The encirclement closed in. One measured step after another.
From the south, silver irises emerged through the haze first — hovering above them, the glowing rune of a Mantle flag cutting through ash and drifting embers. Fifty-three paces.
From the west, another figure surfaced. A steel square helm, spiked along all corners. The eyes etched into its face blinked open — crimson. Barbed chains rattled and hummed against the wind. Twenty-seven paces.
From the east, another pair of silver irises. Less than fifteen paces away. In its hand rested a long blade.
Twilight. Recovered from the ruins where it had been buried.
One second. Point seven. Zero. Less than two seconds to strike all three. But that wasn't the strategy. Was it?
They watched. So did Viren.
Ash detonated. The blade came first.
Grafted with a particle accelerator core, Twilight would saw through armour like wood — if it landed. But it was in the hands of a Lykin. It wouldn't. It couldn't. They were simple creatures. Their movement predictable. Their presence a beacon in the night.
Not this one.
Its movement — what in the hell was it?
He anticipated once. His stance shifted. Then again. Chains were already rushing him from the west. A third adjustment.
That thing wasn't moving. Not really. It looked more like reflections being continuously stacked atop reality — pausing, shattering, pausing again — forming a jagged zigzag of fractured images. Different stances. Different positions. Drawing closer.
Speed. Strength. Neither would solve this. Gregor was useless against it.
The first blade swing missed. It shattered and went for another. Gregor didn't retaliate.
Instead, it left his hand with full force. Direction: west.
The throw shattered the sound barrier — and everything else in its path. The rushing chains vanished instantly. The ash cloud drilled apart before the hammer tore through the fleeing Lykin's upper torso and continued beyond.
His hands recoiled immediately.
Another blade swing. Another miss. Another shattered reflection. Current gathered in his fist, thrusting a wave of kinetic force southward toward the barrage of silver fireballs racing toward him. They scattered under raw pressure alone. The boy vanished before impact could erase him.
But not farther away. Not this time.
Thirty paces. Thirteen paces. Then directly on his right.
Viren's eyes widened a fraction. His head angled back. A reflection shattered across his vision. A blade swing barely missed. A heretic was on him.
His eyes still blinded with light. No hand to defend himself. The flag thrust forward — its authority in full effect. Viren didn't know what it was. He was still certain it would cut through armour. Through Reinforcement. Through flesh.
His centre was off. Gregor was still mid-return. Instinct could only carry him so far.
The Lykin would go for a decisive strike the moment he countered the boy. He couldn't pin it — its fractured reflections cast prismatic light through the storm. Mirages. Distortions. Fast. Not fast enough to trigger the Odessa Spell meant to counter high-velocity projectiles.
He had more spells.
A Standard Spell. Weak. Absolutely weak — not with Seven Hymns. Not channelled at D-Critical output.
But first: a reality check on the cost of careless advancement.
The Blue Moon Tide.
The Hallmark received a wave of Current — low enough to ensure safety. Not for the boy. For the arena.
It knew only one response: ruin.
A Reinforcement Spell that forced Current to obey the laws of water. Specifically — a still lake struck by a boulder. The result: a rippling wave of destruction imposed upon everything containing Current. Whether imbued in steel, in flesh, earth or air — all of it would be forced to obey the tide and its direction.
One Hymn: destruction without direction.
Five Hymns: every ripple targeted, controlled, intentional.
Its Current range: seventeen paces in all directions. The boy? Less than one. The Lykin? The same.
Could he dodge?
He did.
The flag changed trajectory mid-stab. Mist devoured both.
The air turned liquid. The spell expanded outward like a water balloon bursting into reality. Everything drowned. Ash collapsed, then rippled outward beneath the sudden weight of liquid Current.
The Lykin rippled. Every molecule lost shape — no longer solid, no longer stacked reflections. Only Current following the tide.
It imploded.
Its remains merged into the Tide. Twilight fell once more.
The heretic emerged behind him. In the air. Too high for the ripple radius. The scent of blood. The singe of another burning sphere.
Viren's actual attack was ready.
Winarct.
The heretic wouldn't dodge.
Not completely.
Viren's stance shifted once. His left hand stretched outward — Gregor was three seconds away. His right folded inward.
The spell manifested.
Paper-thin crystal feathers formed along the outer length of his arm, stacking one over another. Obsidian black, razor-edged. Each humming with Current.
His body shifted downward. Then his arm boomed outward.
The feathers carved through the air in serpentine paths — high, low, sideward — devouring every possible angle beneath the barrage.
Flames collided with crystal. Not even a crack.
Slash. Slash. Slash.
Chion's face split open, cheek to ear. The Mantle flag lost its left branch. A fine crystal shard punched through his gut.
His expression never changed.
Mist devoured him.
Gregor slammed back into Viren's waiting hand with a boom. His senses found him immediately.
Right. Nine paces.
His foot crashed into the ground. The earth detonated.
Hundreds of crystal thorns erupted upward beneath the ash — jagged spires tearing through stone and earth alike, rising high and low, vanishing beyond the cloud line in a continuous path of destruction.
Miss.
Miss.
Miss.
The heretic phased through them, twisted around them, stepped over them. Face torn open. Gut still impaled. Flag levelled forward. Still moving.
Fool.
The trail of crystals ignited purple.
Chion felt it. He could dodge. He could —
The crystal embedded in his gut ignited as well.
How convenient —
Cracks spread across the entire crystal barrage.
Fracture. Boom.
The wasteland vanished beneath purple light. Shards of obsidian scattered in shimmering waves. Ash split clean as far as the eye could see.
Chion's side disappeared with it. Blood. Guts. Shards buried through flesh and armour. His expression, unchanged.
He phased again.
Directly in front of Viren. Gregor swung.
A voice whispered into Viren's ear.
"Face the mist."
Gregor erased the horizon and every trace of lingering light. Ash, embers, dust — everything retreated.
Viren's sight was gone. Completely gone.
Endless mist swallowed everything. A problem. Not before. Now.
He couldn't sense the boy completely.
Ffwwwwoooo —
Instinct struck first. Behind him.
Chains. Crimson eyes lurking in the distance.
He'd already manifested the Lykin again.