I grunt.

  He got me good—but so did I.

  I wish Koln had prepared some of those crimson potions. But no—I have to train.

  I press mana into the wound, trying to stem the bleeding. For the first time, my mana doesn’t feel limitless—though I’ve still got plenty left.

  “Scum. You dare cut my arm off? You’ll die for this.”

  “Wow. You’re pretending like you didn’t just punch a hole the size of a fist through my stomach. Not friendly at all.”

  We circle each other on the ground, both of us lethally hurt. But he’s missing an arm. That makes the end easier to see.

  You know what—this time I’ll initiate.

  I stand perfectly still. He tenses further, already on guard. His trinket was in his right hand—no more surprises.

  I flood my body with the mana I have left. My muscles coil, every fiber ready to snap. Lightning pulses under my skin, crawling down my limbs in tight, sparking streams.

  I lower into a lunge, sword glowing white-blue in my grip.

  He drops into a stance to counter.

  I will crush him. This won’t be clean—but I have to finish before I bleed out.

  Heels dig in. My blade in one hand, the other braced, lightning flaring violently.

  I launch.

  The earth craters —blade drawn back in both hands. My afterimage is a jagged arc of blue light scorching the ground in my wake. Less than a second, and I’m on him—thirty meters gone in a breath.

  I swing.

  Crash.

  He conjures a wind shield—a wall of slicing air.

  It shatters with a burst of howling pressure, the gust slamming into me, ripping dirt and grit into the air. The debris blinds the space between us for a heartbeat, and the breaking wind knocks my blade off course.

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  I pivot instantly, slipping through the haze.

  He hurls a wind spear—grazes my side.

  I swing again.

  Clash.

  He summons his personal shield—pure blue mana, solid as glass.

  Cracks.

  Shatters with a sharp ring.

  My blade keeps going.

  A gust launches me back, but not before I carve a deep gnash across his torso.

  I drop my sphere, hurl myself forward with my own gust.

  A spear rips toward me—I deflect, skid into the dirt, and launch again.

  He tries to reset. Too late.

  Wind scythes across me—not deep enough.

  I barge through.

  My blade flashes—lightning clings tight to the steel. I bring it overhead for his neck.

  He throws up a wind shield—stronger, denser, the last he has. The air churns into a screaming vortex between us.

  I drive through—every arc of lightning fusing into the blade’s edge.

  The vortex bursts apart with a tearing howl, wind scattering like ripped cloth.

  No pause—my blade keeps going.

  A wind spear rips into my upper leg.

  I don’t slow—my blade keeps going.

  He summons his personal shield—blue mana flaring in desperation. It swells thicker than before, the air humming with the strain. Cracks form, light bleeding through like a dam about to burst.

  I put everything into the swing—lightning detonates across the surface.

  The shield doesn’t just shatter—it erupts in a shockwave that rocks the ground.

  Momentum carries through—my blade keeps going.

  It cleaves. His head tumbles, the cut smoldering, smoke curling from the stump.

  I rip the dissipating spear from my leg, drop to one knee, hand braced on my blade, breath ragged—grinning with utter, unshakable elation.

  I’m definitely worse for wear. I’ll have to retreat.

  I scan the surroundings for any sign of reinforcements—none have shown themselves.

  Strange strategy. Maybe this was a test. Riez the coward called this his redemption—maybe they sent him here to “earn” it. I don’t know. But they’re arrogant. They’ve lost a third of their force, and all they have to show for it are a few flesh wounds on me and some cleared improvised mines.

  I did say flesh wounds—but my mana’s barely keeping me up, and my blood’s leaking like it’s trying to set a record.

  Rude bastard. First he kills the mood of the first fight, then he crashes a perfectly good friendly duel.

  I force myself upright, every movement a struggle, but I push through the agony and turn toward the fort. Up on the walls, they’re celebrating my victory.

  I manage thirty paces.

  My body freezes—not from pain, but from fear. Primal.

  The kind I’ve only felt once before—my first day here.

  It’s behind me. Coming from the tree line.

  The presence is suffocating.

  Whatever it is, it’s far stronger than me—immensely so—and the reaction it pulls from me is pure, raw. Killing intent, honed and unyielding, drives into my back like a dozen plunging daggers.

  I try to turn, but it’s not the injuries holding me—it’s instinct. Pure survival screaming at me to stay still, give up, and die.

  I force myself anyway, inch by inch.

  Behind me stands a man. Same white cloak and emblem as Riez and the ward mage. He even looks similar to Riez—same features, same cut of cloth—but the similarity ends there. Riez’s presence had weight; this man’s crushes the air itself. The atmosphere around him hums faintly, the pressure bending the air until it feels thick, heavy, almost hard to breathe. His aura bends perception, making him feel like a towering giant even though he’s my height, broader in the shoulders, bulkier in build.

  He walks over to Riez’s decapitated corpse and looks down at it with pure disdain. He lifts his palm and, in the blink of an eye, the air compresses—taking the body with it—until both are crushed into nothingness.

  Then he lifts his head and looks straight at me.

  No emotion. Just pure, raw killing intent.

  I can’t will my body to move. It’s even worse now—like I’ve stopped breathing altogether.

  He opens his mouth and utters a single word.

  “Pathetic.”

  The sound hits like a pressure wave—small, sharp, but heavy enough to jolt through my bones. The way he says it, it’s meant for both me and Riez. Me, the bug still standing. Riez, the bug who failed to squash me.

  I can’t breathe. Not because of my wounds—but because in his eyes, I’m already dead.