Leerooey moved through the castle ruins carefully.
The deeper he went, the more the space felt wrong—like the structure of the building was folding inward toward something that shouldn't exist.
Then he saw him.
Mark Angelo.
Sitting calmly in the heart of the shattered throne hall, surrounded by fractured skull architecture and burning remnants of stolen power.
The God of Pride didn't even turn his head immediately.
He just raised one finger.
And the space exploded.
Fireballs appeared from nowhere—dense, compressed, overwhelming—each one striking Leerooey with precision meant to erase movement entirely.
Leerooey barely dodged the first wave.
But the second hit him mid-motion.
Then the third.
His speed collapsed under pressure.
Not weakened.
Outclassed.
A dragon manifested above the battlefield—formed from condensed mana and pride-fueled authority. It roared, locking onto Leerooey instantly.
Its presence alone crushed the air.
Leerooey was forced back.
---
Then—
the entire battlefield changed.
A pink field spread outward like a distortion of reality itself.
The atmosphere softened.
Not weaker.
Stranger.
As if violence was being rewritten into a different language.
The dragon struck first.
But it didn't hit its target.
A hooded woman appeared mid-impact.
She met the dragon's speed head-on.
Matching it.
Copying it.
Then surpassing it.
Her movements flickered in impossible synchronization, each step erasing the concept of delay.
She raised her hand slightly.
And spoke.
"aisum avio arissa."
Three words.
The world reacted instantly.
A surge of force erupted outward—pure acceleration amplification layered over spatial distortion.
The dragon was stopped mid-air.
Then thrown backward violently, crashing into the collapsing ceiling of the throne hall.
Something like an asteroid fragment, summoned from above, was caught mid-descent and redirected with precision using the same boosted speed.
---
Mark Angelo finally stood.
For the first time, his expression sharpened.
"You again…"
The hooded woman tilted her head.
Jessabelle.
Not the same as before.
Something had changed.
Something beyond combat evolution.
She stood inside the pink field like it belonged to her.
And now—
it did.
---
Mark Angelo attacked.
Fireballs, compressed mana strikes, pride-forged constructs—all launched simultaneously.
Jessabelle didn't retreat.
She stepped forward.
Each attack that reached her was intercepted, mirrored, or erased by speed alone.
The space around her flickered like reality couldn't decide how fast she was allowed to exist.
Assassins hidden within the castle saw the opportunity.
They rushed her at once.
A coordinated strike.
Hundreds of blades, shadows, and explosive seals converged on her position.
A rain of fire descended at the same moment.
The entire orchestra of destruction collapsed onto her location.
---
One millisecond later—
everything stopped.
All assassins fell at once.
No explosion.
No lingering movement.
Just instant unconscious collapse, as if their nervous systems had been turned off mid-action.
Silence spread across the hall.
---
Jessabelle stood in the center.
Unharmed.
Unbothered.
Mark Angelo stared at her now.
Not as an opponent.
But as something else.
Something unstable.
Something he couldn't easily categorize.
And for the first time since his awakening as the God of Pride—
he hesitated.
Not in fear.
But in fascination.
Because the pink field didn't just protect her.
It made the world bend toward her existence.
And even pride…
was starting to lose its certainty.