The woods were dead.
No sun. No stars. No moon.
Just a ceiling of black, thick and endless, pressing down on the world like a tombstone. The trees stood like petrified giants—twisted, skeletal, their limbs frozen mid-scream. They had long since stopped reaching for the light. There was none left to reach for.
Tyrandel sat cross-legged atop a jagged rock protrusion, his body still, his eyes closed. A simple pair of shorts clung to his lean frame, leaving his chiseled torso exposed to the cold breath of Nytherra. His raven-black hair fluttered in the wind, strands brushing across his face like whispers from the void.
Around him, the earth was scarred.
Ten meters of churned soil, gouged stone, and lingering miasma. Craters pocked the ground. Ash clung to the air. This was no battlefield—it was a ritual site. A place where pain was summoned and endured.
Tyrandel breathed slowly. Deeply. The miasma stirred beneath his skin, pulsing faintly at his fingertips. He was meditating, but not for peace. This was preparation. This was survival.
He wasn't afraid.
Not yet.
Then the red eyes appeared.
They blinked open in the darkness, hovering among the trees like embers in the void. Tyrandel didn't move. Didn't flinch.
A blur of motion. A streak of crimson.
Something emerged.
No words. No warning.
A figure shot forward, arm extended, and from its palm erupted a beam of blood—thick, fast, and furious, aimed straight for Tyrandel's chest.
Tyrandel's fingers twitched.
"Shield of Valour."
Reality rippled.
A translucent dome of purple miasma bloomed around him, dense at the tips of his fingers, fading toward his back. It wasn't a full sphere—just a shell, a half-sphere of shimmering smoke. The shield was unbreakable at its source. The blood beam collided with the densest point.
No cracks. No recoil.
The shield held.
The impact sent a shockwave through the rock, but Tyrandel didn't move. His breathing remained steady. The miasma pulsed, calm and unwavering.
The attacker didn't pause.
Still airborne, it twisted into a somersault and swiped downward. Arcs of blood followed the motion, slicing toward Tyrandel from above.
Again, they struck the strong point.
Again, the shield held.
But Tyrandel moved.
A throwing knife flashed from his belt, buried itself in the ground. The string attached to its hilt snapped taut, yanking him downward faster than the blood swipes could reach.
He landed in a crouch, legs wide, and raised his left hand. Fingers extended. The shield shifted, thickening where it had cracked. His right hand moved above his head, tracing the collision point of the incoming swipes. The miasma obeyed, flowing like liquid thought.
It looked like a dance.
But it wasn't beautiful.
It was survival.
More blood swipes. More beams. The figure blurred, dashing to the side, relentless. Tyrandel's shield flared, flickered, held.
Then the attacker leapt.
High. Fast.
A blood bullet fired from its index finger, aimed at Tyrandel's head.
Tyrandel's hands were at his sides.
Too slow.
The bullet struck—not at the source, but the shield's edge.
A shockwave slammed into the earth. Cracks split the miasma. The shield hissed, resisting. Tyrandel raised both hands to reinforce the breach.
Mistake.
The figure was already behind him.
Two blood bullets fired in rapid succession. The shield flared—then vanished into purple smoke.
Tyrandel pivoted, tried to raise his arms—
Too late.
A solid hit connected with his ankles.
The world turned upside down.
He twisted midair, reaching for the ground—but two heavy blows landed on his back, pummeling him into the rock. He bounced, coughed blood, collapsed.
Dust rose.
Miasma swirled.
Tyrandel groaned, lifting his head just enough to see a pair of boots approaching through the haze.
No words.
No mercy.
Only the sound of footsteps.
And the weight of something he couldn't yet name.