In the rear lines, Kinzawi Ridvan, despite his strength,
felt a faint chill crawl down his neck.
He raised his swords slowly,
muttering grimly as he stared at the glowing Dabmos:
*"This man...*
*is the volcano incarnate."*
But despite the terror of the moment, he didn't retreat.
On the battlefield, everything was now on the verge of explosion...
and everyone left had to choose:
either witness the birth of a catastrophe,
or flee before the flames consumed them.
When their eyes met, time itself seemed to contract between them.
No shouts.
No commands.
No words.
Just silence... that heavy silence that precedes disaster.
Dabmos, his body now half-volcanic, half-human, his eyes burning with unquenchable embers,
his breaths rising like living tongues of flame,
every step crackling with lava beneath his cracking skin.
Kinzawi Ridvan stood opposite him,
his features as rigid as stone,
his Kannen, the "Sky-Severer," fully merged with him,
his body sheathed in a dark layer like cold steel, two swords gleaming with an eerie light, sharp halos flickering around them,
every motion sending shards of air dancing, as if invisible blades orbited him.
Both knew...
the next move would be the beginning of hell.
Kinzawi moved first.
He vanished from sight for an instant, leaving behind black sparks like the trail of a burning meteor.
In the same moment, Dabmos raised his hand, and as Kinzawi's swords tore through the air, descending from above to cleave all in their path,
he opened his palm, and a pillar of fire surged toward the sky.
The swords clashed with the flames, and the inferno consumed them for an instant before the scene dissolved into sparks and rising fire.
This wasn't a battle of brute force.
In a flash, Kinzawi appeared behind Dabmos, his twin blades descending at a lethal angle,
a dual strike, swift enough to pierce even lava.
Dabmos didn't retreat.
He twisted his body, his lava-coated arm deflecting the blow, then kicked the ground violently, sending molten rock bursting beneath his feet, propelling himself backward,
leaving behind a ring of searing flames that devoured all they touched—
an expanding circle of fiery death.
This wasn't just an exchange of blows.
Each was reading the other, predicting movements, countering instincts.
Kinzawi measured Dabmos's breaths, watched the tilt of his shoulders, the angles of his gaze.
He tried to lure him into tight spaces where movement would be restricted.
Dabmos, meanwhile, pushed Kinzawi toward pockets of concentrated heat,
where breathing grew labored and vision blurred by rising smoke.
And each time Kinzawi escaped these traps,
Dabmos left behind another ring of lava, another death circle,
waiting for its prey to fall.
Kinzawi smiled faintly, not in triumph but like a man addicted to bloodshed.
He muttered under his breath, his tone almost melodic:
*"The arms... are the sky's knives,*
*my blood... the lightning's blades."*
Then he lunged.
His strikes were no longer just sword swings—his entire body became a moving guillotine,
every step, every twist, every lean a lethal motion.
He sliced through air, parted waves of flame, and cleaved all in his path.
But Dabmos didn't yield.
He drew a slow breath,
and whispered, his voice so low it seemed to rise from the volcano's core:
*"Every inhale is lava...*
*every exhale is a flood of fire."*
And in an instant, he exploded forward.
He struck the ground with his fist, and spiraling vortexes of fire erupted,
encircling Kinzawi from all sides, trapping him like inescapable walls of living flame.
For a moment, everyone thought Kinzawi was finished.
They were wrong.
From within the inferno, a sound like splitting iron rang out,
and the vortex burst apart from inside.
Kinzawi emerged from the flames,
his body covered in superficial burns,
but his eyes burned brighter, a faint smile playing on his lips—
not a smile of peace, but of bloodlust.
He murmured, his voice soft as a knife sliding between ribs:
*"Marvelous... this is better than I expected."*
Then he charged, faster than before.
His strikes grew sharper,
each carrying a name, as if they were hidden rites:
*"Shadow Severing — Twilight's Guillotine"*
*"Bone Splitting — Bleeding Edge"*
Every slash parted the flames, forcing them to recoil,
and with each blow, Dabmos took a step back,
the fire losing its dominion before Kinzawi's blades.
Dabmos tried to counterattack,
but Kinzawi's speed became thunderous,
and in an instant, he appeared behind him, swords poised at his throat.
Kinzawi whispered with lethal calm, as if declaring the end:
*"You're finished."*
Dabmos didn't reply.
His breaths grew labored,
his body began to falter,
the lava coating him now dull, like dead ash.
The scene froze for a moment,
and in that crushing silence,
one thing was clear...
The advantage now lay with Kinzawi Ridvan.
As Dabmos steadied himself, unbearable heat radiated from his body, fused with the volcano entity.
Every exhale left spirals of steam and sparks, every step shook the earth as if ancient chains were breaking free,
even the air grew heavier, as if they were all breathing scorching ash.
Kinzawi didn't wait for an invitation.
In the blink of an eye, the swords in his hands gleamed with an ominous light, the shadow of his "Sky-Severer" Kannen looming behind him like a beast poised to kill,
then he shot forward like a comet.
The swords crossed with Dabmos's burning fists.
The collision wasn't just physical.
A thermal shockwave and a silver lightning flash split the earth beneath them,
sending ash flying in a blinding storm.
Dabmos roared like an enraged beast,
pushing forward, his glowing fists tearing through space,
a rising uppercut of fire aimed at Kinzawi's jaw.
But it missed.
Kinzawi pivoted halfway,
his right sword swinging to strike Dabmos's neck,
but his opponent was no ordinary foe.
Dabmos opened his mouth and unleashed a point-blank blast of fire at his face.
Kinzawi was forced to leap back, but as he recoiled,
he stabbed a sword into the ground,
then whispered softly, as if reciting a verse from an old hymn:
*"When the eagle's wing is clipped,*
*a third sword is born."*
Suddenly, from his Kannen's shadow, a third arm emerged,
gripping another blade that gleamed with celestial light.
Now armed with three swords, Kinzawi advanced,
each strike carrying crushing weight yet moving as fast as falling stars.
He moved in a semicircular arc,
a slash to the shoulder, a slash to the flank, then a thrust to the heart.
But Dabmos wasn't idle.
He kicked the ground, and clouds of flame burst beneath him,
twisting his body,
his right fist hammering the air with force,
each punch releasing explosive bursts,
shattering the incoming blades and forcing Kinzawi back.
The exchanges continued,
Dabmos's heat scorching the earth,
Kinzawi's swords tearing the air,
both wounded, both exhausted,
yet neither showed any intent to retreat.
As their bodies blazed with energy,
Dabmos whispered faintly, his eyes glowing with golden light.
*"Carry me, O ashes of the gods...*
*drown me in the fire's absolution."*
His movements shifted rhythm.
No longer just fiery strikes,
he now manipulated thermal pressure, concentrating heat into his fists, and in a flash,
he slammed the ground,
sending a pillar of fire erupting beneath Kinzawi's feet.
Kinzawi barely dodged, his hair singed, yet he smirked.
*"You're a fool if you think fire alone can fell the Sky-Severer."*
Then, without warning,
he kicked off the ground,
lunging with three swords at once, each aimed at a fatal angle,
a cold voice murmuring inside him:
*(If you'd looked back even once... I'd have killed you.)*
The strikes partially breached Dabmos's defense,
the third blade carving into his side,
scorching blood pouring out—but he didn't retreat.
Dabmos stood firm despite the wound,
his eyes narrowing slowly,
then raised his head and spoke in a hoarse but resolute voice:
*"We're not done yet."*
But the truth was clear...
The advantage was slowly tipping to Kinzawi,
his swords still raised,
his wounds less severe,
while Dabmos's body began to tremble,
even his flames growing weaker.
He knew...
the battle had little left.
The air was thick with smoke and sparks,
every step, every glance,
heavier than mountains.
Zain watched the fight from afar, his breaths ragged, his battered body barely able to stand,
sweat mingling with blood, the pounding of his heart like hidden war drums inside him.
*(Weak... weak... that's all I am.)*
The thoughts slithered like vipers in his skull, biting with quiet pain.
*(I was just a child boasting, deluding myself into thinking I could wield a Kannen I didn't understand... I thought I was a warrior, but I'm just a novice wearing a monster's mask.)*
His body shuddered, not from pain, but from the fury that suddenly erupted within him.
*(I failed myself... failed my city... failed even the one who trusted me in battle.)*
He clenched his teeth hard, his eyes flickering with every word he muttered inside:
*(But I won't let myself fall here... not now, not before their eyes.)*
He could feel the tremors of his exhausted body, knew exactly what he had to do, even if the price was harsh.
He raised his trembling hand to his chest, where he could still sense his Kannen, the "Cataclysm," lurking, furious, screaming in his veins, demanding more.
He whispered to himself, his voice barely audible over the roar of flames and combat:
*"Forgive me... but I must borrow you for a while."*
He closed his eyes and began the internal ritual.
No complex words, no grand gestures—just slow breathing... then a deep, silent call to the Kannen's core:
*(O Cataclysm... lower your blade, and lend me a fragment of your life.)*
The Kannen responded slowly... a sound like a hiss in a volcano's heart, and Zain felt something like cold wire threading through his chest, severing part of its offensive power and recycling it into his battered body.
The new energy flowed through his veins like cold water dousing inflamed wounds—not full healing, just a temporary leash on the pain, but it was enough.
Zain opened his eyes slowly, the red glow still smoldering beneath his lids.
But his expression was calmer now,
a strange mix of resolve and bitterness.
He whispered, his words for himself alone:
*"I wasn't made to run... even if I have to crawl, I'll stand again."*
He rose carefully, his body groaning under the burning energy,
but in his eyes... another fire had ignited, deeper than pain,
stronger than fear.
He was ready to re-enter the fray.