A snarl ripped from his throat, rage replacing every trace of calculation.
His second hand snapped up, tightening around the staff. The runes carved along its length flared violently, responding to his surge of intent.
"DIE—!"
The light erupted.
Not a pulse.
A beam.
Blinding. Focused. Absolute.
It tore through the air like a verdict, aimed directly at Draven's chest. The space around it warped and screamed, bending under the sheer density of power compressed into a single point.
But Draven moved.
Not backward.
Forward.
His arm rose, dark crimson mana wrapping tightly around it—condensed, layered, reinforcing every inch.
And he struck the beam.
Not blocking it.
Deflecting it.
**SSSHHHKK—**
The light split apart on impact, dragged violently off its original path. It skidded past him, grazing the edge of his form, and slammed into the far wall of the chamber.
The impact detonated in a white flash.
Stone vaporized instantly. Reinforced runes shattered like glass. The structure groaned under the sudden release of force.
But Draven was already past it.
A single step.
And he was in front of the man.
Too close.
Far too close.
The man's eyes widened in shock just as Draven's hand shot forward.
**GRAB.**
Fingers clamped around his throat.
Tight.
Unforgiving.
Absolute.
He yanked him forward, lifting him off balance, dragging him down to eye level. The staff slipped from the man's grasp and clattered uselessly onto the floor.
The light vanished instantly.
Silence snapped back into the room.
Broken only by choking.
"Ghk—!"
The man clawed at Draven's wrist, eyes wide, veins straining beneath his skin. His body trembled as he struggled for air, but the grip did not shift.
Did not loosen.
Did not even falter.
Draven pulled him closer until their faces were only inches apart.
Crimson eyes burned into blue.
Cold.
Absolute.
"…Move," Draven said quietly.
A pause.
"…and I rip your throat out."
The words were not loud.
They didn't need to be.
They landed like weight crushing bone.
The man froze.
Instinct overrode panic.
Even his struggling stopped completely.
Because he believed it.
No.
He *knew* it.
His voice came out broken, forced through constricted breath.
"…H-how…"
His eyes flicked desperately toward the fallen staff, then back to Draven.
"…the light—"
His throat tightened further under Draven's grip.
"…you—"
Draven's hand tightened slightly, cutting him off mid-syllable.
"…Shut the fuck up."
Flat.
Cold.
Final.
The man choked again, but the words still forced their way out.
"…Y-you're a—"
Draven leaned in closer, voice dropping even lower.
"…The real sun doesn't even harm me."
Silence.
The words didn't register immediately.
Then they did.
The man's pupils shrank.
"…W-what…?"
Confusion.
Disbelief.
"…What are you—"
Draven didn't answer right away. He simply stared at him.
Unblinking.
Then—
"…You think that toy light does anything?"
A faint tilt of his head.
The man's breath hitched.
"…B-but—"
His gaze dropped instinctively to Draven's arm.
Faint burn marks lingered there.
"…the burns—"
Draven followed his gaze down, briefly studying his own skin.
The marks were already fading.
Healing.
Erasing themselves as if they had never existed.
He looked back at the man.
Expression unchanged.
"…Yeah."
A pause.
"…It burned."
The man blinked again, confusion deepening.
"…Then—"
Draven's eyes narrowed slightly.
"…The thing was hot."
Flat. Matter-of-fact.
"…Like fire."
A pause.
"…What did you expect?"
Silence.
The answer made no sense to him.
Not within anything he understood.
Everything he thought was absolute was beginning to collapse.
His lips trembled.
"…That's not—"
Draven tightened his grip again.
Not enough to kill.
Just enough to interrupt.
Pain flared sharply through the man's body, cutting off the sentence instantly.
"…You're done talking."
Draven's voice dropped lower.
Colder.
Final.
The room itself felt like it had accepted the judgment.
The hum of the artifact behind them—the spinning ring, the warped space suspended at its center—seemed quieter now.
Like it was listening.
Watching.
Draven didn't release his grip.
Didn't shift his stance.
The man still hung in his hand, barely supported, feet scraping weakly against the floor. His fingers trembled as they clutched at Draven's wrist, desperate for stability.
"…You said," Draven spoke again.
Calm.
Controlled.
"…you control this thing."
His eyes flicked once toward the rotating structure behind them.
Recognition sharpened in his gaze.
"…The artifact."
The word landed heavily.
The man's eyes widened slightly.
Not fear yet.
Surprise.
"…Y-you—"
Draven cut him off immediately.
"…Remove it."
A pause.
The grip tightened slightly.
A silent warning.
"…The restriction."
The air shifted.
The circles on the floor flickered faintly, reacting as if the command itself had weight.
"…You have thirty seconds."
Silence.
The man froze completely.
His mind raced.
Because he understood now.
This wasn't negotiation.
It was execution with a timer attached.
"…I-if you kill me—"
he forced out, voice strained—
"…and destroy it…"
A flicker of desperation broke through.
"…you won't get anything."
His eyes darted toward the artifact, then back to Draven.
"…Didn't you need teleportation…?"
A gamble.
A final attempt to insert himself as necessary.
To survive.
Draven didn't respond.
Didn't blink.
He simply watched him.
And that silence—
was worse than refusal.
Because there was nothing behind it.
No hesitation.
No dependency.
Just decision.
Draven's fingers tightened again.
The man's breath caught instantly, panic surging.
Then—
Draven spoke.
"…Ten."
The word struck like a blade.
The man's pupils contracted violently.
"…W-wait—!"
His body jerked instinctively, but he stopped himself mid-motion.
He remembered.
Move—and die.
"…I'll do it—I'll do it—!"
His voice cracked completely now.
No strategy left.
Only survival instinct.
"…J-just—!"
His hand lifted, trembling violently, fingers reaching into empty air—not physically touching anything, but interfacing with something unseen.
The system.
The connection.
The artifact.
The ring at the center of the room pulsed once.
Then again.
The man's eyes flickered faintly blue—connection reestablished.
"…Releasing—!"
His voice strained as if pulling something open inside reality itself.
The runic circles beneath Draven's feet reacted instantly.
They resisted.
Then flickered.
Strained harder.
Unstable.
"…Stop—resisting—!"
The man gasped, sweat breaking across his face.
Whatever he was controlling was not fully obedient.
Something inside the system was fighting him back.
Draven's gaze sharpened slightly.
He felt it.
The pressure around him shifting.
Loosening.
Not fully gone.
But breaking apart.
"…Five—!"
Whether it was a count or a desperate prayer no longer mattered.
The artifact spun faster.
The warped space inside it trembled violently.
The circles beneath Draven's feet cracked—lines breaking, structure collapsing.