oul and restless mood, Igris finished tending to the twins' horses. With furrowed brows and a dark mutter about cooking elf stew for supper, he tied the final knot of the bandage and rose to his feet. His gaze shifted to his loyal companion, Shadowmane.

  "Shadowmane, you'll stay here and keep watch over them. I've cleaned their wounds and administered first aid, but I didn't remove the Crossbow bolts. Time is short, and attempting that now would be risky."

  Shadowmane nodded solemnly at the weight of the responsibility. Then, lifting his head proudly and puffing out his chest, he replied with confidence:

  "No problem, boss! I'm the king of this place now. No one's laying a hoof on them, don't worry."

  Igris gave a small nod, making it clear he trusted him, then turned to Snowball.

  "Snowball, you stay here as well. I'm heading to the ambush site."

  The mare acknowledged the command obediently.

  "Understood."

  Twenty minutes earlier, while Igris had begun treating the horses' injuries, Ciri had not wasted time. Within minutes, she had gathered the arbalests and bolts from the fallen Dark Elves and handed them to Igris. After placing three of the arbalests into his inventory, he had made a request: he wanted Ciri to go ahead and scout the ambush site, to assess the latest situation. Ciri agreed and prepared to depart with Snowball. However, before she left, Igris warned her to be extremely cautious of enemy sentries. When he was met with her displeased look, he realized he had inadvertently underestimated her—and by doing so, indirectly insulted her. He apologized at once. Satisfied, Ciri set off silently atop Snowball, armed with one of the newly acquired arbalests and bolts.

  Along the way, she eliminated two or three scattered lookouts without being detected and soon reached her destination.

  Positioning herself at a vantage point that offered a commanding view of the battlefield, Ciri relied on Igris's ability to communicate with animals. Around seven or eight minutes earlier, she had relayed the situation to him through Snowball: the twins had taken position on a strategic hilltop and were giving the ambushers a genuinely difficult fight.

  Upon receiving this information, Igris had allowed himself a brief breath of relief. At least his companions were still alive and holding their ground. Unless something urgent occurred, Ciri would maintain her position until Igris arrived.

  Now, however, it was time for a counterattack.

  After giving the horses one final warning to remain vigilant, Igris surged forward. He moved through the rocks like a living shadow, using every available cover to avoid becoming a target in the open terrain. His mind worked as swiftly as his body.

  'How did I forget that those foolish twins are princes of Rivendell? I mostly watched the films back in my old world… and if I recall correctly, they were background characters there. I've been wracking my brain for the last fifteen minutes, and things are finally becoming clearer. Now I understand why I felt such a particular interest in Elrond. Despite losing nearly everything, he never abandoned his struggle for Middle-earth. He lost his wife. His daughter Arwen gave up her immortality for love… And his sons became warriors chasing vengeance through their grief. If I remember correctly, fans in my old world had a saying: If Arwen is an angel of mercy, her brothers are angels of death…'

  He exhaled deeply as he quickened his pace, gathering his thoughts.

  'I've lived in this world long enough that I've begun forgetting certain things. Though it's not as if I ever treated my knowledge of the original world as sacred truth. Many events here have diverged from the original tale, and I chose to carve out my own path regardless. But that doesn't mean I'm foolish enough to discard valuable information entirely.'

  He pressed onward, back against a rough stone as he paused briefly to survey the area. Once certain it was clear, he slipped through the shadows again.

  'Now I can clearly see why Elladan and Elrohir were specifically targeted. If they're killed, it would deal a devastating psychological blow to the Elves of Middle-earth. But if they're captured alive, the gain would be far greater. Especially at this critical time, when Gandalf is preparing to move against Dol Guldur—if the twins were taken prisoner, it would be catastrophic. Not to mention the leverage it would give their enemies to tear apart Lord Elrond's family from the inside…'

  Spotting the subtle marker Ciri had left as previously agreed, Igris adjusted his route and accelerated. His mind continued analyzing the battlefield.

  'The strange part is—the twins are anything but weak. On the contrary, they're among the fiercest warriors I've seen. Elves who have hunted and fought across Middle-earth for centuries, accumulating countless experiences. They're not expendable pawns. And given that they carry the blood of the High Elves, being cornered this quickly doesn't make sense. But when Dark Elves are involved, the balance shifts. The ones I dealt with half an hour ago were merely second- or third-tier soldiers—mediocre in close combat. The twins would have cut through them easily. Then why was Thoron struck? The falcon's condition suggests its masters were injured as well. That means they're facing opponents far more skilled and dangerous than expected… I need to hurry.'

  Crossing several more meters across the rocky steppe, following Ciri's signs between stones and hills, Igris eventually reached the slope of a hill. There, his eyes caught the body of a goblin lying on the ground. A small arbalest bolt had pierced the center of its forehead.

  He immediately understood—it was Ciri's work.

  Moving forward, he soon spotted two more Dark Elf corpses. One had its throat opened with a clean cut; the other lay dead from a bolt lodged in its larynx. Judging by their positions, Igris realized the Dark Elves had been caught completely off guard. His brows lifted in appreciation. he murmured admiringly.

  "…A performance worthy of someone trained by Witchers,"

  Advancing further, he saw Ciri lying prone between protective rocks, her full attention fixed on the battlefield below. The arbalest and bolts taken from the Dark Elves were propped against a nearby stone. Her sword rested on her back, and her compact one-handed arbalest hung at her hip.

  Not wishing to disrupt her concentration, Igris crouched and approached silently. After a few steps, seeing no indication that she had noticed him, he decided to announce himself in a low voice before getting any closer. Sneaking up on a hunter like Ciri and startling her would have been foolish—he could easily have been attacked on reflex.

  "Ciri!"

  she was startled by the sound and quickly turned around. She blinked in surprise as she saw the silhouette in black armor crouching and approaching her.

  For the first time in a long while, someone had managed to approach her from behind so effortlessly.

  As a Witcher, a faint sense of embarrassment and defeat stirred within her. A true hunter should always feel their surroundings.

  'How long has he been there? Why didn't I hear anything? Moving in that heavy plate armor without making a sound should be impossible!'

  Recovering quickly, Ciri gave him a short nod of acknowledgment but did not take her eyes off him. Though her focus remained on the ambush site below, that did not mean she would neglect her surroundings. Before settling here, she had thoroughly scouted the area and ensured it was secure. Yet as Igris drew closer, she noticed something else.

  His full plate armor emitted none of the faint metallic friction sounds it should have. Armor of that weight normally produced subtle tones with even the slightest movement—but his did not. Not only that; she realized she could barely detect his distinct scent until he was almost beside her.

  Coming to stand beside Ciri, whose brows were drawn tight in concentration, Igris asked tersely,

  "What's the situation?"

  Instead of answering at once, Ciri studied him in silence for several long seconds, her gaze distant and unreadable. Noticing the peculiar pause, Igris tilted his head slightly, curiosity sharpening his tone.

  "Is there a problem?"

  Without warning, Ciri narrowed her eyes and leaned in closer, inhaling near him as if trying to catch a scent. Igris shuddered at the sudden proximity, instinctively stepping back as he whispered in alarm,

  "What are you doing?!"

  With eyes full of intrigue, she asked in a hushed voice,

  "How did you do that?"

  Igris cocked his head to the side in confusion and pressed impatiently,

  "Do what? Shouldn't we be focusing on the mission? Two elven princes are in danger over there."

  Ignoring his warning entirely, Ciri fixed her gaze on him and continued her questioning.

  "How did you approach me so silently? How does that armor of yours not make even the slightest sound?"

  Though Igris recognized the astonishment in her voice—and the curiosity directed at his armor—his patience was already stretched thin. It had been more than two hours since he had received that grim news from Thoron. He trusted in the strength bound to the twins' wrists, yes—but the Dark Elves' mastery of ambush tactics and their insidious methods of attack gnawed relentlessly at his mind. Turning his head slightly toward the ambush site, he spoke with restrained urgency.

  "We don't have time for this right now. We'll discuss it later. First, we need to support those foolish princes. I'm asking again—what's the situation?"

  After staring at the enigmatic man beside her for a few seconds longer, Ciri finally shifted her gaze back toward the ambush site and began delivering her report.

  "The twins are at the very summit of the opposing hill, taking cover behind the rocks."

  With a graceful finger—calloused in places from years of gripping a sword—she pointed toward the ridge. Igris assessed the terrain with a practiced eye and nodded once in understanding. Ciri continued, tracing several strategic points around the hill with her finger. First, she indicated the primary clash site below, where the ground lay strewn with bodies. A faint note of admiration colored her voice.

  "For just the two of them to have taken down this many enemies alone… it's genuinely impressive."

  Hearing this, Igris recalled the months he had once spent riding and fighting alongside the twins. A soft chuckle escaped him, pride unconcealed in his voice.

  "Of course they did. They are among the most formidable elves Middle-earth has ever seen… In fact, during the months I adventured with them, I even received personal instruction from them."

  Ciri lifted her brows slightly and glanced at him, curiosity flickering for a brief instant about this man's past. Yet she did not allow it to disrupt her professionalism. Refocusing, she pointed to several additional positions and calmly elaborated:

  "From what I can see, enemy units are concealed at these locations. I've counted sixteen so far, but I don't know how many are waiting on the rear slope of the hill."

  As Igris listened intently, Ciri indicated a more sheltered rock formation somewhat removed from the summit.

  "I believe their leader is positioned there. I can't see him clearly because of the surrounding rocks, but I can hear his voice. I don't understand the language, yet every time he speaks, the enemies attempting to climb the hill begin moving."

  Igris fixed his gaze on the indicated spot. For a brief moment, he considered retrieving the telescope from his inventory to obtain a clearer view—but immediately dismissed the idea. Their adversaries were Dark Elves, whose eyesight rivaled that of any elf; the faintest glint from a lens could cost them the element of surprise.

  At that moment, Ciri gestured toward a more distant, exposed area. Following her finger, Igris noticed a thin plume of smoke rising from beyond the hill. Around it, several massive silhouettes could be faintly discerned.

  "There's a group further ahead with a campfire lit. They're cooking meat while watching the hill. Judging by their resemblance to the corpses below, I assume they're the creatures called 'High Orcs.'"

  Igris narrowed his eyes as he studied the brutish outlines and nodded in confirmation.

  "Yes. High Orcs."

  At his affirmation, Ciri turned to him and added in an odd tone,

  "Since I arrived, they haven't made a single move. Considering the High Orc corpses below, they should have joined the battle at the start. But these ones seem utterly unconcerned. Frankly, it looks like they're having a picnic."

  Igris fell silent for a moment. He tried to recall what his uncle, High Alpha, had told him about these tribes—their internal hierarchy, their customs. Without being able to distinguish their tribal insignia, he could not reach a definitive conclusion. Meeting Ciri's ruby-red eyes, he offered his assessment.

  "They're likely observing—watching the spectacle—or perhaps they're a reserve force. Either way, we shouldn't ignore them. I'd rather err on the side of paranoia than take an unnecessary risk."

  Ciri nodded and, lastly, pointed to a region approximately sixty meters behind the hill where the Dread Lord was positioned.

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  "I've noticed some movement there as well. I think they're keeping their mounts in that area. In a situation like this, they must be preparing something for a potential retreat—"

  Before she could finish, the Dread Lord's thunderous command in the Dark Elven tongue echoed across the entire battlefield:

  "ADVANCE!"

  At the booming order in that unknown language, both Igris and Ciri snapped their full attention to the opposing hill. One by one, the Dark Elves burst from the rocks and brush where they had concealed themselves and began their ascent. A couple of arrows loosed from the summit struck one attacker down and wounded another, briefly slowing the group. Some raised their shields above their heads, securing themselves as they pressed forward. Watching the scene unfold, Igris's frown deepened.

  "Something isn't right," he muttered.

  Not fully grasping his meaning, Ciri asked curiously,

  "What do you mean?"

  Without taking his eyes off the summit, Igris observed as a few more arrows rained down, forcing the Dark Elves into cover again. Though their pace faltered, they had already crossed half the distance. Calmly analyzing the situation, he spoke:

  "I told you—I fought alongside the twins for several months. Judging by the current arrow count, their rate of fire, and their accuracy… there's definitely a problem. Under normal circumstances, they would be far faster and far deadlier. We need to act immediately—either distract the Dark Elves or find a way to reach the summit and secure the twins. Bams? and Do?an are coming from the rear, and Zerinya and her men are on their trail. All of them should be here within an hour or two. We only need to hold out until they arrive."

  Abruptly, Igris turned and looked directly into Ciri's eyes.

  "With your ability, can you take us straight to the summit? Or go and retrieve the twins and bring them back here?"

  The question caught Ciri off guard. In her mind, Mephisto's ominous, mischievous voice echoed:

  "I can't say for certain, but it will take at least one year—at most five—for you to fully regain your power. The potion you drank is attempting to turn you completely into a Witcher, but because of the Elder Blood you carry, your body will remain in constant reaction and instability. You may appear stable now, but you could experience severe pain at times. However, when this process is complete, you will command your power as you wish—and possess abilities far beyond standard Witcher mutations! How does it feel to be the progenitor of a new Witcher generation, White Rabbit? HAHAHAHAHA!"

  After everything she had endured in her past, Ciri had no intention of revealing all her secrets to a man she had only just met. She paused, as though considering, then answered in a distant tone:

  "I'm sorry. I can't do that. I already used my interdimensional travel ability to come here. If I attempt it again now, you'll have to carry me to that hill on your back."

  Igris blinked once; he had completely forgotten that Ciri had only arrived in this world earlier that day. Accounting for the crushing exhaustion such dimensional travel imposed on the body, he asked hesitantly:

  "…And in general—how is your condition? Would you run into trouble in the middle of a fight?"

  Ciri shook her head from side to side, brushing the concern away.

  "No. As long as I don't push my body beyond its limits, I don't think there will be a problem."

  Igris paused briefly, weighing the situation. The Dark Elves were not opponents to be underestimated. Those who had chased the horses were second-tier soldiers—easy enough to defeat in close combat—but he suspected the ones on the opposing hill were far more formidable warriors. Even if Ciri claimed she was fine, he had no desire to throw her straight into the heart of the fiercest fighting. Calmly forming a plan, he asked:

  "How are your marksmanship skills?"

  Ciri frowned slightly, yet answered with unvarnished honesty.

  "Among Witchers, I would comfortably rank in the top five. Geralt told me that himself."

  Igris nodded with satisfaction and pointed to the arbalest they had taken as loot from the Dark Elves, now resting against a rock.

  "Can you use that to support me from here?"

  There was roughly two hundred meters between the two hills. Igris did not know Ciri's effective range, but he decided to test the possibility. Upon hearing the question, she looked at him as though to say don't be ridiculous.

  "From where you're standing, do I look like an elf? With my own crossbow, I can hit a target at most thirty meters away. Supporting you from here with that arbalest is impossible. To be effective, I need to be within at least eighty meters of the enemy."

  At this, Igris scratched the top of his helmet in embarrassment and exhaled deeply. Time was running short. Abandoning prolonged strategizing, he resolved to give clear, decisive instructions.

  "All right. Here's the plan: while I engage their leader directly, you move in as close as you can and use the arbalest to suppress them. Our goal isn't to eliminate them all—just to stall them. We're outnumbered, and we don't know the full strength of the opposing force. Caution is essential. Unless absolutely necessary, avoid plunging into an all-out clash."

  The young woman furrowed her brows at the plan. Normally she would have acted far more impulsively, but given her current condition and the unstable new powers she had yet to fully master, Igris's measured approach sounded reasonable. She nodded calmly.

  "All right. When do we start?"

  Igris cast a grave, focused look toward the enemy ranks below the hill.

  "Now."

  …

  The Dread Lord stood with his arbalest primed and ready, teeth clenched as he stared at the rocky summit of the opposing hill. In truth, he was both furious and deeply tense. The ambush, meticulously planned and intended to be completed within a maximum of two hours, was approaching its fourth hour. Under normal circumstances, they should have already crossed the Misty Mountains and reached their objective through the Goblin tunnels. They had waited for the perfect moment to catch the twins unprepared and had succeeded in wounding them; otherwise, he knew well how difficult it would be to subdue that pair. Yet just as he had been certain he had cornered them, that accursed burst of light had overturned everything. A flawless trap had devolved into an endless siege, all because of a single flash.

  Now, the only thing left to him was to wait for the paralytic toxin on his arrows to take full effect. They needed to bind the twins and vanish before the elves of Rivendell noticed and came to their aid. But he could not decipher what manner of constitution those twins possessed; stubbornly, they endured and refused to fall.

  For a fleeting moment, the Dread Lord seriously contemplated killing one of them on the spot. One part of him burned with vindictive rage; another feared the wrath of Morathi should he return empty-handed. Just as he was about to decide, a sharp whistling sound tore through the air. His eyes snapped to the summit—but there was no movement there. Turning in confusion toward his own men, he saw one collapse face-first, struck in the back of the head. Before he could fully process it, another screamed in agony as an arrow pierced his back.

  "AGH!"

  At that cry, the Dark Elves recoiled in shock, pressing themselves tightly behind the rocks. Realizing the threat came from the rear, the Dread Lord shouted in his own tongue:

  "ENEMY REINFORCEMENTS! WATCH YOUR BAC—"

  He did not finish. A sudden, icy chill ran down his spine. Reacting on instinct, he twisted sideways and turned just in time to see Igris leaping at him from over the rocks behind. Igris's blade crashed into the stone where the Dread Lord had stood a heartbeat earlier, missing his head by mere centimeters. In that split second when steel struck stone, the Dread Lord loosed the bolt from his arbalest straight at Igris's helm. Sensing the danger, Igris snapped his head aside; the bolt grazed his helmet deeply and shot past.

  Seeing his shot fail, the Dread Lord reacted instantly, driving a brutal horizontal kick into Igris's waist with the full weight of his body.

  Despite the heavy armor, Igris felt the force reverberate through his bones. He staggered two steps sideways. Seizing the opening, the Dread Lord hurled the now-useless arbalest aside, drew his sword in a single fluid motion, and brought it down toward Igris's head. At the last possible instant, Igris regained his balance and raised his shield, blocking the strike before countering with a hard slash of his own. The Dread Lord sprang back with feline agility, narrowly evading the blade's tip and creating distance as he assessed his opponent. Igris likewise settled into guard, recognizing from the brief yet intense exchange that the man before him was no ordinary foe.

  The Lord of Terror, frowning, spoke in the language of the common people, his voice filled with arrogance and anger:

  "And who are you, you wretched rat?"

  Without yielding even the slightest hint of seriousness in his posture—his gaze still measuring every movement of his opponent—Igris answered with faint mockery:

  "No one, really. I was just passing by and saw you having such a good time, so I thought I'd lend a little support to the losing side and even things out. And who exactly might you be, sir… Eggplant?"

  The Dread Lord faltered visibly at the unexpected reply. Amidst all his training and his cultivated sense of noble superiority, such a term caught him entirely off guard. Blinking in disbelief, he demanded:

  "What… did you just say?"

  As though discussing something perfectly natural, Igris gave a slight shrug, feigning innocent confusion.

  "I said Sir Eggplant. Isn't that your name? Your face has that purplish tone against the white, so I figured that must be it."

  The Dread Lord's eyes turned bloodshot with rage. The mere sensation of being mocked was enough to set his proud blood boiling. Casting Igris a venomous glare, he spoke through clenched teeth:

  "If you're looking for a place to die, rat…"

  He yanked the shield from his back, bracing it before him as he assumed a combat-ready stance. Planting his feet firmly, he stepped toward Igris.

  "You've found the right man."

  Igris, determined to show he took the threat not in the slightest seriously, responded with exaggerated theatrics. Raising his hands slightly, he trembled his body in feigned terror.

  "Ah! I'm so scared—look, I'm shaking with fear! An eggplant is threatening to kill me! Help! Someone save me!"

  The Dread Lord, already a bomb with its pin half-pulled, now gave himself fully to his fury. Without wasting another word, he lunged forward and swung his sword. Igris met the strike with his shield and countered with his own blade, but his opponent raised his shield as well, intercepting the attack. In that instant when both weapons locked against opposing shields, they kicked forward simultaneously, their boots slamming into each other's chests. The impact forced them both to stagger back a step or two, yet they recovered their balance almost at once and resumed their assault without hesitation.

  Their swords clashed midair; the metallic ring of steel striking steel echoed sharply through the rocky valley. The Dread Lord's anger bled into his movements—each swing driven with crushing intent, as though he meant to pulverize his foe outright. Igris, by contrast, responded with cold precision, calculating every motion to the millimeter, either parrying or deflecting with disciplined restraint.

  When the Dread Lord brought his blade down from above like an executioner's axe, Igris angled his shield, redirecting the force sideways. Sparks burst across the shield's surface as the sword scraped along it. Seizing the loss of momentum, Igris thrust his own blade forward like a striking serpent, aiming for the gap beneath his opponent's arm. Yet the Dread Lord, with a reflex that belied his heavy frame, slammed the rim of his shield against Igris's sword, knocking it off course.

  As the two warriors closed once more, face to face, a low snarl emanated from behind the Dread Lord's shield. Bouncing slightly on his knees, he drove his shoulder forward, attempting to break Igris's balance. On the slick stone beneath them, Igris's feet slid back an inch. The Dread Lord did not miss the opportunity; his sword swept horizontally in a vicious arc aimed at Igris's neck.

  With agile timing, Igris leaned backward, the wind of the blade grazing over his helmet. As he straightened, the Dread Lord's hard-earned experience—tempered across thousands of battles—revealed itself. It was as though the Dark Elf had anticipated the miss before he even struck; using the empty space created by his failed swing, he shifted his body weight and smashed his shield brutally into Igris's chest.

  Though Igris remained standing—despite the blow being strong enough to shatter a normal man's ribcage—he felt the concussive force ripple through him. His breath hitched for a split second, but he recovered swiftly. The Dread Lord flickered with brief surprise at such resilience, yet his focus did not waver.

  Beginning his next assault with another sword swing, the Dark Elf concealed a treacherous follow-up aimed at Igris's kneecaps. Reacting on instinct, Igris leapt back to evade—but the Dread Lord's blade struck hard against the greave of his armor, carving a deep groove into the metal. Igris retreated at once, widening the gap between them. The Dread Lord remained where he stood, regarding his opponent with open mockery.

  When Igris glanced sideways at the deep scratch marring his custom-forged armor, his brow twitched violently. As he looked at the Dread Lord standing there, clearly amused, he cursed inwardly with venomous intensity:

  'Damn it! To hell with you and your entire lineage… You bastard! I just had this armor repaired! What the hell is that sword made of?!'

  His eyes nearly stung with frustration. That precious armor—worth eighty thousand gold—was already being ruined in this single adventure. Thorin had only just restored and polished it; on its very first day back in service, the helmet had been gouged and now the leg bore a deep scar. For a man who dreamed of founding his own kingdom, the sight of such damage made his heart bleed. Still, he forced himself to remain focused. From this brief exchange alone, he understood that even a moment's distraction would end this duel very badly for him.

  Observing the storm of anger and dissatisfaction flickering in Igris's eyes, the Dread Lord curled his lips into a mocking smile and assumed an elegant combat stance. A gray aura began to seep slowly from his body, spreading outward with the heavy scent of bloodlust thick in the air.

  "Shall we dispense with pleasantries now, dear rat?" he asked.

  Feeling that dense, oppressive energy, Igris's heart quickened—not from fear, but from the pure exhilaration coursing through his veins. It had been a long time since he had faced a truly formidable opponent one-on-one. Grinning sharply, he allowed his own violet aura to leak outward from his body. Taking his stance, he replied with equal mockery:

  "Come on then, eggplant man."

  At those words, the Dread Lord's brows knotted once more. With a surge of wrath, he charged. The gray aura he exuded seemed to weigh down the very air, and his first step pulverized the solid rock beneath his foot into dust. Like a storm unleashed by years of honed experience, the Dark Elf descended upon Igris. He slashed from the right diagonal, the blade angled brutally to cleave through his opponent's shoulder in a single stroke.

  Igris focused his violet aura into the arm holding his shield and across his torso, bracing for the heavy strike. When sword met shield, the resulting shockwave sent a circular burst of dust spiraling outward from beneath their feet.

  But the Dread Lord did not relent. Rather than withdrawing his blade upon contact, he dragged it downward along the shield's edge, applying pressure toward Igris's wrist. Sensing the seasoned maneuver, Igris pulled back slightly to free his wrist—only for the Dread Lord to swing the lower rim of his shield like a hammer toward Igris's knee.

  Against these efficient, economical strikes, Igris shifted into his own combat rhythm. Instead of absorbing the blow directly, he twisted his body sideways like a flexing bow. The Dread Lord's shield struck empty air, and Igris turned the close proximity into opportunity. Rather than using his sword, he drove his armored elbow in a brutal arc straight toward the Dark Elf's temple.

  The clang of steel on steel rang sharply through the valley as the Dread Lord's head snapped sideways from the impact. Though momentarily stunned and taken aback by the crude, unexpected strike, he regained himself swiftly. Just as Igris moved to capitalize on that fleeting confusion, the Dread Lord launched a dangerous counterattack, sweeping his sword upward in a diagonal slash from below.

  Caught half a beat off guard, Igris twisted aside at the last instant; the blade grazed his armor once more, leaving another faint scar by a margin measured in millimeters.

  Without hesitation, Igris retaliated with an aura-charged kick aimed at his opponent's kneecap. The Dread Lord yanked his leg back in time, letting the strike cut through empty space, and with the same momentum hurled his shield violently toward Igris's head. Instantly recognizing the threat, Igris raised his own shield into solid defensive position. The two shields collided with a thunderous crash. A sharp burst of pressure rippled outward from the impact, stirring a brief gust of wind across the battlefield.

  Now the two opponents stood with their shields pressed firmly against one another, staring into each other's eyes with open defiance. One fought with raw instinct and sharpened agility; the other with the weight of millennia of battlefield experience behind every movement. Igris devoted absolute focus to each action he made. By now, he understood far more clearly that his true objective was not victory, but delay; the brief clash they had already shared had led him to a decisive conclusion.

  There's no way I can kill this guy. Even if I somehow manage it, I'll pay a severe price. Holding out until Zerinya arrives is the smarter option.

  Igris chose to place his hope in the Third Commander of the Crimson Archers. He was fully aware of his own limits. An elf fighting a Dark Elf made far more sense—there was a vast chasm of experience between himself and the one standing before him. The two warriors disengaged, stepping back and studying each other with careful scrutiny.

  From that short exchange with shields locked together, Igris had become certain of one thing: this man could never defeat Elrohir in close combat. He was by no means weak, yet every movement, every calculated strike revealed that he was not a warrior centered on direct melee dominance. His style was tactical—opportunistic, predatory, always searching for advantage rather than overwhelming force.

  Meanwhile, beneath his furrowed brows, the Dread Lord examined his opponent and evaluated the situation with mounting irritation.

  Where in the abyss did this damned rat come from? The little time I had is shrinking even further… Curse it!

  At the beginning of the duel, the Dread Lord had assumed he would dispatch Igris within a handful of exchanges, removing him effortlessly from the equation. Yet this strange man possessed a constitution more stubborn than even that of the elves. His strength was far from negligible—though not overwhelmingly powerful either. The most glaring flaw the Dread Lord perceived was inexperience.

  Knowing time was working against him, and pressed by urgency, the Dread Lord advanced again in anger, intensifying the frequency and aggression of his assaults. Igris, however, remained loyal to his plan. He shifted entirely into a passive stance, committing himself to defense alone. He parried and deflected every strike, methodically turning the encounter into a battle of attrition.