“What took you so long—oh wait, it’s because you’re a—craven?” I say mockingly, lips curled, voice dripping with venom.

  He flings a gale of wind at me.

  I absorb the blow, twist it, and fling it back—lightning lancing through the air like an arrow, trailing sparks as it roars toward him.

  It gets blocked.

  The ward mage steps into view—planted behind him like a ghostly sentinel, sun crest still glowing faint on his cloak. The wind mage shifts slightly—tense. Serious.

  No more pretending I’m a joke.

  “Hey, now we can talk,” I call, voice sharp, playful. “You coward.”

  He sends another gust—wider this time, trying to bait a bigger reaction.

  I shove it back the same way. Same force. Same rhythm.

  “Look—I get it,” I taunt. “You got scared. Thought you were gonna die. No shame in that. Well… unless you’re a respectable warrior. But you’re not. So calm down.”

  He says nothing for a beat. Then, quiet—but tight, strained, voice dipped in rage he’s pretending isn’t there—

  “I—didn’t run—”

  He wants to say more. It’s there—at the tip of his tongue.

  But he sees me watching.

  Waiting.

  I don’t even need to speak. My eyes say it all: Slip once. I dare you.

  And he knows it.

  Knows if he flinches, hesitates, fumbles even for a second—I’ll bury him.

  So he swallows it.

  Resets.

  That fire in his chest? It’s still burning. But now it’s behind a mask—guard raised, stance tight.

  No more games.

  We’re past the warm-up now.

  It’s real.

  He lifts his hand—preparing something larger.

  The wind thickens. A cyclone takes shape—air twisting into a violent spiral, ripping up dirt and dust, yanking stones loose. It swirls fast, snarling like a beast as it carves a trench across the battlefield.

  Then he hurls it.

  It surges toward me, tearing up the earth beneath it—shredding everything in its path.

  I drop my sphere.

  Wind mana surges through me.

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  Fine. I’ll blow it away.

  I shape a gust in front of me—dense, layered, pressure building behind it like a held breath. A wall of force waiting to be unleashed.

  The cyclone barrels closer.

  I let it loose.

  My gust slams into it mid-charge—both spells crash, grind, twist, rip—sending up a wave of dust and debris that turns the field into a sandstorm. Vision vanishes. The world becomes noise and chaos.

  But I can feel it.

  My gust holds—but the cyclone keeps coming, slowed but not broken.

  It presses closer—too close now.

  No time left.

  I charge my blade.

  Lightning floods through me—pure, wild, final. Every drop of wind mana gets siphoned into this moment, my gust collapsing into nothing as the power shifts.

  The cyclone’s at my doorstep.

  I raise my blade—Finisher. One perfect swing.

  Lightning arcs down my arm and into the steel. The blade crashes through the spiraling wall of air—burning the sky itself. The heat scorches the dust, igniting particles mid-air, turning the battlefield into a glowing haze.

  The force of my strike slams into the heart of the spell—and shatters it.

  The cyclone detonates, air ripping outward in every direction. The shockwave clears the dust in a single blast, peeling the earth clean in a radius around me.

  Silence falls.

  And I’m still standing.

  Blade sparking. Mana crackling through every nerve.

  His spell?

  Gone.

  “Wow. Nice party trick,” I say, voice dry and sharp. “No wonder they didn’t send reinforcements. Just you bunch? Must be the rotten batch.”

  I take a slow step forward.

  “And I’m the cleaner, I guess. Although… landscaping had a better ring to it.”

  I flash a grin, cruel and bright.

  “Pathetic bastard—too cowardly, too weak. Left to die by my hand.”

  That finally makes him snap.

  His composure cracks. Rage takes the wheel. His stance wavers, hands shaking.

  “You… you—you humiliated me,” he growls. “This is my redemption—and I’ll have your head.”

  Good.

  He doesn’t even finish the sentence before I launch—lightning flaring, body streaking like a blue star. I’m already closing the distance, blade flashing through the air before the last word leaves his mouth.

  He braces.

  Too late.

  Steel arcs down—

  And misses.

  Or so he thinks.

  His ward flares—blue and solid—catching the blow just in time.

  Another feint.

  Old dogs don’t learn new tricks.

  Dumb ones don’t either.

  I didn’t miss.

  My true strike comes a heartbeat later—lightning compressed into a bolt, solid enough to touch. I fire it off at point blank. Not at him.

  At the ward mage behind him.

  The bolt streaks.

  Too fast.

  The mage reacts too slow.

  It spears straight through his chest—his body locks, seizes, sizzles. Smoke curls from his eyes and mouth.

  He drops.

  Dead.

  The wind mage sees it—feels it. His shield’s gone. But instead of panicking, he dives in.

  Capitalizes.

  A jab—wind-propelled—blurs toward me.

  I block.

  But I’ve got no footing.

  No absorption.

  No leverage.

  His fist slams into my blade—blue-hot, crackling—sends me flying. I hit the ground like a meteor, crater blooming beneath me.

  Whole world rattles.

  But I’m still breathing.

  Still burning.

  “Fiend,” he spits.

  I cough dust, grin wide.

  “I’m the fiend? This is a ‘friendly’ duel. Sucker punching is just wrong.” I say, circling him. “Damned craven—can dish it out, but can’t take it.”

  He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

  Too busy shaking with rage.

  Too busy realizing he’s alone.

  Although, the ward mage has been dealt with, this wind coward is still a threat, this time really not underestimating me.

  “Say—does the coward have a name?”

  “Shut it, mutt.”

  “A—mutt? That’s obscene. I’m clearly human.”

  I pause. “Mostly.”

  He glares, shoulders tense. Silent.

  “Come on, give me something. I need a name to carve on your grave—or maybe just something to scream when you run again.”

  His jaw clenches. The wind stirs.

  “Riez,” he growls. “Last thing you’ll hear before you die.”

  I grin. “Riez. Interesting. So that’s a coward’s name.”

  The wind shifts—pulling in tight, forming into spears.

  About twenty of them.

  All pointed straight at me.

  They shimmer, semi-solid—dense enough to hold shape, sharp enough to kill. The air warps around them as they begin to spin, fast.

  Then they launch.

  The force behind them tears through the field—ripping up the ground, scattering debris, blowing away what little dust still clung to the air.

  I brace.

  The spears slice toward me—wind howling, shrieking. The first closes in fast.

  I absorb the force—grab it—plunge my blade into the ground.

  Spin.

  The spear becomes a fan in my hands—deflects five more in a blur. I hurl it back at the mage.

  He’s still floating—both hands preparing a barrier in front of him.

  The wind spear slams into it. The shield holds—but barely. Cracks spiderweb across the surface.

  More spear constructs spin in, semi-solid, semi-permanent, still tracking me.

  Another—I deflect with my sword.

  Absorb. Throw. Crack.

  Again—absorb, throw—crack.

  Retreat. Pivot. Deflect. The storm narrows.

  Finally—absorb, twist, hurl. Shatter.

  I dodge the rest—slip between them like water—and bolt forward.

  Lightning bursts at my feet.

  Blade in hand, flaring blue-hot.

  I streak through the air like a live wire.

  He’s still focused on reconstructing the barrier—both hands up, but I’m too close.

  Too slow.

  Too late.

  My blade flares bright blue—arcing through the air, aimed dead-center for his chest.

  The sky crackles.

  The air screams.

  Time bends.

  For a breath, everything slows.

  And then—I see it.

  Not motion.

  A haze. An afterimage?

  No.

  Not that.

  Something’s glowing in his hand—golden, flickering, wrong. It isn’t the present I’m seeing. It’s the future.

  Only slightly.

  My blade closes the distance—mere inches from cleaving his head—

  But in that split-second, he fires.

  A lance of wind—compressed, sharpened—blasts from his palm.

  A golden trinket flares as he releases it.

  The spell punches clean through my abdomen.

  A piercing crack—wet, final.

  Lethal.

  But I don’t stop.

  Momentum carries me through the arc. My blade cleaves down.

  His spell knocks him off-angle, but not far enough.

  I slice clean through his right arm—just above the elbow.

  He screams. I don’t.

  We both fall.

  One with a hole through the gut.

  The other, armless.