Day 723[1] in Jerrica's Labyrinth
Second up on our watch cam for the Trials of the Bad was none other than Artamis Mikazuki—the stoic third-born child of Vericka. Now, Art wasn't the flashy type. He didn't crave the glory of the battlefield or indulge in sparring theatrics like me or Steez. Dude was built like a war god, but fought more like a monk who happened to be born inside a forge. See, Art was more adept with the craftsmanship of weapons than with swinging them. Yeah, he could throw down—every Mikazuki could—but he reserved that energy. Freestyle battles and continental conflicts didn't mean much unless someone he loved was caught in the crossfire. That's the kind of brother he was. Never said it outright, but his loyalty ran so deep you could drown in it. And when that loyalty was tested? Well… good luck to whoever thought they could win.
The second his boots touched the trial ground, Artamis stepped out of the portal and into a world that looked like winter had a grudge. The air was sharp and crisp, filled with the chill of sleet slicing through the atmosphere like invisible razors. Cold white flakes of snow dusted down gently from above, coating ankle-high blades of grass that glowed faintly with frost. Massive boulders were scattered around him like ancient bones cracked from the mountain ridge behind him—likely the result of a recent shift or some long-forgotten impact. Overhead, a dark purple sky loomed, smothered in quiet. No stars to guide him, just the eerie presence of two moons in slow rotation, full and almost touching like they were sharing secrets. The entire landscape looked like it had been painted in shadows and frozen silence.
It was his first time seeing snow outside of my memories.
And even though the Trial had just begun, he took a beat. Just one. Watching the crystalline flakes descend in silence stirred something in him. The lack of heat in the drops made them form these delicate frozen specks—like fragile diamonds tumbling from heaven. It was beautiful in a way that didn't need to be explained. Just felt.
Then, as always, that calm was broken.
«The Trial of the Bad is about to begin. Completing the trial's objective is based on the defeat of this world's champion waiting ahead.»
The Prime Realm System's voice cut clean through the silence like a blade through parchment.
Artamis muttered, "Let's get this over with," with that same deadpan tone he always used. No flair. No dramatics. Just forward.
He scanned the icy horizon and caught sight of a cave not far off. It looked like the best lead in this frostbitten void. Strange decorations hung around its mouth—half-obscured by the snowfall. Just as he adjusted his footing to head there, space itself peeled open right in front of him.
A small, indigo-colored portal tore into existence with a quiet shuff and spat out two items: a cloth-wrapped bundle and a crystalline crescent moon, the glow unmistakably familiar.
He caught it before it could hit the snow. "That's Xi's signature behind that portal. Figures he could locate me in a different dimension."
Unwrapping the bundle revealed a combat gi, a strange obsidian-black cube, and a pulsing magisteel cube glowing with quiet strength.
Then came the message, voiced by the familiar sass of a mnemonic crystal:
"You might not like the drip, but you'll love the two enchanted metals. –Xi"
Art sighed through his nose. "Xi is way too expressive with his affection for his siblings. He may have Kimmi beat in that regard."
Still, he glanced at the outfit. Stared at it for a few seconds in silence. Then whispered:
"Transmute."
Sparks lit up like fireflies on crack, dancing around him in quicksilver streaks of lightning. Mana surged up his arms, wrapping around the cloth with a sharp, static snap! The gi twisted and shimmered midair before morphing into something far more his style—an orange-and-black hoodie with matching black combat pants. Functional, flexible, comfortable. Much better.
He took the magisteel cube next. Casting [Transmutation] again, this time with a little more pressure in his voice, the cube glowed and shifted. Magickal glyphs flickered across its surface like glowing tattoos. From its core, liquid metal spilled and wrapped around his arms and legs, crystallizing into armored armguards and shinguards with a burnished red gleam that looked like hardened magma.
"That's better," he muttered. "This new evolution greatly boosted my MP. I can now use [Transmutation] at least thirty times a day. No longer limited by the previous five."
He picked up the black cube next—the Obsidium. The moment his skin made contact with it, he stiffened.
It was like touching raw formula. Understanding exploded in his mind, precise and cold. Obsidium Remix; jet-black, semi-lustrous, and horrifyingly dense. Born in impossible heat and death-crushing pressure. The kind of mineral only found deep inside Infernia's core fissures or buried in the collapsed star-craters of Prime Realm wastelands. Talk about resisting mana—it challenged it. Every atom inside that cube told a story of violence and survival. Art had never felt so small holding something so powerful.
He stared down at it in silence as memory washed over him.
He thought back to memories of the Janell Forest—those younger days with Steez and me, hunting mana beasts for Talasi. I'd always get sidetracked doing something ridiculous, like trying to dissect mana particles or reshaping beast bones into new tools just to see if I could. Back then, Art always saw me with this weird joy on my face. Joy from creating, not fighting.
He never fully got why I was so hellbent on chasing absolute power. Not back then. Because he understood something else. The joy of making. Of shaping the world instead of destroying it.
"Maybe Xi's fated to chase his goal of becoming a True Deity," he thought to himself, eyes still on the cube. "Almost like a path of destruction is the only road for my bloodkin. Even Steez and Alex have similar dreams."
Then he breathed deeply.
"Given my abilities, I was born to destroy as well. But I'd rather be the one calling that shot. So this day forward, I think I will. I will choose the path I take, regardless of destiny."
He tightened his grip around the cube. The mana around him pulsed faintly, almost like it responded to that inner shift.
It was subtle, but something had changed.
Not the cube. Not the air.
Him.
A small ember of intent had formed inside him, and it burned hotter than the cold wind ever could.
Art slid the cube into his item bag, took one last glance at the sky above, and walked calmly toward the cave he'd seen earlier. Trial or not, champion or not—he'd meet whatever was coming on his terms.
Fifteen minutes into his hike, Artamis was already annoyed. The snow had gone from a novel experience to a cold, wet irritation that clung to his boots and slowed every step. His breath curled into the air like small clouds as his footsteps crunched through the frost-covered grass. The night offered no reprieve—only silence, and the ever-present gaze of the twin moons hanging low in the purple sky. They hovered like judgmental gods, casting a pale light over the land without blinking, without moving.
He exhaled, his patience thinning, and released a slow pulse of mana from his soles. The air around his body shimmered slightly as his mana signature rose in temperature, and with each step forward, the snow beneath his feet hissed and melted. Thin wisps of steam followed him, twisting upward like ghostly ribbons. The heat warped the air faintly, bending the moonlight into subtle halos around his ankles.
As he neared the shallow cave he'd spotted earlier, the terrain shifted—boulders, massive and jagged, clustered near the entrance like ancient guardians. Some were stacked awkwardly as if thrown there in a cosmic tantrum. Art navigated carefully, eyes scanning the angles.
That's when the voice rang out—sharp, distant, but laced with a mischief that made his brow twitch.
"Hey, you there! Up here!"
Artamis froze. He tilted his head up toward a towering slab of rock, and sure enough, a slim figure sat perched near the peak like some kind of cryptic gargoyle. Cloaked in dark green, the stranger blended into the snowy night save for the flash of his smirk and the outline of his hood.
The oddest part? Art couldn't sense him. Not even a flicker. And that was wrong. His [Sense Presence] should've painted this man in neon. But he saw nothing, felt nothing—even as he stared directly at him.
"Weeeww, you sure have the smell of a demon for a mortal," the stranger called, voice thick with a Scottish accent and smug as hell. "You don't look like you're from around here."
"Mind your business. I have my own to attend to." Artamis's tone was even, firm. He didn't break stride.
But when he rounded one boulder, the stranger was suddenly ahead of him—crouched lazily on a smaller rock just meters away.
He hadn't seen him move.
Art's mind clicked. "He's fast. No… teleportation?"
"Now, now, now," the stranger said, waving his gloved hand dismissively. "Don't get your trousers all in a knicker. I mean no ill will, traveler. I was but a wee bit curious—and now I believe I may be able to help you."
"You don't even know me."
"Ay, but do I, Artamis of the Mikazuki Clan?"
The name hung in the air like smoke. Still, Art's face betrayed nothing. Blank. Expressionless. Not even a flicker of surprise. His stillness made the stranger lean forward slightly, intrigued.
"Ay, lad, you need not be so unexpressive," the cloaked man continued, tapping his temple. "My [Prophecy Prince: Vassago] can't actually read minds. Just immediate desires and a wee bit o' precognition."
Art remained silent. He stared, unmoved, as if he were carved from the same stone surrounding them.
The stranger scratched his head, puzzled. "You're a hard read, laddie. But maybe this'll ignite a bit of fire in you. You're seekin' to challenge the Southern Fire, aye? Well here's a free hint: to summon and defeat the Flameborn Sovereign… you must burn the invisible flame."
Silence.
A long, cold pause followed. The wind brushed against Artamis's shoulders like a whisper, carrying snowflakes across the stone. He studied the stranger's shielded eyes, digging deeper with his own, until finally—
"That sounds stupid," he said flatly. "What do you truly want?"
A smile curled across the stranger's face, slow and sinister.
"Ay, just an interest in the mortal lads who stood up to one o' the Principalities," he said. "Not many beings survive an assault from Paradiso's Zodiac Keys."
"He's talking about that Trapper," Art thought, his eyes narrowing just slightly.
"How do you know about that?"
"Laddie, there isn't a demonfolk in all of Infernia who doesn't know about that. Except the Cardinal Kings. They don't get out much."
"Then you should know it was my brother and Prince Luda who finally ran him off."
"The fabled Devil of Velonica…" the man chuckled darkly. "Said to rip heads off spirits and vanish anything wanderin' in his forest. I've heard the spooky rumors. Many are made up of children's tales. I'm sure his power can't be as great as the stories claim."
"Then you don't know my brother."
"Ay, so the rumors of him havin' more than one Vessel Skill are true then?"
Artamis didn't respond. He simply reached into his item bag and pulled out his SCAR 20 rifle with casual calm, leveling it at the stranger's face.
No words.
He pulled the trigger.
A single thunderous crack echoed across the frozen field. The bullet tore through the stranger's head with brutal precision—ripping through skull and brain, leaving behind a grotesque splash of black blood and steaming matter across the nearby snow and stone.
The body slumped forward.
"Don't ask questions about my family like that," Artamis muttered coldly, lowering the rifle.
But then came the sound.
A laugh. Soft at first, then growing. Echoing.
The stranger's voice giggled from nowhere and everywhere. "Hehehehe… thank you, laddie. I was hopin' to see some of that famous Mikazuki passion in you."
Smoke began to pour from the corpse, swallowing the remains as if the body were a candle being snuffed out. The scent of burning herbs and ozone hung briefly in the air.
"Be well until our next meeting," the voice whispered. "I look forward to seein' you on the battlefield."
And then… silence.
The rocks were clean. The snow was unstained. No trace of blood, no body. Only a single footprint left behind in the frost.
And the wind continued to blow, carrying the whisper of something ancient in its chill.
Artamis didn't spare another thought for the mysterious cloaked stranger. The moment his form vanished into smoke and myth, Artamis gave the area a sweeping glance—sharpened, but not paranoid. No trembling hand, no darting eyes. Just a hunter checking his terrain before the next move.
"If that demon goes fucking with Xi," he muttered coldly, adjusting the straps of his pack, "he'll regret it. Xiro's new power is beyond anything that needs protecting."
His words didn't carry anger—they carried certainty. Like a prophecy whispered to the wind. He didn't know what game that trickster was playing—but if he was right about the invisible fire, Artamis would play along for now.
Then, it hit him.
A scent. Thick and bitter—like scorched rubber dipped in sulfur and seasoned with something older and far more sinister. He grimaced as the pungent smell wormed its way into his nostrils, prickling at his sinuses and coating the back of his throat with a layer of invisible ash. Something was burning.
He followed it.
The trail led him to a clearing choked with frost and silence, and at the center of that hollowed-out breath of the world was an altar. No grand temple or steeple. Just stone and snow and something ancient that pulsed with unseen heat. The altar stood low and circular, a marble pit framed by thick rune-carved walls. Symbols danced across its surface—etched into polished stone like scars carved into bone.
At the heart of it, a black pool of viscous oil shimmered like the belly of a void. Though it gave off no flame, the smell was unmistakable—burning sulfur and charred resin. The air above it trembled with heat waves that painted the scenery in a wavering mirage. A silence lingered, broken only by the slow, sinister hiss of bubbling oil reacting to fire that couldn't be seen.
He narrowed his eyes.
"The source of the heat..." he whispered, the words folding into the howling wind.
Then, it clicked.
The stranger's final cryptic warning: Burn the invisible flame.
Artamis knelt beside the pool, the cold biting at his knees through his gear. He placed a hand near the edge, careful not to touch the oil, and activated his new skill—[Sage Wisdom]. Unlike its predecessor, this one struck with divine force. Knowledge surged into his brain like lightning trapped in a bottle, and for a moment, the world flickered between reality and memory. His eyes glowed faintly as the runes translated themselves in real-time across his vision:
"Where Dylon, the King of Flames, burns."
Old Ignivoran. The script of the Great Demonic Fire Spirits—beings ancient enough to make even Infernia's oldest beasts tremble.
"Talk about a useful ability," he muttered to himself, blinking away the visual overload. "Far faster than [World Wisdom]... and way more informative."
He stared deeper into the pit, as the mana began to explain the structure's function. The fire was real—just not visible to the human eye. It burned in the infrared spectrum, invisible yet potent.
"So I need to add a physical flame, huh?" he asked the altar, already forming a ball of Fire Mana in his palm.
The orb pulsed, rotating in his grasp with raw elemental chaos. The warmth was comforting, but not friendly. He took a breath, steadying the quiet knot of anxiety twisting in his gut. It wasn't fear of combat. It was the unnerving sense that something ancient was watching… waiting.
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the fireball into the pool.
What followed was a detonation of surreal beauty.
The oil didn't catch—it ignited. The pit exploded in a spiral of iridescent sparks, each ember a screeching note in a discordant symphony of power. The colors bled across the spectrum: crimson, cobalt, sickly jade, silver, and gold streaks. Mana rippled outward in waves of pressure so intense that the snow on nearby rocks evaporated instantly, leaving behind steaming stone. The air quivered as reality folded inward for just a moment.
And then he saw him.
Formed from a coiling mist of black vapor, a massive figure solidified on an obsidium throne inlaid with silver veins and countless glinting magic gems. The being's body glowed like freshly cooled magma—vermilion red skin stretched across muscle so dense it looked sculpted from volcanic rock. He sat cross-legged, one arm bare and brutal, the other armored in blackened steel etched with flaming sigils. His short hair was black as night, but his eyes... piercing ice blue. Eyes that held the silence of death and the roar of war all at once.
Behind his outwardly curved horns rested a crown circlet that shimmered in the moonlight, half sunken into his head like it had been forged there by force.
He looked down on Artamis with unspoken contempt, like a god judging a termite. His brows lowered in disdain, and even with his eyes shut, the disgust on his face dripped like venom. The mana pressure he exuded was suffocating—thick and violent, like a battlefield frozen in time.
He opened his mouth to speak.
And that's when Artamis ended it.
In a blink, he raised the long-barreled rifle with its mana-fused scope, crafted from starmetal and scorched alloy from his bag, shouldered it, and squeezed the trigger. The rifle, charged with a kinetic round, barked with a thunderous crack that echoed off the cave walls.
The bullet screamed across the altar like a banshee and tore through the demon's skull. It pierced the demon's left eye, ruptured the socket, and detonated out the back of his head. Bone and brain matter sprayed the throne like a grotesque fountain. Blood—thick, black, and steaming—splashed the silver plating and hissed against the obsidium seat.
Half a face was all that remained.
The demonic king didn't so much as flinch from the sniper round, still hissing molten mana from the crater in his skull. Instead, Dylon slowly tilted his neck with an audible crack, threading Fire Mana like a weaver pulling from the very embers in the room. The flames around the altar responded to his will as if summoned by a conductor's baton—thin cords of fire streamed inward, coiling through the air like sentient serpents. They sank into the ragged hole Artamis's bullet had blown through his head, sewing flesh, bone, and muscle back together.
The grotesque reconstruction was hypnotic. Tissue twisted and bubbled into place, cartilage reformed with a gurgling snap, and finally, the eye. A new pupil—bright, malicious, and glowing with infernal power—blinked at Artamis with unmistakable hatred.
"What do we have here?" Dylon's voice was syrup-thick, condescending, yet hiding an accent. "Some Majin from the Mortal Realm. To spit in de face of a Cardinal King... is a plea for a painful death, mon."
He stood.
The atmosphere shifted.
A sudden oppressive heat gripped the landscape like a tightening vice. The snow that had blanketed the nearby cliffs evaporated in seconds, vanishing mid-air in sharp hissing wisps. The frozen sleet on the stone ground began to sweat, then boil, then steam into nothing. The entire planet registered the shift. Dylon stepped forward, each footstep sending vibrations deep into the crust, as if the world itself was nervous beneath his tread.
Artamis held his rifle tight, knuckles pale against his tan skin, his stance rooted like a mountain. He didn't flinch. Dylon, however, did something rare—he paused. His blue eye narrowed, flicking up and down Artamis like a scholar reading an impossible passage.
"I've never seen a Majin like you before…" Dylon muttered, almost to himself. "There are traces of an Oni Clan… old mana, buried deep. But heavier still—those are Celestial and Paradisian blood threads. That mixture ain't natural. Not without... interference. What is your name, mon?"
The very air began to spark—random bursts of dry flame bursting into existence, flash-frying the last snowflakes before they hit the ground. The sky darkened, then bled into an eerie orange like a dying sun trapped in twilight. Everything around them was cooking.
Three meters apart.
Artamis stayed silent. Calm. Focused. His face was unreadable, his heart rate barely elevated. He was unaffected by the heat—not because he was immune, but because of the Ultra Skill flowing silently through his body: [The House is Burning]. Entropy itself bowed to him.
He exhaled through his nose.
And squeezed the trigger.
The rifle fired a burst of rounds charged with concentrated Water Mana. A shimmering blue aura trailed each bullet as they howled through the thickened air—but just before impact, Dylon whispered something inaudible under his breath. A ripple of magitons ignited in the space between them, erecting an invisible barrier.
CLACK-CLACK-CLACK!
The rounds slammed against the shield with force, creating jets of scalding steam that spiraled upward, flooding the area with dense mist. The field blurred. Vision was reduced to a fog of boiling humidity and the smell of burning ozone.
A beat.
Dylon raised an eyebrow, unmoved.
"Hmm. Are you feral, mon? Unable to communicate? If violence is all you understand, then I will be glad to speak your language."
Artamis used the veil of steam to retreat, sliding behind a large chunk of obsidian rock. He repositioned, using the moment to reassess.
He thought back to his opening shot. Dylon didn't dodge it, didn't shield against it—but he healed. That was a sign.
He must still feel the pain, Artamis thought. Otherwise, he wouldn't bother to defend himself.
A smile almost tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"So my Ultra Skill ability still works. He feels 10% of the damage even with nullification."
But that second of reflection cost him.
Without warning, without sound, Dylon appeared directly behind him. No footsteps. No heat. Just presence. And menace.
"Yuh think a cloud is enough to blind mi?" the Cardinal King said, his voice low and vengeful.
A fist—now swollen with Yin Mana and twice its normal size—came crashing down like a meteor.
Artamis reacted instantly.
"Transmute!" he chanted.
Mana surged into his arm. His rifle shimmered, then melted—its metal becoming liquid, folding in on itself like mercury under pressure. Magitons rearranged atoms at the molecular level, and within the span of a second, the gun had become a curved convex shield with thorned spikes along its rim.
The fist slammed into it.
CLANG!!!
Sparks burst in every direction as Dylon's own force sent his knuckles into the steel thorns. Blood sizzled on impact—but Dylon didn't even blink. Without pausing, he twisted into a follow-up kick, striking Artamis square in the chest and launching him backward through the flaming grassfield like a shot put.
Artamis hit the ground with a hard thud, skipping once before he rolled and came to a stop.
"Shit," he coughed, "that kick's solid."
Dylon approached slowly, almost amused now.
"That skill you used a moment ago," he said, curious. "That was Transmutation, right? I'm impressed. Rare to see an Absolute-class Personal Skill in the wild these days. I ask again… who are yuh, mortal?"
Artamis slowly stood, brushing the ash off his clothes. He raised his shield in one hand, his glare calm and steady.
"You're about to die today," he said flatly. "Does the name of your killer really matter?"
Dylon laughed—a loud, guttural sound that echoed into the cracked sky.
"Better assassins have tried. Yuh aren't the first mortal to summon me for a Death Duel. Archons are always sending their little champions, hoping to prove something. Who is your master? Destini? Volo? Laniakea?"
Artamis gave no reply. He simply focused his mana into the palm of his hand, hiding it behind the shield. A subtle flicker of blue energy sparked between his fingers.
Dylon tilted his head, annoyed by the silence.
"Matters not. Your soul will join the thousands of other dead champions before yuh, mon."
Artamis's lips moved.
"Transmute."
Dylon squinted. "Whut?"
CHIK-CHAK!
The shield liquified again, folding backward into the familiar form of his SCAR 20 assault rifle. Artamis raised it like a gunslinger at high noon, the barrel pointed directly between the demon's eyes.
"Wet Willy Boom," he whispered.
The muzzle exploded with Water and Nuclear Mana, a burst of pure atomic energy compressed into tight, glowing shells. The bullets howled through the air like banshees, their heat distorting the space behind them.
The explosion was more than bright—it was biblical.
A geyser of fire and radioactive Water Mana erupted from the impact point, swallowing the entire battlefield in a golden-white mushroom cloud. The tremor cracked the nearby cliffs. Ash rained from the heavens. Grass turned to blackened crust. All sound died beneath the thunderous roar of magick and destruction.
With a thunderous crack and a golden streak of kinetic light, Artamis launched himself backward with a superhuman leap. The air snapped beneath him as he crossed dozens of kilometers in seconds, landing with a deep quake on a high mound of dry, cracked dirt. His boots crushed the brittle earth beneath, sending dust whirling around him like a protective shield. The devastation behind him was settling—but only just. The residual shockwaves of his nuclear-grade blast still rolled like invisible waves across the landscape, rattling the wilted remnants of once-proud plant life. Wildfires bloomed in sporadic spots across the battlefield like demonic flowers, licking the ground with hungry tongues. The twin moons above, casting a pale blue glow, stared down at the chaos below with solemn, leering eyes—silent witnesses to the war that raged beneath them.
Artamis didn't move. His breath came slow, controlled. His eyes, locked on the scorched crater at ground zero, remained unblinking.
He could still feel it.
That brazen, arrogant signature. The fire of a King refusing to kneel. Cardinal King Dylon—his mana still pulsed like war drums through the fabric of the battlefield, daring reality itself to challenge his existence. Artamis clenched his jaw. That bastard had taken the brunt of the explosion. No way he was unscathed. But downed? No. Far from it.
Art knew this fight wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
And as the last of the dust clouds gave way to grim clarity, the truth made itself known.
There he stood—Cardinal King Dylon—balanced precariously on one leg. The entire right side of his body had been annihilated. No arm. No shoulder. No leg. And yet, the man stood tall, unwavering.
Inside the missing half of his torso, there was no blood. No organs. No bone. Only dancing flames where muscle should've been. Fire coiled and swirled in place of sinew, as if the man were molded from the heart of a volcano.
Dylon tilted his head slightly, eyes glowing like molten steel, and smirked.
"Mi nuh tink mi ever see a spell like dat before," Dylon said, his voice now laced with a thicker melodic drawl to his accent, calm and unbothered. "Usin' heat like dat... impressive, yuh. Destructive, too. Fi real."
But then something began to change.
From the chaos of the surrounding battlefield, from the flaming remnants of the terrain, came embers—thin threads of fire, like glowing spider silk—drifting toward Dylon. They danced on the air, drawn by some invisible will, weaving themselves into him.
The fire touched his wounds, and the impossible happened.
Flesh returned.
Not ordinary flesh—but living flame shaped into muscle, nerve, and skin. Each thread of heat restored his body, inch by inch, until the right half of him was no longer a ruin, but reborn.
Artamis's pupils narrowed. Now he understood. The flames... they were his lifeblood.
"But no mattah how hard yuh try, it all futile, mon," Dylon declared, stepping forward through the still-burning ash, arms spreading like he was greeting the end of the world. "Di flames of Infernia always bring mi back. This battlefield... is mi domain, mortal."
Artamis exhaled slowly.
"I swear, my family has the worst damn luck in situations like this..."
Almost as if the Cardinal King had read his thoughts, Dylon lifted both arms skyward.
The mana in the atmosphere shifted.
Hard.
Clusters of magitons, radiant and churning, began to form above them like bloated storm clouds—but they weren't filled with water. They bled fire.
The sky began to weep flames.
Droplets of living fire fell from the heavens like divine punishment, each one erupting into wildfire the moment it kissed the ground. Even the former snow-covered plains, once pristine and deathly quiet, were consumed in seconds—turning from green to blazing orange. Heat surged in thick waves. The air shimmered. The smell of scorched earth and molten ash filled the lungs like poison.
"Cry joy for deir death," Dylon proclaimed, "Superior Fire Mana Arts: Tears of the Phoenix."
The battlefield had become hell.
And then—he was gone.
A blink. A breath.
Then suddenly Dylon was in striking distance, no longer walking, but teleporting with a jolt of flame. His body shimmered like an afterimage as he leapt high, bringing down a devastating overhead hammerfist aimed squarely at Artamis's skull.
Art ducked—barely—his instinct flaring like an alarm.
But Dylon wasn't finished.
He spun into a back kick so fast and sharp it cut through the air like a blade, slamming Artamis across the terrain. The force shattered a nearby boulder as his body tore through it like paper, rock exploding in every direction.
Dust. Pain. Momentum. Artamis didn't let it pin him.
He rolled. Hit his feet.
He started chanting.
"Solar, Fire Mana Arts: White Ember"
The words fell like echoes of power, and the mana in his body surged. Fire and Solar Mana intertwined at his fingertips, combining into six plasma orbs that glowed a haunting, pale white—burning like miniature suns. The temperature around him spiked, air vibrating from the raw heat.
"Transmute!"
In a flash, the orbs dimmed—then flipped polarity. Where fire once burned, absolute cold now reigned. The plasma balls shifted into water spheres, each one glistening with icy light. Mist bled from them like they'd torn open a void of absolute cold.
He launched them.
Six bullets of absolute zero screamed through the air, each trailing icy vapor in hypnotic spirals. Dylon dodged four with acrobatic grace—but the final two hit home.
They crashed into his defending arm.
A wave of instant crystallization spread across his limb, freezing everything. The arm went stiff, locked in a cocoon of rime. Steam hissed violently as ice met fire, creating a thick fog of dueling elements.
"Look at that," Artamis grinned. "Listening to a few of Xi's ramblings actually bore a gem. Still... took a full month-cycle to master that shit."
But even as he spoke, he felt the sting in his core.
"That combo eats MP like crazy... I can't keep burnin' through casts like this."
Dylon looked down at his frozen arm, then back up with a grin that oozed menace.
"Instant freezing?" he said slowly. "Yuh creative... I'll give yuh dat."
Then, without hesitation, he gripped the frozen limb and ripped it off.
There was no cry of pain. He examined the ice-blue stump for a second like it was a used napkin, then chucked it behind him.
"But yuh fool if yuh think yuh can freeze me," he said darkly. "Mi am Greater Ignivoran. Di embodiment of fire itself. Blaze Eatah."
He opened his mouth.
And from the tip of his tongue, Fire Mana surged.
A glowing ember formed, then burst outward in a line of searing flame. It carved the air like a whip, then coiled downward, hardening into the shape of a brand new limb. A fire-forged arm formed right before their eyes, absorbing the falling fire-drops from the sky as it locked into place. Within seconds, Dylon was whole again.
"Mi [Blazing Marquis: Phenex] is unbeatable! Mi inferno royalty—yuh tink flames obey yuh more dan mi?" he roared, his voice echoing across the plains. "Mi will always rise from di ashes!"
Artamis didn't respond. He watched—silent and still—as the Cardinal King regenerated once again.
He was starting to accept the grim truth.
He couldn't win this by outlasting him.
He couldn't win this by brute force.
Unless he found a way to smother the flames, this trial... would end in defeat.
[End of Chapter]
[1] Year Five.