The horizontal dark red slash that had torn through Finn's body continued to burn through the trees, the flames licking hungrily at the surroundings. Smoke coiled skyward like a funeral chant. Icariel stood frozen, his mind unable to fully grasp the horror before him. His body trembled uncontrollably, his lips barely managing to form the words, "What the…"
Before his fear could paralyze him further, the voice in his head rang out with sharp clarity:
[Hide behind the right tree at your side. Now.]
His limbs moved before thought could catch them. Despite the choking terror in his chest, Icariel darted behind the thick tree, pressing his back tightly against its bark—rough as dry scabs. He slapped both hands over his mouth, muffling the ragged sound of his breath. His heart thundered in his ribs, a frantic beast clawing for escape.
Through the cacophony of burning wood and crackling embers, he heard it—footsteps.
Slow. Confident. Each one a pronouncement of death.
"Tch." A voice—smooth, chilling, laced with venom—drifted into the scorched air. "To think the thought that you could escape me even crossed your mind."
Icariel dared to look. Just barely. A sliver of vision past the bark.
A woman.
No—something that wore a woman's form. She was unlike any soul from Mjull. Clad in sleek black-and-white armor that drank the firelight, her long hair was bound in a high ponytail that swung like a blade's shadow. She moved with elegance forged in violence. A massive two-edged sword with a black handle rested in her grasp—too large for her frame, yet she wielded it like it had grown from her bones. The weapon pulsed with that same dark red energy—the kind that had torn Finn in half.
Her smirk was a wound carved across her face. Amusement. Cruelty. Madness. Her eyes locked on Finn's ruined body with something close to rapture.
"To think," she whispered, "only after killing this rat, you would come crawling here for my throat."
She raised her sword, shifting her stance. The air around her thrummed.
CLASH!
A blinding explosion of sparks lit the clearing like lightning torn from the earth. The ground itself shuddered beneath the impact.
The woman's smirk widened, eyes gleaming. "Isn't that right, Galien?"
Before her, his form rigid with fury, stood Galien.
His blade radiated brilliant orange energy, clashing violently against her corrupted steel. His jaw clenched, veins bulging in his neck. Every muscle screamed with restraint barely held.
"You bitch!" Galien snarled, his voice raw, shaking, barely human. His eyes were flames—mourning fires at a pyre.
Icariel's breath caught. His voice barely a whisper in his skull. "Galien?"
His gaze slid, unwilling, to Finn's remains—his friend's torso severed from the waist down. A crimson lake pooled beneath him, steaming. And in Galien's eyes—grief carved into rage. A single tear slid down his cheek, unnoticed.
"Why?" he demanded, each syllable scraped from broken glass. With a roar, he swung. The orange aura blazed around his sword like the last light of a dying star.
The woman parried it without effort, her smirk deepening. "Because you refused me. Again and again."
Another swing—faster. Furious. "But I never gave you trouble!" Galien roared. "I lived here. With my people! I never raised a hand against your kind!"
"Haa…" The woman exhaled in mock disappointment. Her blade pulsed again, the red energy writhing like something alive. With a flick, she unleashed another horizontal slash. It screamed through the trees—burning, splitting bark and air alike.
Galien blocked, barely. The force sent him skidding, boots carving trenches in the soil. Blood leaked from the corner of his lips.
Behind the tree, Icariel trembled. "Is that really Galien? Has he always been this strong? Then why did he never—why did he hide this from us?"
The woman tilted her head. Her voice now soaked in venomous sweetness. "You said it once, didn't you? 'Better to rid myself of those who refuse me now, before they grow into enemies I can't control.'" She grinned. "A refusal today may be a dagger tomorrow."
From the pouch at Galien's waist—a pouch he always carried—an unfamiliar pressure bloomed. He reached inside and drew another sword. It shimmered as it emerged, glowing with raw, silver-edged energy.
The woman laughed softly, placing a hand on her temple like a performer overwhelmed by irony. "That magical pouch… my leader gave it to you. As a gift of trust. And you use it… to arm yourself against us?"
Galien's face twisted. "Shut up." His voice was lower now. Cold. Final. "Shut your damn mouth."
Icariel's heart stuttered. "That pouch. The one he said he found in the forest... He lied. It wasn't his. It was given. A gift from them."
His mind reeled. "Then who is Galien really?"
CLASHH!
The storm broke again. Galien was a tempest—wielding both swords, he pressed forward, each strike a howl of fury and grief. Sparks burst, trees trembled.
Steel met steel in a flurry of violent rhythm. She swung for his hand—he twisted, dodged, countered.
And struck.
A shallow slash just beneath her eye.
She paused. Touched the blood with a fingertip.
Then smiled.
"Still troublesome… that's why he wanted you," she said, almost affectionately. "Even buried in this backwater village, your instincts never dulled. You never trained. Yet you still fight like this. You should've joined us. From the beginning."
Her aura surged. The dark red light devoured the space around her. "But now? You're bleeding inside, aren't you? From that last hit. You're weakening."
Then she moved.
Fast. Like a shadow that had never belonged to a human shape. Her strikes came faster. Harder. Galien barely kept up—blood now staining his clothes, painting the grass.
His thoughts burned. "I can't win. Not like this. I took the hit. I'm bleeding out. If I was whole—if I had time—I could kill her. I could avenge Finn."
He roared, lunged, both blades blazing in an X-shaped arc. She met it head-on, her massive weapon absorbing the blow with bone-shattering force. The clearing shook.
Behind the tree, Icariel watched—paralyzed. The truth flayed his breath from him.
Galien had always been strong. Stronger than anyone knew. But even now, it wasn't enough.
"She's winning."
Galien stumbled. One knee hit the dirt. His blades held him up, barely.
The woman stepped forward. "The end has come, I guess."
Icariel's heart thudded painfully. "If Galien dies… then we die. All of us. No one else can stop her. No one else can protect us."
His hands shook. His lungs tightened.
"That means we will die."
"That means I will die."
That thought—no sword, no fire, no monster—froze him more completely than anything else. The terror of death itself. The yawning void. The absolute, choking end.
And then the voice returned.
Soft.
Unflinching.
[Now is your only chance.]
Icariel's breath caught. Eyes wide. Thought dissolving into disbelief.
"WHAT?!" he screamed within.