Wind’s eyes

[Vera's POV]

I stood in the air, suspended above the camp, the blood-soaked ground a grotesque canvas beneath me. The metallic scent of death clung to the air, thick and suffocating. Even after all the battles I had fought, all the slaughter I had witnessed on the border, very few could've been compared to this.

A massacre. A purge. Bodies torn apart, discarded like broken dolls. The slum rats—what remained of them—were scattered, their expressions frozen in terror, their bodies trembling. Few still stood. Fewer still had the will to fight.

"What the fuck is this…" I muttered, my voice an icicle cutting through the silence. My eyes locked onto the one responsible.

An older man stood amidst the carnage, bathed in the blood of the fallen. A twisted grin carved into his face, eyes alight with something between ecstasy and reverence.

I could feel it—the weight of his presence, the lingering pulse of mana that thickened the air. He was strong. Advanced rank, at the very least. Maybe more.

A flicker of recognition passed through me. This was no ordinary zealot. No mere butcher.

I let my gaze sharpen, my presence press against his like a silent challenge. "What is the meaning of this?"

I wasn't expecting an answer. Not from someone like him. But when he turned that sickening smile toward me, something in my core tensed.

I had walked into something far worse than I anticipated.

"Ah... finally, someone joins in on the fun," the man purred, his voice thick with amusement. Then came the laughter—sharp, unhinged, like the crackle of a flame before it consumed everything in its path.

Before I could speak, I saw it—a crimson shimmer in the air, the blood around him rippling unnaturally, drawn to his outstretched palm. It twisted and coalesced, taking form, stretching, condensing. A spear of pure blood, glistening with malevolence, pulsed in his grip like a living thing.

Then he moved.

With a flick of his wrist, the lance tore through the air toward me, a streak of crimson death. Time seemed to slow. I felt the shift in the wind, the weight of the attack warping the very air around it. Instinct roared to life inside me.

I willed my mana into form, and the sky answered. Wind gathered, compressed, howled in protest before solidifying into a massive blade of air—larger than my entire body, shimmering with razor-thin edges that could slice through steel like paper.

I swung.

The moment my blade met his spear, the world erupted.

A shockwave exploded outward, sending a crackling boom through the air. The force of the impact sent the slum's debris flying, torn from the earth like dead leaves in a storm. Sparks of crimson and emerald mana clashed in midair, a battle between elements, blood against wind.

He's strong. Stronger than I thought.

His grin widened as our attacks pushed against each other, neither yielding, the air between us distorting from sheer power.

Then, with a sudden twist of his wrist, his lance split apart—fragments of blood shooting toward me like deadly shards.

I gritted my teeth.

This was going to be fun.

I let my Will shape the mana coursing through me. Speed. That was my advantage. That was how I would win.

The wind roared in answer to my command, wrapping around me like a second skin, crackling with unseen force. Then, in a single burst, I shot forward.

He reacted quickly—his blood twisting into tendrils, snapping toward me like living whips—but I was faster. I weaved between them, twisting, slipping through the gaps in his defenses like a blade of grass in a storm.

My lips curled into a grin.

Closing the distance, I aimed a punch straight for his ribs, my wind-clad fist humming with pressure that could shatter stone. But at the last moment, crimson light flickered before me—a barrier of condensed blood stopping my strike inches from his body.

Clever.

His hands moved, mana surging into his fingers, forming a gauntlet of hardened blood around his fists. And then, with a snarl, he lunged.

I twisted, the air bending to my will, guiding me through his assault. His fist carved through the space where I had been a heartbeat before. I maneuvered above him, forcing him higher into the air, dictating the battlefield.

But he wasn't done.

I saw it—just a flicker of movement, a gathering of power at his side. A crimson blade forming in his left hand, aimed straight for my ribs.

He thinks I won't see it.

My grin widened.

Let's see who moves faster.

I twisted midair, shifting my weight in an instant. Wind exploded from my feet, launching me just past the edge of his strike. His crimson blade sliced through empty air, missing me by a hair's breadth. But I wasn't done evading—I turned my momentum into a counterattack.

With a sharp exhale, I drove my knee toward his stomach, my wind-clad leg cutting through the air like a guillotine. He barely managed to throw up another barrier, the impact sending ripples through the crimson shield. Cracks splintered across its surface before it shattered entirely.

His eyes widened.

I capitalized on that moment of shock.

Pivoting, I twisted my body, channeling mana into my fist, and struck. The wind around me shrieked, my punch hitting his blood-forged gauntlet with enough force to send a shockwave rippling through the battlefield.

We broke apart, both of us sliding backward through the air, suspended like two warring gods above the chaos below.

For a brief moment, silence.

Then, he grinned—a sharp, hungry expression.

"Not bad," he admitted, flexing his fingers as his gauntlet reformed, veins of crimson mana crawling over his skin. "You're faster than I expected."

I scoffed, flicking blood off my knuckles. "And you're still talking."

His grin widened. Then, without warning, his body convulsed, blood seeping from his pores, twisting and writhing like living tendrils.

A storm of crimson surged outward.

I moved.

I became the wind, slipping between the gaps, dodging, weaving, anticipating. His tendrils lashed, carving through the air like whips tipped with razors, but I was faster. I skimmed past them, closing in, building momentum.

Then—there. An opening.

I clenched my fist, wind compressing into a single point around it. A lance of sheer pressure. A strike fast enough to tear through steel.

He crossed his arms in front of him, bracing for impact like that was going to save him.

It didn't.

The moment my strike landed, the force of it detonated outward. The shockwave ripped through the air, sending him hurtling across the camp like a broken kite in a storm. His body tore through shacks, splintering wood and scattering debris in his wake.

I didn't wait.

With a sharp breath, I willed the wind to carry me forward, a blur against the ruined landscape. I had to reach him before he could rise.

Before he could think.

Before he could retaliate.

The moment I closed the distance, I saw him stir—his hands already forming sigils in the air, blood pooling unnaturally around him. I struck first, a kick aimed at his ribs, wind shrieking around my leg. He caught it on his forearm, skidding backward, boots digging into the dirt.

He grinned through bloody teeth.

Then he countered.

A burst of crimson mana erupted beneath me, spears of coagulated blood shooting up like spikes from the ground. I twisted, narrowly escaping their reach, but he was already moving, lunging forward, his gauntlet-clad fist swinging toward my ribs.

I caught it.

Or rather, I tried.

The force sent me spiraling, and for the first time in this fight, I felt the sting of pain—dull, but there. I gritted my teeth, twisting midair, regaining my balance just in time to see him make a break for the center of the battlefield.

Toward the bodies.

Shit.

I shot after him, wind exploding from beneath my feet. He landed first, right in the midst of the carnage, corpses littering the ground in a grotesque display of violence. The scent of blood was thick here, cloying. It clung to everything.

And he reveled in it.

I didn't let him act.

I crashed down like a falling star, my fist striking the earth where he had stood moments before, wind slicing out in devastating arcs. He barely dodged, rolling to the side, his smirk unfaltering even as I pressed the attack.

A flurry of blows—wind-carved fists against blood-forged defenses. Every hit cracked the air, every dodge brought us closer to the final moment.

I was winning.

Every strike I landed sent him staggering, every gust of wind that tore past him chipped away at his defenses. His smirk faltered, just slightly, just enough for me to taste the satisfaction of knowing he felt it too—he was losing.

Then he whispered something under his breath.

The air grew heavy.

The corpses around us twitched.

And then, they bled.

Blood gushed unnaturally from every wound, rising like a tide, thick and writhing, as if the battlefield itself had come alive. It coiled toward him, obeying his Will, swirling around his outstretched hands like living tendrils. The blood did not drip—it soared. It did not pool—it molded. It did not fall—it built.

I watched as the torrent of crimson fused into shape, layer upon layer of condensed malice forming something grotesque—

A giant hand.

It was grotesquely human, every vein, every wrinkle, every bone-deep imperfection sculpted from raw, thrumming blood. It flexed, curled its fingers, and then—

It moved.

Faster than it should have.

I barely had time to throw myself back as it crashed down, flattening everything in its path, sending a shockwave of gore and splintered earth outward. The ground beneath me quaked. The air itself felt suffocated by the sheer weight of the mana art he had just unleashed.

I gritted my teeth. I had to end this. Now.

My mana was draining fast. I could feel it slipping, each art shaving away at my reserves. If I dragged this out, I wouldn't just lose—I'd collapse.

I raised my arms, calling upon the last dregs of my strength.

The wind answered.

It howled around me, fierce and desperate, pressing against my skin as if pleading to be unleashed. I didn't hesitate. I poured everything into it. The storm bent to my will, condensing, twisting, refining. A gale so sharp it could carve through steel.

A pressurized beam of wind, dense as a spear, lethal as a guillotine.

I launched it.

The storm howled as my attack tore through the battlefield, a streak of destruction cutting toward him. The air itself screamed, compressed into a force so immense that the space around it warped. The moment it met his monstrous construct, the impact detonated outward.

For a second, there was nothing but blinding light—magic against magic, sheer force against sheer force.

Then—

Crack.

His massive blood-forged hand ruptured, veins splitting, crimson spraying in all directions as my wind ripped through it. The force of the collision sent shockwaves through the battlefield, flattening what little remained of the shacks and corpses below.

I staggered, my breath ragged. My vision swayed.

Too much mana.

Too fast.

I clenched my fists, forcing myself to stay standing, to stay focused.

And that's when I saw him.

Standing amidst the wreckage.

Watching me.

Unscathed.

Then—

He turned around and ran.

But I didn't have the strength to pursue him.