"…You…"
Ryen's voice trembled — part fury, part disbelief.
The masked man only tilted his head slightly, the faint echo of his breath muffled beneath the porcelain-white demon mask. When he spoke again, his tone carried neither pity nor malice. Just judgment.
[Then prove it was worth his death.]
The words hit harder than a physical blow. For a heartbeat, Ryen froze — the world around him dimmed, his breath stuck in his throat.
Worth… his death?
Before he could even process the meaning, a fist cut through the air like a cannon blast, tearing apart the holy light he had instinctively summoned.
"—!"
He barely had time to react. The masked man was already there, a blur of movement and intent. The impact sent shockwaves cracking through the ground, yet somehow—somehow—Ryen managed to catch that fist.
Their auras clashed, sparks of light and shadow colliding between their locked hands.
[Freezing during battle, how pathetic.]
