast for someone his size—and came back in with the blade. I raised mine.

  Our blades clashed with a thunderous screech—louder than I expected. Not just a clash of steel, but a raw, jarring scream that sent a shiver through the air. I staggered back, the impact ringing through my arms like a struck bell. Whatever his weapon was made of, it wasn’t normal metal. It sang with power. For a split second, I was open.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  He didn’t waste it.

  I barely ducked under his next wild, frontal strike, but before I could counter—before I could even think about slashing at his flank—he vanished from my vision and reappeared behind me. A punch, fast and brutal, slammed into my lower back. I was launched forward like a puppet with cut strings, sliding over the frozen lake’s glassy surface. The ice groaned beneath me. Cracks spidered outward. My armor whined from the impact, the plates along my back flexing dangerously.

  I grit my teeth, pain flaring up my spine. His fists weren’t just strong—they were enchanted. Maybe some sort of kinetic force reinforcement? I’d heard of mages who could weave momentum into their limbs. But his speed? That was something else. That was unnatural.

  "How?!" I shouted, breath steaming in the cold air as I forced myself to my feet again. "How are you so fast? So agile?"

  He stood tall, probably smiling—I couldn’t see it clearly, but I felt it. Then he roared across the distance: "We’re inside a mind, idiot! Here, anything is possible. Willpower is law!"

  Wait—what?

  That changed everything.

  If this place obeyed the soul’s will, then maybe…

  I focused, not on words or runes or rituals, but pure thought. One more weapon. In a heartbeat, a second sword formed in my hand, forged from my own will, flickering with faint, unstable light. I had no time to admire it. He was already charging again, that same unstoppable mass of muscle and fury.

  But this time, I was ready.

  I ducked low under his swinging fist—closer than before—and slashed up in a tight arc. My blade bit into his forearm. Just a shallow cut, but enough to draw blood. Crimson welled up fast—and vanished just as quickly, absorbed by the rules of this warped world.

  He flinched, not in pain, but in surprise.

  So the rules could be bent.

  Now I went on the offensive first. Admittedly, I didn’t really have a plan when I attacked. Instead, I just struck wildly at his fists with both blades, creating countless cuts—none of which seemed to bother him in the slightest.

  When I realized it was pointless, I jumped back a bit, fused both swords together, and fired a golden energy beam—like the ones I’d only ever seen in depictions of the most powerful mages in all of Tirros. Why had I never heard of soul-combat before?

  “Because it’s an unpopular practice, one people prefer to forget,” answered Gravor —surprisingly not grinning this time.

  “Why?” I asked telepathically, while desperately dodging what felt like a hundred strikes.

  “It serves one purpose: the destruction of the soul. And it’s damn cool,” I added.

  That made the creature in my head grin again.

  “Yes, this kind of combat is cool—but the first part is also true: total soul annihilation.”

  Then, more seriously, he explained: “It erases a being’s existence completely. Even the cruelest mages usually have enough honor to avoid using it.”

  “So what does that mean for the Crytomancers… and our muscle brute?” I asked, a bit shocked.

  “It means they’re monsters who damn well deserve to die”, he said, and grinned.

  "Alright then," I whispered—more to myself than anyone else—and surged back into the fight.

  I ducked under his next swing, rolled across the frozen ground, and came up behind him. Without hesitation, I thrust my blade straight toward his heart. But the Crytomancer spun around with impossible speed. His fist lashed out, and I wasn’t fast enough.

  It hit me square in the face—right between the eyes.

  The impact cracked through my helmet like a thunderclap, and I was launched backward, skidding and tumbling across the ice until I slammed to a stop. Dazed and seeing double, I instinctively tried to seal the fracture in my helmet with a focused thought, but the disorientation clouded my mind. My balance faltered. My vision blurred.

  And then he was on me again—charging like a bellowing beast.

  I barely managed to roll aside, narrowly evading his downward blow that cracked the ice where I’d just lain. I scrambled to my feet, only for a brutal kick to smash into my side and hurl me through the air once more. This time, I landed hard and didn’t get up right away. My armor was barely holding together—fractured plates, dented steel, and jagged cracks across my chest and helmet.

  “Oh no...” Gravor’s voice whispered in my head—not mocking this time. Not gleeful. Just... afraid.

  “I think it’s time I gave you a little push.”

  I coughed, tasting blood in my mouth. The Crytomancer was approaching me slowly now, methodically, like a predator savoring the kill. Confident. Careless. Arrogant.

  “No,” I rasped aloud, weakly. “We agreed... you would never control or influence me.”

  “No control,” Gravor replied with a sly, almost sing-song tone. “Just... a little boost. Besides...” His grin returned, and I could feel it.

  “Do you have another choice?”

  I wanted to argue. To scream. To fight with my own power.

  But I didn’t. Not right now.

  Gravor sensed the silent answer in my soul.

  “Good.” His tone shifted—gleeful, excited, almost childlike in its wicked delight.

  “Time for a little upgrade.”

  Then everything began to change.