The battle between Brighid and the cultist was a dance of death and instinct—a spectacle where every movement decided who would keep breathing and who would fall forever into the dark.
The cultist charged in fury, his fists sheathed in pulsing mana, detonating with brute force.
His attacks were fast, merciless, crushing.
But Brighid was a whisper in the storm.
She didn't resist. She flowed.
She slipped through the blows like a living shadow, swaying by a hair, her body leaning, spinning, folding into impossible angles.
Every punch cut the air where she had been a second before.
Every kick struck only emptiness.
The cultist snarled, teeth grinding in frustration, but Brighid smiled. It wasn't a sneer. It wasn't arrogance.
It was delight.
She moved with the ease of someone who didn't see combat as an ordeal, but as a cruel game. And then, she struck.
A precise hit—a fierce punch to the nose.
CRACK!
The cultist stumbled back, hot blood gushing.
He hopped away, retreating, his chest heaving.
Brighid stood still—unharmed, flawless. He hadn't touched her even once.
"Damn it!" he shouted, eyes throbbing with frustration. "Why the hell can't I hit you?! Who are you?!"
Brighid tilted her head, smiling like a predator toying with its prey.
"After all this time, you still haven't figured it out?" Her eyes gleamed, malice and pleasure braided into her tone. "You're a disappointment, blessed by Braz'gallan."
The cultist clenched his jaw.
"Are you mocking me?! You think you're superior to me?!"
She sighed, as if bored.
"I don't need to think anything." Her eyes fixed on him—cold, calculating. "The way this fight is unfolding says it all."
Rage curdled into something darker inside the cultist. Hatred swelled, burned, corroded. Mana flared around his fists, his arms trembling under the weight of gathered power.
Then he lunged.
Brighid turned, her body a blur, and her fist slammed into his abdomen like a sure-striking hammer.
WHAM!
The cultist skidded, tasting the bitterness of his own blood, and at last fear began to seep through the cracks in his rage.
This woman… this woman is far too strong.
Her mana was beyond the ordinary; her movements were too fast; he couldn't surpass her.
He had no choice. From here on, it would be kill or be killed—so he chose to kill. The elf conjured weapons of mana—majestic blades made of pure magical force, each one shimmering with ethereal hues, vibrating with a pulsing hum.
Brighid said nothing, but she smiled.
Then her own fingers lit.
Thin, razor-fine blades—tiny as needles—sprang between her fingers.
"Do you really want to keep playing this little game?" Her voice was a whisper full of bad promises.
"Shut up!"
The cultist rushed in.
Blades carved the air, arcs of light flashing in the darkness of battle.
Brighid moved among them like smoke on the wind—and then she struck. Mana blades flew from her fingers like a storm of needles. A lethal swarm.
The cultist tried to dodge, tried to block, tried everything, but Brighid didn't miss. The projectiles grazed his skin, pierced his shoulders, sliced his clothes.
Fear turned to panic.
Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!
Nothing worked. Nothing was enough. But he wouldn't give up. He couldn't.
So he did something insane.
He used his own destruction as an advantage.
His eyes tracked the storm of mana blades—the visual blizzard that obscured everything—and he hurled himself through it, straight at Brighid.
Brighid slipped past his attack with the grace of a breath of wind, her body gliding through space with infuriating lightness. Her eyes—cold as steel—locked on the man before her.
"I'm disappointed," she murmured, almost a whisper. "I expected more creativity from someone blessed by Braz'gallan."
The cultist ground his teeth, muscles trembling with effort. Sweat mixed with dust and dried blood on his skin. He felt not only the weight of his body—but failure coiling around his soul like a hungry serpent.
"Shut that damn mouth!" He charged with the blind fury of a cornered animal.
Mana blades crackled in the air, tearing the space between them like ravenous lightning. The impact of the energy on stone made the ground shudder. But Brighid didn't back away. She turned, weaving her steps into a cruel dance—a shifting blur he could never touch.
Each wild strike drained more of his strength. He panted, lungs burning, muscles screaming with exhaustion. The glow of his weapons faltered, pulsing erratically—a fire guttering out.
Then came the mistake.
Small. Almost imperceptible.
But for Brighid, more than enough.
Viper-quick, her hand closed into a fist.
The impact boomed—straight into the cultist's abdomen.
He froze. His eyes flew wide, his mouth opening, hunting for air.
He looked down.
The hole in his chest was dark as the mouth of a bottomless well. Then he dropped to his knees.
"W-who… are you…?" The voice bubbled thinly, choked by his own blood.
Brighid looked down at him as if he were nothing more than a crushed insect.
"No one special," she said, her voice cold, weightless. Unshakable.
The cultist trembled, life fading from his eyes. Then—silence.
Brighid stood there for a moment, watching the body. Her lips dipped—almost imperceptibly.
She felt pity.
A sound broke the hush—light footsteps among the debris.
"Brighid!"
She looked up. Safira emerged from the shadows, her eyes sweeping over the wreckage with a mix of awe and fascination.
"Are you okay?!" The girl reached her in an instant, arms wrapping her in a hurried hug.
"I am." Brighid brushed a stray lock from the girl's face.
"I can't even believe what happened!" Safira stepped back a little, eyes shining with excitement. "Mr. Colin and I got separated! He fought a cultist who controlled a golem, and I fought a woman who used spiders! Then another of them showed up and we took him down—together! It was incredible!"
Brighid smiled—a small, almost absent gesture.
"Of course it was."
Safira's gaze swept the ruined hall, finally settling on the still body on the floor.
"You… didn't even get scratched."
Brighid shrugged.
"He wasn't that strong."
Safira blinked, her lips curling into a smile before she gave a little hop of excitement.
"Shall we look around before we leave? I bet there's something interesting!"
"Hm. Not a bad idea." Brighid cast one last glance at the fallen cultist, then followed the girl.
But her steps slowed.
Across the room, in the dimness of the wreckage, a silhouette stood out.
Colin.
He was standing—as always. Upright. Unshakable. But Brighid knew the cracks beneath that façade.
The silence of the bath came to mind. Hot water. Rising steam. Skin meeting foam. The rare calm that needed no words.
She hesitated before approaching.
"Colin…" Her voice came out softer than she intended.
He raised his eyes. The golden gaze burned—not with fury, but with a weariness that didn't come from the body.
"Are you all right?" She bit her lip. "Do you need me to heal you?"
He shook his head—short, firm.
"I'm fine. Don't worry."
She studied him, brows knitting slightly, but didn't press.
"All right…" she murmured and stepped away.
Even so, the feeling lingered—as if something were about to change, and she didn't know whether she was ready for it.