They both stood, each at the top of a dune.

  The breeze blew hot and soft over the desert, gently pushing Hope’s hair back.

  He narrowed his eyes, studying his opponent.

  An Yvernis. Tall, broad chest. Carried an axe. And like Hope, he wore the full set—bracers, vest, pants, boots… all stained in blood.

  ID: 841492

  Level 33

  As the silence lingered, Hope frowned, noticing his opponent’s gaze. There was a certain coldness and confidence in it that felt… off. It lacked the usual fierceness and hostility he was used to in the others. This one just… didn’t care?

  And yet… it didn’t matter. This was the final fight. A fight where only one could walk away.

  So, Hope dashed forward. He kept every sense locked on the Yvernis, but the guy didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just stood there—like everything around him was beneath notice.

  Hope narrowed his eyes. Something ain’t right.

  Screw it. I’ll end it fast.

  He surged forward, channeling a sharp gust behind him. Air Magika burst out, kicking up a thick wall of sand and grit, clouding the Yvernis’ line of sight. Hope sidestepped out of view—ready to drive his spear in from the side—

  Then everything flipped.

  A sudden gust slammed into him from the left, blasting his own sand cloud back into his face. He stumbled, grit stinging his eyes, momentum thrown off.

  That was when his opponent finally moved.

  A wide arc of metal came screaming in from the dust—Hope barely raised his spear in time. The shaft caught the blade mid-air with a brutal clang that rattled straight down to his bones.

  The impact sent him flying. He slammed into the sand, rolled twice, boots digging in to stop the slide.

  Grit filled his mouth. He spat it out, coughed once, and pushed back to his feet, spear already raised.

  But the bastard hadn’t moved.

  Still calm. Still waiting.

  Like he was just… testing or mocking him.

  Hope’s grip tightened around the shaft, sweat dripping from his chin.

  Fuck.

  The bastard… could use Air Magika. And not just use it—he was damn good at it.

  But… how?

  Hope’s eyes flicked across the dunes. No one else in sight. No ghost-girl floating around helping from the sidelines.

  Did this bastard have someone else guiding him? And what about him—wasn’t he supposed to be the Air Magika genius or whatever the damn System called it? Then how the hell was he getting outclassed like this in his own field?

  Sure, maybe there was another Magika Prodigy out there—fine. But with Air too? Same damn type? Nah. Shit wasn’t adding up.

  Still… didn’t change what needed to be done.

  He had to kill this guy, one way or another.

  Hope took a slow breath, forcing his thoughts to settle. He had to factor in that breeze-shifting bullshit the guy pulled. That alone made this fight twice as tricky. And from that first clash, the bastard was strong. Really strong. Maybe even more Physis than him too?

  Alright then. Tough. Windy. Big swings. Weaknesses? Probably too arrogant for his own good. No ranged weapons either. That helped.

  Hope planted his feet in the sand, didn’t move, didn’t rush. Just conjured a current behind him—thick, gritty wind kicking up like a curtain. The air snapped and howled across the dune as he slipped a few rocks from his bag.

  First one flew straight, accelerated by the gust—aimed at the bastard’s chest.

  CLANG.

  Metal rang out clear across the air.

  Hope didn’t stop. He shifted sideways, moved fast through the swirling grit, tossed another rock, then another. Always changing angles, hiding in the storm.

  CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

  What the hell!?

  Every damn one got deflected!

  Hope gritted his teeth. He’d even curved the last one with the wind, and yet the Yvernis still batted it away like he saw it coming before it even left Hope’s hand.

  No fuckin’ way.

  How the hell was he reading the shots that well through all this dust and wind?

  He cut the wind off and stepped back, letting the sand settle around him. His hand lingered near his spear as he narrowed his eyes.

  This wasn’t just reflexes. This guy… this guy was something else. Way too good.

  And yet… Hope had no choice. He had to find a way to break his defense, no matter what.

  He closed his eyes for a moment and took a slow, deep breath.

  The heat clung to his skin—dry, thick. The wind had calmed, but the silence of the desert still pressed down like a weight. He let it settle into his body, into his nerves, and then—he opened his eyes and locked onto him.

  No more thinking.

  He charged.

  His boots skidded over the sand, each step uneven, his approach zigzagged to throw off the line of sight. Before hitting full range, he suddenly cut left and feinted a retreat—but the Yvernis didn’t fall for it. The bastard didn’t even twitch.

  Hope narrowed his eyes, slid one hand further down the shaft for better control, and lunged in with a tight, fast thrust aimed at the lower ribs.

  The Yvernis blocked it with the haft of his axe, not even shifting his stance. Hope didn’t pause—he twisted, brought the spear up for a quick upward jab, then shifted his grip back and slashed across his midsection in a wide arc.

  Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  All blocked. All clean. The bastard’s movements were damn precise—too precise. Not overextended, not wasted. Just enough force, just enough movement.

  Hope circled to the right, then struck again. He alternated high and low attacks—one to the shoulder, one to the thigh, then a quick jab toward the gut. He changed grip mid-motion, sliding his rear hand forward to snap the spear into a closer hold for better control. His footwork was tight, spear spinning from low to high to low again, changing rhythms constantly.

  But nothing got through.

  The Yvernis didn’t just block. He read the strikes like he’d seen them a dozen times already. His axe was steady, a short-hafted thing that gave him more freedom in tight space, and he used it like an extension of his arms—parrying, turning the angle, redirecting the force.

  And then—he finally countered.

  It wasn’t a big motion. Just a sudden sidestep, then a downward parry that knocked Hope’s spear away from center. The next instant, he closed the gap, his shoulder driving forward to unbalance Hope’s stance.

  Before Hope could reset, the axe was already swinging in from the side.

  The blade tore across his left shoulder, slicing clean through the flesh.

  SCRSHH.

  Blood sprayed out in a wide arc, catching the light before splattering across the sand.

  The impact spun him halfway—THMP!—and he staggered back, teeth clenched, chest heaving as white-hot pain ripped down his side.

  Hope roared in pain as he disengaged, dragging his spear with him, boots skidding across the sand. The gash burned deep, his shoulder throbbed, and every movement made his arm stiffen further as blood poured freely down his side.

  Hope stared at the Yvernis, chest heaving, nerves flaring under the weight of the pain, but he swallowed it down. His left arm could still move—barely—but each twitch sent fire crawling up his neck.

  And yet, that stare was still there. Cold. Aloof. Like this was just squashing a bug to him. No sweat, no signs of strain, no effort in that smug face.

  Hope couldn’t understand. Where the hell did this guy come from? How was he so disgustingly strong?

  Still, he had to—

  “Is that all you have… Hope?”

  Hope’s eyes snapped wide. How… how the hell did he know his name?

  A chill slid down his spine. His grip on the spear trembled for just a second.

  Then came the smile. Arrogant, calm, full of mockery.

  “What… do you think this is unfair?”

  Hope gulped and tried to pull himself together, even as the pain kept biting down through his ribs. Thoughts churned in his head, each one worse than the last.

  “So what about those Crawlers you killed before?” the Yvernis continued. “Fighting someone like you, who could use these cheap little Magika tricks... that was unfair for them, wasn’t it, Hope?”

  “Who are you?” Hope asked, voice low and hoarse, his stance steady despite the shaking.

  “My name is Hector Iteron,” the man said with a grin. “My real name.”

  Real? Hope’s foot nearly faltered. So he is… a Citizen!?

  “Surprised? Afraid?” Hector said. “Come on, Hope, you should feel honored I’m here. How many of you pitiful insects have ever had this moment of glory?”

  He started walking forward, slow and steady. “So I bet you’re wondering—why is he here? Why did this happen? Am I gonna die?”

  Hope’s jaw clenched. He said nothing. Blood from the gash on his shoulder trailed down his hand, dripping from his knuckles onto the sand below.

  Hector stopped just outside his range.

  “I’m feeling generous today, Hope. So let me give you some answers.”

  He smiled again.

  “One: I’m here to kill you.

  Two: Because you and that ugly-ass girl cheated, and some people are not happy about that, you know.

  And three: yes. You will die now.”

  Hope stood still as the words hit him like a hammer. But even then—

  He gritted his teeth and channeled all the force he could muster in an instant, Magika swirling around them—pure fury and will to live—as he thrust his spear forward, ignoring the blinding pain. A thrust with everything he had.

  And yet—

  It missed.

  Hector sidestepped cleanly and then—

  “Gah!”

  A brutal kick slammed straight into Hope’s gut, crunching the vest inward with a sickening snap. The air tore from his lungs as he was launched through the sand, coughing blood, vision flickering.

  He gritted his teeth, sand scraping raw skin, the agony in his shoulder flaring with every twitch of muscle.

  But still… he forced himself to rise.

  Legs shaking. Vision blurry.

  And yet—he stood.

  But right there, already waiting, was Hector.

  “Good. I like those eyes,” he said with a smirk. “You know… they say hope is the last thing that dies in man. So… honor your name.”

  Hope shoved what little strength he had left into the wind coiling around his arm, forcing it through the shaft as he lunged with a short, brutal thrust.

  He roared as he struck, voice cracking under the strain—

  And then—

  BOOM!

  A heavy blow crashed into his ribs. Something cracked. The impact ripped him off his feet again. The world spun as he was hurled backward.

  He tumbled. Rolled. Slid.

  Then slammed into the side of a dune, the collision stopping him cold.

  He couldn’t breathe right. Everything felt off. His right side wouldn’t respond when he tried to curl it. The ringing in his ears wouldn’t stop.

  His fingers clawed weakly at the sand, but there was no strength left in them. Grit filled his mouth. The sky above spun and blurred.

  Then—footsteps.

  Hope turned his head, just slightly. His neck barely listened, but he made it.

  There he was.

  Hector. Walking slowly toward him.

  Hope tried to move—to do something—but his legs wouldn’t budge. His ribs screamed at him. Every breath stabbed like a blade.

  Hector stopped just before him, looking down with those hollow eyes full of contempt.

  “You’re supposed to kill me, you know? Don’t you want to live? What are you doing down there?” he chuckled.

  Hope spat blood. His face was pale, and yet he put one hand on the sand, trying to force his body up—but… he couldn’t. The broken ribs, the gut, the shoulder… his body buckled down and dropped, barely any strength left.

  Hector shook his head. “That was a bit boring. Anyway,” he crouched next to Hope, “let’s try and make it more interesting, shall we?”

  Hector clicked his fingers—and suddenly, images floated around them.

  Hope’s eyes widened as he stared at them.

  “You know… we’re not the bad guys here. As you can see,” Hector extended his arms toward every projection, “we graciously saved several of those poor Crawlers you ‘killed’ before. Look at them, fully patched, healed by existences that transcend them by so many layers you could call it the gift of god. The ultimate right: to live. Is it not?”

  Hector smiled as Hope’s eyes, blurry yet regaining clarity, locked onto the images floating in the air. It was indeed the last Crawlers he had killed—the ones that had vanished upon death. But… how? They were alive. And all staring ahead… at him? Their gazes… frightened?

  “But today, Hope… we’ll give you a taste of what it feels like to wield the right of god. The right to decide… if they live… or they die.”

  Hope’s gut twisted. He had a very bad feeling about this.

  “So let’s make this simple, Hope. As I said before, you will die now, but you can give that death meaning. You can, as you said yourself, give hope to the damned,” Hector grinned.

  As Hope heard those words, his hands trembled.

  How… how did he know those words?

  “So here are your two choices. Option one—the path of the monster: I kill you now, and all those you see will be tortured for seven days before being… also killed.

  “And option two—the path of the hero: you grab this dagger,” Hector took a shiny one out from his waist and extended it to Hope, “and with this dagger, you’ll crawl toward that girl watching behind the barrier.”

  He pointed, and Hope followed the gaze—Eve.

  Her hands were pressed to what looked like an invisible wall, just like before. Her face… it was a mix of anger and… something else. Sadness?

  “So you will crawl with that dagger until you’re in front of her. We’ll then remove the barrier, and you will say the words: ‘I hate you,’ before you slice your own neck in front of her.”

  Hope froze.

  “It’s a simple choice, really. So… what will it be, Hope? Will you save those pitiful Crawlers? Or is pride—and the aloof Citizen girl’s emotions—more important?”