26

Ariella

Enoch Mansion

Thornhill,

Vankar Island

Northern Isles Region,

Kingdom of Ashtarium

November 15th 6414

By the time I opened my eyes, Lil was already gone.

Days had slipped past since we returned from the Dungeon—since the truth about Thornhill had been laid bare. The town hadn't merely fallen; it had been ravaged. A massacre, they called it. But that word felt too clean, too clinical, for what had happened. Otherworldly beings had torn through it like a tempest of claws and madness, leaving nothing but blood-slicked silence in their wake.

Since the attack, access to the Dungeon had been sealed. The Federation and the Warden Association had locked it down, claiming it was for safety, but I knew better. They were afraid. Afraid of what was still down there… or what might come out.

With the Dungeon closed, I had no way to raid—no means of gathering Mana cores to continue my cultivation. Sanders was gone, vanished with the wind or the dead, and with him went my only chance of acquiring blood gems to strengthen my soul core. I was adrift, severed from all the channels that once fed my growth.

Left with nothing but time, I trained.

Upon the upper floor of the mansion—our so-called "safehouse"—I stood alone in the gym. My bow rested in my grip, fingers calloused, posture steady. One shot after another thudded into the target across the chamber. Precision was never my issue. Strength, yes. Power. But focus? That I had in spades.

And yet, every shot felt hollow. These training sessions weren't pushing me anymore. My breath never quickened, my arms never tired. I was going through the motions. Killing time, rather than mastering it.

Then I heard his voice.

"Young master," Hector called gently from the doorway, dressed crisply in his usual butler attire, his silver hair tucked neatly beneath a formal cap. He bowed with quiet elegance.

I lowered my bow and placed it across my lap, meeting his eyes.

"Hector," I acknowledged.

"I have a Miss McClough here to see you," he said.

I blinked, startled. "Jen?" A flicker of something—surprise, maybe relief—cut through the monotony clouding my chest. "She's here? Let her in, please."

Hector gave a respectful nod and exited. A few moments later, the heavy door swung open, and Jen stepped into the chamber.

She took a slow look around, her expression a mix of awe and curiosity as her eyes roamed over the training equipment.

"Town rumor said this place was haunted," she said with a small smile. "I'm glad to see it was just a rumor."

I didn't smile back. I was still too tethered to the past, to the memory of Thornhill, and the stench of blood that lingered even in memory.

"What are you doing here?" I asked quietly. "You should be resting."

Her eyes dimmed for a heartbeat. I didn't need to say more. Her entire raiding party—gone. Slaughtered during the attack, trying to defend helpless civilians when the monsters broke through. And Jen… she hadn't been with them. She'd gone raiding with us instead. I knew the guilt that weighed on her. She carried it like a phantom clinging to her back.

She didn't speak of it. But she didn't need to.

"I'm fine," she said, brushing her hair back. "I came to see if you wanted to continue our training. You want to get stronger, don't you?"

I stared at her for a long moment. This human girl—tired, scarred, grieving—still stood tall. Still offered kindness. Still believed in the value of growth, even in the ruins of her pain.

Something shifted in my chest—a quiet, fragile thing.

"…Yeah," I said, setting my bow aside and rising to my feet. "I do."

"Where is Lil?" Jen asked.

There was a bright spark in her eyes when she said the name—Lil, not Lith like everyone else called her, but Lil, the name I always used. It stung, that tiny flicker of intimacy in her voice. I saw the way she lit up, the way her gaze shimmered with unspoken warmth. And there it was again—jealousy. Bitter and sudden, blooming like thorns beneath my ribs.

But I forced it down. Lil wasn't mine. I didn't own her. And despite Jen's feelings, whatever they were, Lil had never given any sign that she returned them. Not like that. At least… not yet.

"She's not here," I said quietly. "She went—"

I froze. There she was. The girl. A flickering shape at first, barely more than a smudge of light clinging to the edge of my vision. But this time… this time she was clearer. A translucent child, pale and ethereal, stood just beyond the training chamber's threshold. And something about her—her eyes, her outline—felt... familiar. Too familiar.

My pulse quickened. The air grew cold, still. The girl raised her arm, slowly, deliberately. A small, delicate finger extended and pointed directly at me.

Jen noticed the change in me instantly. "Are you alright, Ella—?"

But her voice faded before she could finish. The room dissolved. The walls, the floor, Jen—all of it unraveled like threads in the wind, swept away into the dark. I was standing alone in a vast void—black, infinite, silent. It pressed in on me from all sides, suffocating and endless.

"Jen?" I turned, spinning. "Lil?!"

No answer. Just the echo of my breath.

Then came the voice.

"Ariella Ashtarmel," it intoned. A voice like the toll of a great bell, reverberating through the void. "Scion of Asmodeus and Solomon. Blood of the tribe of Judah. Queen of the Crimson Dawn."

The shadows around me stirred like wind through oil, coiling together into a shape far too vast to comprehend. A giant formed—no, a presence—its body composed of living shadow, writhing and fluid, always shifting. There was no face, only a depthless abyss where a face should be. Yet it saw me. I knew it saw me.

And then—light. Its left hand glowed, searingly bright. White and pure, it blazed like a star against the formless dark, casting fractured halos across the void.

Behind it, four wings unfurled—each colossal, each impossibly dark. They weren't feathered nor leathery, they were void given form, like the fabric of space itself had been torn and reshaped into wings. I stood frozen, heart pounding in my throat, unable to speak. This was no ghost. No hallucination. This was something ancient. Something sacred… and otherworldly.

And it knew my name.

Its palm descended—slow, deliberate, like a god reaching down to an ant. The blazing white hand cut through the darkness, and as it neared me, the void itself seemed to shudder. The being's presence pressed down on my soul, an unbearable weight that bent the air around me.

Then—contact.

The moment the light touched me, my mind shattered open.

Visions flooded in, unbidden and incomprehensible—flashes of broken timelines, burning constellations, a woman crowned in blood and flame, screaming as wings of fire tore from her back. I saw cities swallowed by golden storms, a throne crumbling beneath a crimson sun, and a single name echoing through it all:

Ariella.

My name.

Over and over again.

Then—darkness again. Silence.

The void vanished.

I awoke gasping on the floor of the training chamber, my body soaked in cold sweat, limbs trembling as if I'd just escaped drowning. The room was whole, familiar—but I was not. My breath came in sharp, shallow bursts. My heart thundered like it was trying to break free of my chest.

Jen knelt beside me, calling my name, panic in her voice. I barely heard her.

"Lil," I whispered.

Then louder—urgency sharpening the edges of my voice.

"Lil. We've got to get to her."

Something was wrong.

I didn't know how I knew. I just did.

And this time, the feeling wasn't just fear. It was fate, rushing toward us like a tidal wave.

-

Lilith

I reached the location—the end of the trail drawn by the energy signature I had been tracking. The forest thinned into a clearing veiled in a choking mist, where the air grew colder and heavier with every step. There, nestled at the base of a jagged ridge, was a cave. Its mouth yawned like the maw of something ancient and hungry, framed by twisted roots and the blackened bones of long-dead creatures. The energy I'd been following pulsed from within, steady and vile.

I exhaled slowly, blades still slick from the dozens of battles I'd fought on my way here. The trail had not been a quiet one. I had cut through wave after wave of Demonic beasts—estranged monsters birthed from the Otherside. Unlike Magic Beasts, which were natural to the material realm, these things didn't belong here. They existed outside the rules—nightmares carved from corruption and stitched into flesh.

Something was wrong.

The sheer number of Demonic beasts converging here wasn't natural, not even in Thornhill. Even with the Crimson Plague still poisoning the leyline beneath the town, this was too deliberate. Too focused. The town was built near an awakened Dungeon, yes—but awakened Dungeons didn't spill creatures like this.

Unless something had been opened.

"A gateway," Aeternum said, appearing beside me in its translucent humanoid form, voice calm but tight with tension. "Between the Otherside and the material plane. Someone—or something—has breached the veil. That's the only logical explanation for the surge in Demonic presence."

I frowned, gaze fixed on the cave's darkened entrance. The shadows inside weren't natural—they breathed, they watched.

"Then why haven't they attacked the town?" I asked, my voice low. "If someone's summoning them, using them as fodder or weapons, why hold back? Thornhill's still recovering from the last assault. If I were the one pulling the strings, I'd strike now while they're vulnerable."

Aeternum hovered a few inches above the ground, its mechanical eye glowing with a slow, pulsing rhythm—an arcane heartbeat measuring the shift in the world's equilibrium.

"This isn't about destroying the town," it said, tone low, analytical. "It's about what lies beneath it. A harvest. A preparation. The Demonic beasts aren't here to attack. They're being drawn—magnetized toward something. Not soldiers... bait. Or worse—components in a ritual."

"Ritual?" I echoed, narrowing my eyes. "What makes you think that?"

"My perception capabilities far exceed your own," Aeternum replied without arrogance, just fact. "I can sense deliberate interference in the World Leylines—energy is being guided, twisted. There's intent embedded in the flow. Not random or chaotic... but structured."

It hovered closer, voice tightening.

"There's a pattern etched into the leyline itself. Something ancient. From the structure, it resembles a magic circle—complex, multilayered, and active."

I frowned, silent for a breath as I considered the weight of that revelation. The forest had been breathing wrong since I arrived. Now I understood why—it wasn't just alive. It was ensnared.

I glanced down at the tracking compass in my hand. The blinking red light—the target—hadn't moved. Still pulsing from the cave ahead, steady and defiant.

"I'm going in," I said, stepping forward. "Stay inside. I'll call if I need you."

Aeternum gave a curt nod before dissolving in a blink of golden light, retreating into the spiritual anchor within my soul. Its presence folded into mine, a silent watcher in the depths of my being.

I approached the cave entrance, shadows curling around me like welcoming hands. I took a slow breath and stepped inside—my form blending seamlessly into the gloom, as if the darkness had always known my name.

The cave swallowed the light behind me. As I ventured deeper, the air thickened—no longer the cool damp of subterranean stone, but something older, fouler. It clung to my skin, brushing against my soul like cobwebs soaked in blood.

Each step brought me closer to the pulse.

The compass had gone silent now. I no longer needed it. I could feel the source ahead, beating like a second heart inside the earth.

The tunnel opened suddenly into a wide chamber carved not by natural erosion but by deliberate force. The walls were lined with ancient glyphs, pulsing faintly with crimson light. At the center of the space was a massive circular platform—a ritual circle scorched into black stone, carved with geometric runes that spiraled inward toward a core of writhing shadow.

And there, standing before it, was him.

The Armored Knight.

Even now, my phantom limb ached at the sight of him—the one who had taken my right hand, torn it from me like a butcher carving flesh.

He stood with his back to me, towering and motionless, clad in a suit of obsidian armor etched with infernal veins. Every inch of him radiated war. His helmet—spiked and mask-like—twitched ever so slightly as he spoke.

Not to me.

To something else.

A shape rippled at the heart of the ritual circle—a silhouette forged from pitch-black smoke and flickering voidlight. Its form pulsed erratically, like a wound in space barely holding together. The voice that followed did not echo in the air but resonated directly into the mind, bypassing the ears entirely. Cold. Ancient. Dispassionately vast.

"The seal weakens. Soon, the mouth will open… and the fragments shall be gathered. The Equation reborn. You've done well, Seedling—attacking the town, attempting to unravel its foundation. How desperate you must be." The voice curled through the chamber like a shadow breathing. The Armored Knight stepped forward, head bowed but voice resolute.

"If destroying the town is what it takes," he said, the metallic snarl of his voice scraping across the walls, "then I shall undo its very existence. Brick by brick. Memory by memory."

The entity responded with laughter, not joy, but something far colder. The kind of laughter reserved for witnessing futility.

"You Seedlings and your endless striving… So far, you've strayed from your nature that you've blinded yourself to it," the shadow-being intoned. "You cannot stop its rebirth. Not with rage. Not with sacrifice. The Equation will complete itself." The smoke within the circle coiled tighter, the sigils around it glowing like cauterized wounds. Whatever was being summoned was no longer just theory or ritual—it was imminent.

I clenched my blades tighter, the chill of the void pressing against my skin like unseen fingers. A Seedling…? The Knight? And the Equation—that term, what did they mean by all of it? I stepped from the shadows, heart steady, eyes locked on the Knight. This was no longer just a battle. It was the threshold of something greater. And darker.

Both entities turned as I stepped out from the shadows, blades drawn and eyes unflinching. Their attention shifted toward me in perfect unison—one made of metal and hate, the other of void and prophecy.

The silhouette flickered erratically, its form convulsing with a deep, resonant rumble—laughter, if such a thing could be called that.

"As I said," the shadow-being intoned, "the fragments shall gather, the seeds shall be planted… and the Equation shall be born again."

Then, with a sound like tearing silk reversed, the spatial wound sealed shut. The flickering voidlight collapsed inward, the presence vanishing without ceremony, leaving only silence, lingering dread, and the Armored Knight standing alone beneath the crimson glow of the ritual circle.

He turned slowly, his helmet tilting to regard me.

"You again," he said, voice like rusted blades dragged across stone.

I met his gaze without hesitation, stepping into the circle's edge.

"Yes," I replied, fire threading through my voice. "Me again."

A black, flame-like aura began to seep from the Knight's armor—writhing shadows laced with heatless fire, the very air around him thickening with dread. He reached behind his back and, with a grinding pull of metal against metal, unslung a weapon unlike anything I had ever seen—a monstrous fusion of scythe and axe, forged not for display, but for devastation.

Its haft was a long shaft of blackened steel, wrapped in threads of writhing flame that hissed and licked along its surface. One end bore a massive crescent blade—curved like a reaper's scythe, heavy like a war axe—its edge chipped and jagged, inscribed with Infernal runes that pulsed dimly with crimson malice. The opposite end bristled with a weighted counterblade—hooked, serrated, and cruel, clearly designed to tear through armor, flesh, and enchantment alike.

The weapon radiated a sense of ritual violence. Not just death, but sacrificial death. Each curve, each carving, was a testament to soul-breaking intent. It wasn't merely a weapon—it was a key to open something that should not be opened.

He swung it once, and the air screamed.

A ripple tore through the chamber, invisible yet shrieking, a vibration laced with metaphysical force. The ground beneath my feet quaked as the soul attack surged toward me. I moved on instinct, vanishing from its path, just as the vibration scythed through the space where I had stood, splitting the shadows and leaving behind a jagged scar in the stone. 

The Armored Knight moved with terrifying agility, defying the weight of his armor and the size of his weapon. One moment he was standing across the ritual chamber, the next his scythe-axe came crashing down upon me—distance reduced to nothing by sheer speed and reach.

I swept my Sacred-grade blade up just in time, the clash ringing out like a gong of iron and fury. Sparks erupted as steel met steel. The force of his strike pushed me back, my boots skidding across the cracked stone floor.

I retaliated instantly, slashing with my off-hand blade, aiming for the gap beneath his shoulder plating. But the Cambion moved with inhuman fluidity—his weapon twirling in a full arc, using the hooked counter-blade to intercept my strike mid-flow. The scythe-axe spun like a bladed storm, and he pressed forward with a brutal barrage of sweeping attacks.

Each swing came faster than the last—cleaving diagonals, deceptive reversals, one-handed twists that disguised follow-through slashes. His technique was relentless, honed, far from mindless brutality. He fought like a war-born predator—intelligent, cruel, and efficient.

I ducked under one arc, pivoted to avoid the next, parried another with both blades crossed.

His speed was monstrous.

I was only keeping pace by the razor-edge of instinct, riding the high-frequency rhythm of combat. My breath stayed measured, but my muscles screamed. I locked my focus on the second stance of Dancing Twilight—Eclipse Requiem, a form designed for reading opponents and weaving around them in counter-motion. Every move I made flowed with intention—calculated, responsive, reactive.

My senses narrowed, sharpened by the clarity of battle trance. Every tremor in the Knight's armor, every twitch in the tilt of his scythe-axe, told me more than words ever could. But even that wouldn't be enough.

He's not slowing down.

I had to shift the rhythm.

As I deflected another descending blow, my mind pulsed with a second current—Mana channeling. Aeternum's voice echoed within my memory:

"Incorporate your spells into the Dance. Expand its flow. Refine your edge."

I began to focus, weaving spellcraft into my movements. I had access only to Tier One and Tier Two spells—basic, common incantations that wouldn't harm something of this caliber outright.

But that wasn't the point.

My weapons were enchanted. Their cores pulsed in resonance with my energy, arcane matrices within the blades humming to life as I fed mana into them. The spells didn't fire off like separate attacks—they sank into the weapons, coiling within them, waiting to be unleashed.

Fire curled along one blade. Wind shimmered along the other. Then I shifted. From the second form of Dancing Twilight to the first—Twilight Waltz. A form built not on retreat or counterplay, but on aggressive rhythm and overwhelming close-range pressure.

I surged forward, twin blades igniting in elemental hue—flame arcing on one side, gale force trailing the other. My feet danced across the cracked stones, each step precise, each turn fueled by the harmony of motion and mana.

The Knight swung again. This time, I didn't block. I stepped into the arc, twisted beneath it, and slashed upward with a flame-infused strike aimed at his elbow joint. He parried—but his footing shifted. For the first time, he had to adjust.

I pressed forward, refusing to let momentum slip through my fingers.

With every strike, the gale force I had woven into my Rare-grade blade amplified its impact—each blow slicing the air with a shrieking hiss, bursts of pressure snapping through the space between us. I drove the wind-enhanced edge toward the Cambion's midsection, but his scythe-axe twisted upward, deflecting the strike with a flash of red-edged steel.

The force behind his parry shocked me—raw, brutish, yet impossibly controlled. My arms recoiled from the sheer momentum redirected into them, my footing skidding for half a second. That weapon wasn't just massive—it was monstrous. A lesser wielder would've buckled under its weight. He made it dance.

But I didn't falter.

The adjustment I had made earlier, shifting my stance into Twilight Waltz, had opened something within me. I felt the rhythm now—not just my own, but his. My confidence surged, and I rushed in again, blades slicing through the elemental current of air and fire.

The Knight responded with eerie grace. He pivoted, shifting his footwork across the scorched runes of the ritual floor, one hand coiling the shaft of his scythe-axe. With brutal efficiency, he spun the weapon behind his back—then unleashed a wide, slashing arc that screamed toward me with terrifying velocity.

I felt the pressure before the blade even neared me. The air thickened, my instincts screaming.

In the blink of an eye, I transitioned—sliding out of Twilight Waltz and into the second form of Dancing Twilight: Eclipse Requiem. A defensive rhythm, built on graceful evasion and rapid spell counterwork.

My hand flared with blue light as I cast a Tier Two water spell—Aqueous Bastion—conjuring a curved barrier of liquid force just as the Cambion's strike collided with it. The impact was explosive.

The barrier shattered on contact, neutralizing the worst of the blow, but the residual force launched me backward like a ragdoll. I slammed into the chamber wall with a jarring crack, the breath punched from my lungs. Stone dust fell around me as I slid down, every nerve aflame with pain. But the Knight wasn't finished. He advanced in an instant, raising his axe in a diagonal sweep—ready to cleave my head from my shoulders.

Flash Step.

Golden light burst from my body as I vanished, reappearing behind him with momentum on my side. My Sacred blade ignited with a Tier Two Ember Severance spell, its edge trailing searing flame as I swung in a tight arc toward the back of his exposed side.

It should have landed. It almost did. But impossibly, the Cambion twisted his body without turning—his arm rotating backward, catching my blade on the flat of his axe in a reverse grip. The block was flawless. Controlled. Inhuman. I stumbled back a step, stunned—not just by the reaction time, but by what it revealed.

My eyes narrowed, analyzing. Something clicked in my memory. From the first time I faced him, I had assumed he wielded the scythe-axe like it was weightless. That was the illusion. But now, after feeling the force behind each parry and strike, I knew the truth.

That weapon was heavy. Unreasonably so. Every swing was the kind of motion that would require enhanced strength or immense physical reinforcement to even lift, let alone wield with elegance.

And yet, this creature moved as though it were dancing. As though weight, inertia, and physics meant nothing. My breath slowed. My focus narrowed. This wasn't just a Cambion. It was something else. Something perfectly calibrated for war.

"You seem different, girl," the Cambion said, his voice grinding through the helm like steel dragged across bone. "I sense cultivated energy flowing through you. You've Awakened… haven't you? Did you encounter the Codex?"

"The Codex?" I echoed, my voice sharp.

He was talking about Aeternum.

So he knew. This monster wasn't just a brute force of destruction—it was aware. Connected.

"I had hoped it would remain dormant," the Knight continued, lowering his weapon slightly, almost contemplative. "At least until I razed that miserable town. Before the Awakening began. But it seems I'm too late." His voice dipped into something darker. "Laplace's Seedlings… you never stay buried for long."

I blinked. "Laplace… Awakening… What the hell are you talking about?" I growled, pulse rising with every word.

"You were never meant to survive, let alone evolve," the Cambion said. "But no matter how many of you we butcher, another one always rises."

His helm tilted slightly.

"Forgive me," he rasped. "For taking it easy on you… until now."

Then he moved.

I barely saw it—just a flicker of distortion in the air—and then pain exploded through my shoulder as a crushing blow landed. My body flew like a broken doll, blood splattering from my mouth as I collided with the stone floor.

Before I could even inhale, he was already above me.

The scythe-axe came down in a vertical arc, radiating death and dominance.

His movement, his aura, his presence—all of it had changed. This wasn't the Knight from before. This was something unshackled. Something finished with games.

I flashed—vanishing in a burst of golden light, reappearing behind him mid-strike. My Ember Severance blade howled through the air and sliced across the back of his lower leg.

But he didn't even stagger.

With one pivot, he launched a sweeping kick that crashed into my ribs. I slammed into the far wall, stone cracking and dust erupting around me. Before I could regain my footing, he was already there.

The axe tore down in a brutal, vertical slash across my upper torso. Pain ignited through my nerves. Blood burst outward in a crimson arc, splattering the floor, my breath choked with the taste of iron.

Even in my Awakened state, the force of the blow nearly blacked out my senses. But I held on, gritting my teeth through the storm of agony.

Not yet. Not like this.

I reached inward.

Primal Harmonics.

A pulse of dark purplish energy surged from my core, tendrils of spectral light unraveling into the air around me. The spilled blood shimmered—then reversed course. Streams of crimson raced backward into my skin, flowing through the tendrils and back into my body.

My wound sizzled as vitality surged inward, the torn flesh knitting itself back together in a heated rush. The pain dulled. My limbs steadied.

Thanks to my Ability Factor, I could reabsorb lost blood—and the vitality burned with it. No matter how many times I was injured, I could recover my stamina, restore my life force, and reignite my will as if it had never been drained.

A perfect loop of restoration.

And now I understand.

If this Cambion was going to unshackle his true power—

Then so would I.

The blood had barely finished sealing my wound before I moved again.

The chamber trembled as I stepped forward—not stumbling, not limping, but rising. My twin blades hummed in sync, responding to the mana pulse thrumming through me. Primal Harmonics surged in my veins, not just as a healing tide—but as a catalyst.

I could feel it—spells no longer just cast, but sung into motion. My blood had memorized their rhythm. My body remembered the way they flowed.

The Cambion tilted his head slightly, sensing the shift.

"You heal quickly," he said, almost curious.

"I don't just heal," I murmured, eyes locked on his. "I adapt."

I vanished in a blur—Flash Step—appearing just above him, both blades raised. Mana poured into my weapons like stormlight caught in steel.

"Ignis: Ember Severance—Overdrive."

My Sacred blade burst into a burning arc, molten energy trailing behind it. I brought it down in a diagonal slash, flame shrieking through the air. The Cambion raised his axe—but I twisted mid-fall, redirecting my swing into a spiral slash aimed at his exposed ribs.

The impact rocked the chamber.

He stumbled—not far, not weak—but enough.

I hit the ground rolling and transitioned smoothly into a sweeping strike with my off-hand blade.

"Ventus: Spiral Gust."

The Rare-grade dagger whistled with wind-forged force, the air around it compressing into a focused burst that slammed into the Knight's midsection. Wind surged outward, distorting his balance and cracking nearby stones.

I kept moving—my steps now in perfect cadence with my Ability Factor. Primal Harmonics harmonized every motion, spell, and breath. My blood was my spellbook, my will its ink.

I danced around him in a blur, each strike a duet of blade and elemental resonance.

"Lux: Radiant Lattice."

A Tier Two light spell activated as I pivoted, golden filaments forming around the Cambion in a fleeting cage of gleaming spears. He tore through them—but the radiant bursts blinded him momentarily. Just long enough.

"Umbra: Shadow Coil."

Darkness spiraled from my dagger, tendrils lashing out and binding his limbs, slowing his reaction time as I slipped beneath his guard.

"Terra: Stone Raze!"

I stomped down, triggering a localized quake beneath him—jagged spikes of earth erupting from the ground. The Cambion leapt free, his armor torn and glinting with blood and dust.

But I was already mid-air.

"Aqua: Severing Torrent."

Water surged around my blade like a spiraling whip. I struck down with a dual slash, liquid force twisting around the steel, compressing and slicing into the weak spot near the joint of his shoulder armor.

The blow hit deep. The Knight staggered, taking a knee, smoke rising from scorched metal. I landed, breath heavy, blades glowing from overuse, and Primal Harmonics still pulsing through my veins like a war rhythm. He looked up at me through the slit of his helmet.

"I see now," he rasped. "You are more than a Seedling. You are a harbinger."

I raised my blades again, breath steadying even as blood trickled down my side. My eyes locked onto the Cambion Knight, but before I could react, it vanished.

A flicker. A blur.

The air split.

Instinct screamed just as I felt the blade—a phantom curve of death arching through the air, aimed for my neck. No time to dodge. I brought up my Rare grade blade to intercept, the steel meeting the soul-reaving edge of the Cambion's monstrous scythe-axe.

CRACK.

The sound tore through the chamber like thunder. Pain shot up my arm as the impact jarred every bone in its path. Sparks erupted from the clash—then fragments of the blade exploded into the air, shards of enchanted metal spiraling like dying embers. The upper half of my Rare blade was gone, sheared off in a single, overwhelming stroke.

I stumbled back, the weight of the strike rippling through my bones, but I didn't falter.

With a flick of my will, the wind spell I had embedded in the now-broken blade uncoiled—the dormant enchantment blooming like a trap sprung. A torrent of compressed air surged out, cutting down at the Cambion with a screaming hiss.

But the Knight moved like inevitability given form. With one sweeping backhand of its cursed weapon, it smashed through the gale, dispelling my spellwork as if swatting at dust. The air groaned. My attack died.

My broken blade clattered uselessly across the stone, spinning to a stop near the edge of the ritual circle.

"Fine," I growled, shifting my grip.

Now it was just me and the Sacred grade blade—still humming with the resonance of my spells, its runic core glowing faintly in response to my will. I channeled mana into its lattice, fusing it with the echo of a fire construct, layering it with Ember Severance, and readying my body for the next dance. The Cambion hadn't just outpaced me—it had shattered the rhythm of the battle. But rhythm was my domain. And I was far from done.

I reconfigured the enchantment embedded within the Sacred blade, switching from spell infusion to a Mana Art technique—a fundamental aura construct drawn from the mystic formula etched deep within the blade's core matrix.

Within seconds, the internal mechanisms responded. Rotating geometric patterns whirled beneath the blade's surface, sigils aligning in perfect formation. As the matrix stabilized, I channeled my own energy into it, feeding the art with raw mana and refining the output with a personal twist—a mark of my intent burned into the weave of the technique.

[Falling Crescent Fang Slash]

The blade ignited in a halo of searing silver light. Then, with one fluid motion, I swung. A massive crescent-shaped arc of energy erupted outward—blinding, silver, and razor-edged. It tore through the chamber like a moonlit fang descending from the heavens, cleaving through the Cambion in a sweeping strike that thundered with the weight of will and power.

The sheer force of the Mana Art surged outward, flooding the entire chamber in incandescent brilliance. Shadows evaporated. The stone beneath my feet cracked. The glyphs in the ritual circle sputtered under the pressure.

For a heartbeat, all was drowned in white.