Victory Through Attrition

While the endless rain of blows continued, shaking the very air with each bone-crushing impact...

Aren just laughed—a raw, unfiltered sound, echoing down the ruined street like the cackling of a madman. Blood continued to spew from his lips, splattering the cracked pavement beneath him, painting his surroundings in crimson streaks.

The Fighter didn't stop. He couldn't. His fists moved in a blur, pounding Aren's body with increasing desperation, like a man trying to beat back a nightmare with brute force alone. Every strike sent shockwaves through the air, and before long, his own body was drenched head to toe in blood—not all of it Aren's.

Morale crumbling with each blow, his teeth gritted, breath ragged. "Devilspawn!" the Fighter roared, his voice hoarse and fraying with panic. With a final surge of fury, he delivered one last powerful punch—his knuckles glowing faintly with mana, driving it straight into Aren's torso.

The blow landed with a thunderous crack, sending Aren hurtling backward like a missile, crashing into a nearby building's concrete wall. The structure cracked under the force, debris raining down as dust swallowed the street.

Yet from within the rubble, laughter erupted once more.

"How delightful!" Aren bellowed, his voice almost euphoric. He stepped forward from the ruined wall, his body battered but completely intact. His clothes were torn to shreds, his entire form dripping with blood like a horror made flesh, but there was no sign of pain—only pleasure.

Aren grinned, unnaturally wide, his eyes glowing like molten gold touched by madness.

"Speed Boost!"

MP: 6/10

His form flickered—gone in an instant—reappearing directly in front of the Fighter like a wraith born of vengeance and thrill.

"Well… shit…" the Fighter muttered, his bravado shattered like glass. His knees buckled slightly, the will to fight crushed beneath the weight of the bloody spectacle he had just endured.

Aren paused.

He saw it—the hesitation, the slumped shoulders, the trembling fists. The fight was over.

With a flick of his wrist, Aren redirected his swing. The massive Ogre Cleaver cleaved down—not toward flesh, but the ground.

"Glad you finally saw my point," he said, smirking as the cleaver crashed into the cracked earth.

BOOM.

The ground fractured beneath the impact, a small crater forming where the blade struck—mere inches from the Fighter's head.

The Fighter froze, paralyzed by the realization that death had hovered that close. Eyes wide with disbelief, he looked up at Aren.

"You… really are an S-Rank…" he whispered, his voice trembling as a terrified laugh escaped him. The last of his strength gave out, and he collapsed onto the ruined street, eyes still fixed on the blade that almost took his life.

Aren didn't speak.

He grinned.

It was the grin of a killer tasting euphoria for the first time in ages, lips curved upward with something dark and wild behind his gaze.

"The thrill…" he said softly, his tone reverent. "It's something else…" And then he laughed again—a low, chilling sound that sent shivers through the air.

"You okay there, pal?" came a new voice, casual yet cautious.

The Mage had returned, staff resting against his shoulder as he eyed the battlefield where chaos had just quieted.

Aren turned, still wearing that terrifying smile, blood dripping from his chin. "Better than ever!" he replied, his voice carrying a kind of manic joy that made the Mage pause.

The Mage froze for a beat, his expression faltering. A flicker of fear crossed his face, but he quickly covered it with a strained, awkward laugh. "G-Good to hear."

With a practiced motion, he flicked his staff forward, pointing toward the collapsed Fighter. "Levitate."

A faint aura glowed around the staff's head, and the battered man began to rise, his body floating upward like a puppet pulled by invisible threads.

"Thanks for this, man. I'll repay you soon," the Mage said sincerely, walking closer and patting Aren's shoulder in gratitude.

Aren dismissed his Ogre Cleaver without a word. The massive blade shimmered out of sight, vanishing as if it had never existed.

"No need," Aren replied with a grin. "I haven't had this much fun since forever ago."

A simple statement.

But to Aren, it was the literal truth. Ages had passed—lifetimes, maybe—since he had last felt something so close to living.

The Mage smiled faintly. "Suit yourself. But if we meet again, I'll treat you." With a wave of his staff and a final nod, he turned, walking away with the Fighter suspended in the air beside him.

They disappeared down the ruined street, heading toward a future full of consequences—destruction of private property, violation of Guild ethics, potential blacklisting.

But that wasn't Aren's concern.

Why should it be?

What was the point of worrying about rules made for people?

Aren exhaled, rolling his neck with a satisfied sigh.

"Now then… time for some more coffee." He chuckled, brushing off dust as he turned and strolled back toward the café.

Back to Raven.

And to someone else waiting—Rein.

An enigma wrapped in quiet hostility.

An ally? A foe?

Aren didn't care.

Because either way…

It meant more fun.