The shattered window still glinted at the edge of Riven's vision as he stepped closer, careful not to crunch the scattered glass underfoot. Warm daylight spilled through the jagged opening, carried on a breeze tinged with the metallic tang of blood and the distant clash of steel. It swept over his face, prickling his skin as he gripped the broken frame and leaned out.
Below, chaos reigned.
Figures surged across the courtyard under the afternoon sun, shadows cast long over the cracked stone path and trimmed hedges now trampled beneath boots. Hooded forms in grey and black tore into each other with brutal ferocity, weapons flashing with every swing. There was no formation, no strategy. Just violence. Just blood, blades, and the raw pulse of desperation.
Riven's gaze swept over the courtyard, trying to make sense of the mess. Then, he spotted him.
Off to the side—outside the brawl, untouched by the fury—stood the nobleman. Silent. Watching. Regal even now, draped in a fluttering white coat that shifted with the breeze. Beneath it, tight bandages wrapped his chest and shoulder, stained faintly pink in places. The wounds were fresh. That much was clear.
So, he is hurt. But not hurt enough to stay out of the fight.
Beside him loomed the Fanglion. The creature was a mountain of muscle and fur, its amber eyes locked on the courtyard with deadly intent. Its lips curled back to reveal fangs far too large for comfort. Just looking at the beast made Riven's skin crawl, like his instincts were trying to pull him away.
But his focus shifted again—drawn back to the fight—when he noticed two figures that moved… differently.
They were cloaked like the rest, but their presence carved through the battlefield like razors through silk. Their robes were darker—near-black—and their faces concealed behind white masks etched with stark, slashing brush strokes for eyes. No decoration. Just a design meant to unsettle.
One glided with a rapier, footwork light and exact, as if dancing through death. The other wielded a colossal grey-black greatsword that cleaved with raw, terrifying power. Where one struck with elegance, the other crushed with overwhelming force—and they never stumbled into each other's path. Always in sync. Always moving.
The other fighters—those clad in grey—rushed at them, only to fall back, cut down or flung aside. Each bore a hexagonal badge strapped to their shoulders: a vertical scythe crossed by twin bones.
Death Grip mercenaries, Riven realized, his jaw tightening. So the nobleman really hired them… I didn't think he'd stoop that low.
He watched for a few more seconds, each heartbeat pounding like a war drum in his ears. Then something clicked—something subtle, but unmistakable.
I know that greatsword.
It was Roman—it had to be. No one else moved like that. More importantly, no one else would've come for him this quickly.
But the other… the one with the rapier.
Riven hesitated. There was something in the way she moved—fluid, deliberate, familiar. The style. The stance. The precise flick of her wrist. His gut twisted. He had an idea. A suspicion. But he didn't understand why she'd be here.
Before he could chase the thought further, his gaze flicked back to the nobleman—just in time to catch his expression tighten into a scowl. The man raised a hand.
Shit.
A blade of wind shot from his palm, sharp and fast, carving a line through the air. It tore across the garden, heading straight for the two masked figures.
Riven's breath caught—but Roman had already noticed. With one clean step forward, he brought his greatsword up in a fluid arc. The gust of wind hit the flat of the blade and shattered, splitting apart like water around a rock.
But there was no time to breathe. A second threat followed instantly—mana-infused arrows, dozens of them, rained down from above. They shimmered as they fell, humming with power, leaving burning trails of blue-white light in the sky.
Riven couldn't see the archers, but he guessed they had to be on the rooftop. Hidden. Organized.
Then came the flash—sudden and sharp—from the rapier wielder's position.
From that burst of pale light, like mist kissed by winter's wrath, rose a towering knight of ice. Ten feet tall, at least. A jagged titan of crystal and frost, its limbs sculpted like living armor, its movements slow but purposeful. In its frozen grip, it held a greatsword that mirrored Roman's—but crafted entirely from translucent ice.
The creature stepped forward, intercepting the barrage. Arrows pinged off its armor, some bouncing harmlessly, others cracking through—but each wound was sealed within seconds, new frost knitting across the damage like it was alive.
It stood like a wall between the rooftop threat and the masked duo.
Riven's eyes widened, breath stalling again in his chest.
Only one person I know could summon that.
It's got to be Sylvia.
His thoughts tangled in a rush—shock, relief, confusion—and then, strangely, a flicker of gratitude. But that warmth vanished just as quickly as it came, replaced by urgency.
He couldn't just stand here. Not while they fought. Not while they risked everything.
He stepped back from the window, breath shaky, and glanced down at his right arm. Still bound tightly to his chest, immobilized in a crude sling. The pain had dulled to a distant throb, but the damage was real. His fingers refused to curl. He tried again anyway—nothing. Not even a twitch.
He gritted his teeth.
This is not ideal, he thought grimly.
He wasn't at full strength. Not even close. But it didn't matter.
Amber and pink light flickered beneath his skin, crawling through his veins like fire chasing a fuse. His mana stirred—sluggish, reluctant—but it responded. He could feel how little of it remained, the strain in his core as it fought to obey.
But it would have to be enough.
He couldn't let them do this alone.
Without another thought, Riven vaulted through the shattered window, boots thudding against the stone path outside. He landed in a low crouch, sharp glass crunching beneath him. Sunlight bathed the courtyard in a golden wash, warm against his skin, the scent of dew-damp grass and scorched mana still lingering in the air. The yard was clear—for now. No one had noticed him yet.
He ran.
Mana surged through him—pink and amber streaks racing down his limbs, dimmer than before but still burning with urgency. Then—clicks. A sharp, mechanical whrr, followed by the unmistakable pulse of displaced air.
Instinct screamed.
Riven didn't wait to see what was coming. He blinked.
Mana twisted space.
Once.
Twice.
He reappeared beside Sylvia and Roman in twin bursts of warped light, breath coming in quick, uneven gulps as the last of his mana flared and flickered out. His pool dropped lower—twenty percent and falling fast.
Sylvia turned, surprise flashing in her eyes. "Riven?" she gasped, voice tight with disbelief. She clearly hadn't expected him to escape on his own.
Before he could say anything, the air split with a shriek of pressure and a whistling rush of death.
More blades.
He barely turned when Roman stepped forward. The man moved like a force of nature—fluid and devastating. His black greatsword flashed, both hands steady on the hilt as the blade swept down in a vicious arc. Energy crackled along its edge, that deep reddish hue flaring. The wind-blades met it—and shattered, torn mid-air like dry leaves in a storm.
Riven blinked, heart hammering in his chest. These weren't the same churning spheres the nobleman had used before. The shape was different—sharper. Where the earlier attacks left behind savage deep cuts even once blocked, these Roman could intercept more cleanly. But they still carried that same storm-born violence. A little slower. A little less destructive. But no less lethal.
And that told him everything.
The beast before—the eagle—had been Rank 4. But this one, the Fanglion… it had to be Rank 3. Still a monster, still incredibly strong. But not the same class.
Roman turned slightly. "You alright, kid?" he asked, voice steady but shadowed with concern.
"I'm alright," Riven replied quickly, trying to make it sound stronger than it felt. The answer seemed to ease Roman somewhat—his shoulders loosened just a touch. Next his gaze dropped to Riven's arm, still bound and useless. Riven caught the look and spoke before the man could question it.
"It was a gamble. A risky one—but it worked."
Roman didn't look convinced, but he didn't push. The sound of rapid footsteps drew both their attention.
Hooded figures wielding a plethora of weapons were closing in—fast.
Roman moved without another word. He stepped forward and brought his sword down in a brutal arc. A single cleave bit into the front line of the attackers, painting the grass behind them red.
"We'll handle this," Sylvia said, her voice calm but cold. Focused. She spun on her heel and strode toward the second group, rapier flashing in the sun.
To the side, her summoned creature moved. A towering guardian of ice, ten feet tall, its massive limbs groaning with shifting frost. Arrows still rained down, splintering harmlessly across its surface. The few that left cracks were sealed moments later, thick veins of fresh ice knitting the damage.
The beast stepped forward, slow and inexorable. Each footfall was a thud of weight on stone and soil. When enemies got close, it lashed out with terrifying force, each swing clearing the space like a wrecking ball made of winter.
It was a fortress of cold, and it stood between them and the rooftop barrage—unmoving, unwavering, unbreakable.