By now, the battlefield on Rysaz's side had turned into a storm of fury.
Reta charged forward like a human storm. His axe slammed into the ground, sending a shockwave that blew dust and debris into the air.
Rysaz did not hesitate—her sword flashed upward, a sharp arc of light slicing through the air.
Steel clashed with steel, the metallic roar so loud it made ears ring.
Around them, soldiers screamed, guns thundered, and spells detonated—tearing the battlefield apart.
Reta pressed harder, his massive frame moving like a living hammer, forcing Rysaz back step by step.
She retreated but never bowed, lips pressed tight, her grip unwavering.
Another swing whooshed past her face, the wind scattering sparks from the enchanted axe.
Rysaz ducked, slid aside, then struck her blade's hilt against the ground—light erupted in a circle, locking Reta's footing for a heartbeat.
He only laughed, lunging forward again, unstoppable as a falling mountain.
Cos appeared at her flank—a blade in human form.
His sword moved fluidly, almost weightless, every motion a whisper, yet every cut deep and precise.
He didn't shout or growl. He just smiled faintly, coldly, waiting for Rysaz to slip.
He circled her like a phantom, forcing her to spin, defend, adapt until exhaustion began to creep in.
Rysaz realized instantly: their teamwork was reflex, not thought.
Reta's brute strength drove the assault, while Cos waited for the perfect blind spot to strike.
She had to choose—block one, or die to the other.
She fought back fiercely, sword light flashing like a serpent.
A wide slash knocked Reta's axe aside; a sharp pivot countered Cos's flank—but the swordsman was more cunning.
He didn't aim directly—his blade sliced the air itself, leaving an aftershock of frozen energy that carved frost across the ground.
Rysaz felt that chill crawl along her skin—it wasn't just magic, it was calculation.
Blood sprayed—hers and others'.
Fire and frost danced as chaos swallowed the field.
Above them, Cos glanced up.
Anate's cubic spatial barrier had formed across the sky—warping the battlefield into shifting segments.
Any fool who entered the glowing cubes was trapped in a moment of distorted time.
Light, fire, and screams blurred together. The world felt sliced into fragments.
Cos grimaced. That spell—Anate's Fractal Field—was one she only used when cornered, to distort time and space long enough to run.
Only once before had someone forced her to do that…
—Yui, the king's hidden trump card.
Then the cubes began to shatter.
A grinding, cracking noise echoed as the barrier broke apart like glass.
Both Reta and Cos froze for half a second, glancing upward.
Rysaz seized the moment.
She leapt over a smoking crater, sword blazing, a long arc of light cutting toward Cos.
But he didn't flinch.
Eyes closed, he seemed to know what she would do. From beneath his cloak, a thin veil of darkness unfurled—her blade hit it, its power absorbed.
Cos smiled and countered.
His sword slashed across her palm. She hissed; blood trickled down, staining her gauntlet. Her grip trembled.
Reta was back in the fight, roaring like thunder.
His axe swept horizontally, tearing up the earth.
Rysaz dodged, kicked off the ground, and twisted mid-air—her blade carved a fierce cut across his shoulder.
Reta staggered, but laughed like a demon. His weapon came crashing down again, cracking the ground.
Blows collided, sparks flew—each strike a verse in the song of violence.
Cos moved closer again, silent as a predator.
He didn't need brute force—his attacks were surgical.
A clean, shallow cut aimed at the nerve joint between her shoulders.
The sword screeched against her armor; pain flared down her arm, and she gasped.
Blood seeped through the seams, her hands growing heavy.
Her breath came sharp, her strength waning.
"She's fading," Cos muttered, still calm.
Reta grinned. "Then I'll crush what's left."
Rysaz heard them—voices like whispers in a storm.
Every time she cast light magic, the energy drained faster, like the battlefield itself was feeding on her strength.
Darama's army wasn't just power—it was strategy, machinery, suppression magic woven into the soil.
Every step she took made the ground recoil, slowing her movement.
She had only one option left—strike once, shock them, and escape.
Drawing in her last breath, Rysaz poured all her magic into her sword.
Not to slash—but to invoke her clan's ancient art: Ray of Dawn.
The air howled.
Light burst forth, white and blinding, as if the sun itself had fallen to earth.
Rysaz screamed, the ancient chant leaving her lips, pulling every last drop of will from her body.
The flash tore through smoke, flattened the dust, and silenced everything for a heartbeat.
Reta's axe fell from his hands.
Cos stumbled, squinting into the blaze.
But instead of retreating, he acted. From Rysaz's light, shadows formed—a perfect black silhouette of her body, an echo of her presence.
Cos stepped into it, emerging from the darkness behind her.
His blade pierced through her back.
Blood blossomed like a crimson flower.
Rysaz froze, sword slipping from her grasp.
The world tilted, heartbeat pounding in her ears.
The taste of iron and earth filled her mouth.
Yet the fire in her eyes didn't fade.
Through pain and smoke, she inhaled once more.
Ray of Dawn was more than a strike—it was a vow.
She used its last pulse to trigger an ancient, brutal technique: Shadow Displacement—a short, imperfect teleportation.
It wouldn't save her life… but it would open a path.
As Cos withdrew his blade, she vanished in a burst of white light.
An explosion followed—bright, deafening.
Wind ripped through the battlefield, scattering flags and ash.
When the smoke thinned, shards of armor and blood littered the ground.
From within that fading glow, a figure appeared—Rysaz, kneeling amidst the cracked earth.
Her cloak was torn to rags, her hand still gripping her broken sword.
Her breath came ragged, her aura dim.
Reta raised his axe to finish it—
But then, a streak of golden light cut through the air.
The sound of clashing metal filled the silence—not from a sword, but from dozens.
Blades, spears, and shards of golden armor floated in the air around a man emerging from the radiance—calm, regal, unhurried.
His hair was dark bronze, his eyes a cold gray reflecting the fires of war.
In his arms, he carried Rysaz.
Her body limp, still bleeding, but her hand clutched the sword hilt as if her soul refused to yield.
The man glanced down, voice low—deep, with a rare warmth beneath the frost.
"Foolish girl... If you knew you couldn't win, why didn't you run?"
He didn't shout. Yet his words carried, silencing the battlefield like a decree.
Reta and Cos exchanged wary glances.
The air around them thickened.
This wasn't lightning or frost—it was something far quieter. Far deadlier.
Reta gripped his axe. "Who are you? You dare interfere in the war between Darama and Sylveris?"
The man gave no reply.
He gently laid Rysaz on the ground, tracing a faint sigil in the air.
A layer of golden mist shimmered around her—protective magic, soft and steady.
Then he stood tall, turning his cold gaze toward the two warriors.
The air rippled.
Every floating weapon around him shifted—swords, spears, fragments—aligning their points toward his enemies.
A single spear rotated, then froze midair, the sharp tip humming.
Cos felt his skin crawl.
Reta crouched, ready to charge.
The man tilted his head slightly, voice calm but absolute:
"Take one more step… and I'll take it as a declaration of war."
Wind howled. Dust spiraled.
The golden light around him flared, neither divine nor mortal.
In that moment, the battlefield fell silent—
And a lone man stood between two storms, both radiant and terrible—
like the very blade of fate itself.