Foom—Grinis launched herself at Icariel again.
This time, he was on guard.
As she charged, he leapt to the side, his boots scraping against shattered stone. The wind from her charge howled past his ear. Her claws sliced air—missing by inches—but she twisted mid-air, muscles coiling like a beast's, and slashed across his torso.
The blow landed.
Her eyes widened. Despite the direct hit, it felt… wrong. Not like cutting flesh. More like smashing into bedrock. A jarring, metallic reverberation traveled up her arm.
Icariel flew across the square, his body colliding with the ground in a hard, skidding crash. Dust flared. He slammed into the base of the ruined central statue—what remained of a crumbling marble sword still jutted from its pedestal like a gravestone.
"Damn…" Icariel groaned, spitting blood, his voice ragged. "I should've kept my mouth shut."
—
Meanwhile, Princess Virethiel turned sharply to her royal guard.
"What?" she said, her voice brittle with disbelief. "You're saying your arms broke... just from catching him?"
"Yes, Your Highness," the guard replied, voice tight but firm.
He remembered—how the sky had cracked open like glass. A white circle blazed in the heavens, and from it, the boy fell. Not like a man—but like a meteor. Heat rippled from his descent. The air trembled.
"I followed your command to catch him," the guard continued, clenching his jaw. "But the moment I did…"
The memory stabbed through him. The instant his arms wrapped around Icariel, a crack rang out. A deep, visceral pop. Agony bloomed like fire. His bones snapped, splintering inside his flesh.
"I couldn't hold on. I dropped him."
Virethiel's gaze narrowed, a storm brewing behind her emerald eyes. "But… how?"
"Highness," Elena whispered, stepping forward, her voice barely above the din of war. "There's something I need to tell you about him."
Virethiel turned to her, sharp as a blade. "I'm listening."
—
Across the battlefield, to Icariel's left, Vice Leader Floon was locked in combat with a towering yeti. Snow stained red around him. Elven archers loosed arrows from behind rubble while soldiers circled the beast.
Then—he saw him.
Icariel stood hunched, dust clinging to his torn robes, his arms crossed, face partly hidden beneath black strands of hair.
Floon's heart thumped once. "Is that... the Warleader's human disciple?"
He looked again—eyes widening. Icariel had just taken a full strike from Grinis. Yet he stood. No broken bones. No visible blood. Just… calm.
Then Floon's gaze shifted. Danger.
A hulking yeti crept behind Icariel—its white fur soaked in gore, claws dripping fresh crimson. Muscles coiled under its skin. Breath steamed from its nostrils. Its fist rose high, ready to smash Icariel's skull like glass.
"Run away!" Floon bellowed. "Behind you!"
But Icariel didn't move.
He stood still. Wind blew gently, lifting torn fabric from his shoulders. His head bowed. Shadow veiled his eyes.
"Run!" Floon's voice cracked with urgency.
"Why…" Icariel whispered to the dirt at his feet, barely audible. "Why does it keep getting harder and harder…"
Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze.
The moment froze.
A glint of steel calm sparked in his eye.
He turned—face to the monster—and raised his arm.
"Spell: Wind Slash—Full Power."
Foom!
A roaring arc of wind erupted from his palm. It howled like a banshee as it carved through air and flesh alike. The yeti's legs detached mid-step. Blood fountained as its lower half collapsed, body crashing to the earth.
"Spell: Spear of Flame."
A pillar of fire swirled in his hand, congealing into a glowing lance. He hurled it, muscles snapping taut from the motion.
Boom!
The spear struck the beast's chest dead center. A heartbeat later, fire detonated outward—searing fur, muscle, and bone. The beast screeched as its body ignited. It spasmed, flailed, then fell silent—flames licking its corpse.
Silence fell over the battlefield.
Even the yetis paused.
Elves stood still, mouths open, bows half-drawn.
Virethiel's eyes widened, the color seeming to drain from her lips. "What… happened to him? Was he always this strong despite being a coward?"
Floon, mid-charge, halted. "Impossible," he breathed. "He killed it... like nothing? While my best troops struggle to kill one? And that casting speed—by the gods…"
Even Eldrin, lying on a stretcher, chuckled through his pain. "That flame spear… saved me after all. I should expect nothing less."
Icariel stood over the flaming corpse, embers dancing around his feet. His breathing was slow. Measured. Robes tattered and blackened. Ash clung to him like mourning shrouds. Yet his skin—untouched.
From behind him, footsteps crunched over broken stone.
Grinis approached.
"I knew it," she said, voice like cracking ice. "I had my doubts… but now?"
Her tone darkened, claws twitching with residual blood.
"You struck me—from a distance. And I hit you. Twice. With enough force to cleave stone and crack iron. But you're still standing."
She raised a trembling finger, its claw glinting crimson in the dying light.
"What are you, brat? How can you use magic… and still have that kind of physical resilience?"
Icariel turned his head, slow and silent. The light dimmed slightly in his eyes.
"Speak," Grinis snarled. "Before I tear you apart."
His expression remained unreadable.
"Why should I?" he replied, tone cool, emotionless. "I have nothing to say to the one coming for my life."
Grinis growled. The sound was low, feral.
"You insolent wretch. That tongue… that cursed calm… I'll make you wish you'd never drawn breath."
"That would be too hard," Icariel said quietly, stepping into a loose stance. "If not impossible."
His feet slid apart. Shoulders lowered. Hands loose. Calm radiated off him like mist.
"Calm," he thought. "I'm... actually calm again—just like when I fought him. Even now." His dark eyes narrowed, steady and unreadable. "I suppose it's because of what you said to me before, Voice. That moment… it changed everything."
"I only told you the truth,"the Voice answered in his mind, calm and resolute. "Now use the battle style Aelar taught you. Counter her. You'll be fine."
"Yeah... Time to prove what I've learned. A month of hellish training under Aelar wasn't for nothing."
Grinis lunged.
She blurred forward, a black streak against firelight. Her snarl split the air. Her right arm slashed forward—jagged claws trailing sparks.
Icariel ducked low and punched upward, aiming for her gut. But she twisted—inhumanly fast—catching his fist with her left claw.
"I'm a superhuman," she hissed. "My strength's amplified. You're nothing."
"I wouldn't be so sure," Icariel muttered.
And then—her eyes widened.
His fist was pushing forward. Her arm trembled under the pressure. Inch by inch… she was losing ground.
"What?! I'm… losing in raw strength?!"
She roared, striking with her free claw. He twisted, slipping past, and slammed a punch into her stomach.
BAM!
Grinis staggered, blood spraying from her mouth.
She dropped to one knee before forcing herself upright, breath ragged.
"Where's that confidence?" Icariel said. "Weren't you going to kill me, oh mighty superhuman?"
She glared, wiping blood from her mouth, her breath hitching. "We'll see…"
Icariel exhaled, gaze sharp. "I know provoking her is dangerous… but it'll push her to strike recklessly. More chances for me to strike. If you're not calm in any aspect of life, you're doomed to make a mistake…I learned that lesson the first time I hunted on the mountain. Back then, I didn't have the strength to use it. Now I do."
"Come on then," he said with a smirk.
Grinis growled, back arching as her body shifted. Bones cracked audibly. Mana bled from her pores in wisps of crimson mist. Her claws sparked against the dirt. Each step she took dented the ground beneath.
"Skill: Crimson Fangs."
Five red daggers of mana materialized—floating, spinning, hungry.
"To think I'd use this on a brat…"
Icariel's eyes narrowed.
"Where did those come from? No channeling…"
"That's what makes skills different from spells," the Voice warned. "But focus—those are lethal."
Grinis pointed. "Hunt."
The daggers launched—one from each angle.
Icariel moved.
Not with panic. But precision.
He sidestepped the first. Slid under the second. Twisted to avoid the third and fourth. The fifth sliced the air beside his cheek.
Grinis blinked.
"He dodged… all of them?"
She clenched her fists. The daggers circled back.
Again—they launched.
He moved only when necessary. A slight shift. A pivot of the foot. A tilt of the torso.
"How—how are you doing this?!" Grinis shouted.
She screamed and launched all five—twice as fast.
"Tch…" Icariel muttered. "Spell: Spear of Flame."
It formed instantly. He swung it in wide arcs, intercepting the daggers mid-air.
Clang! Crack! One by one—they shattered.
Grinis froze.
Her eyes trembled. "This… isn't possible…"
"Why not?" Icariel stepped forward. Voice cold, deliberate. "I couldn't see how you summoned the daggers. True. But I saw how your mana moved to control them."
He raised his spear.
"My eyes… see everything now."
Grinis's fingers trembled.
"What are you even saying?"
He didn't answer.
He rushed forward—faster than before.
They clashed. Claw to flame. Fist to bone. Her slash met his parry. Her kick met his duck. She spun. He headbutted. She elbowed. He countered.
Strike after strike—faster. Wilder. She roared. He moved like water.
Each motion flowed. Each stance—the echo of Aelar's brutal drills.
Then—BAM!—a palm strike to her chest. She flew back, crashing through stone.
She rose slowly.
Blood ran down her lip.
"You…"
But Icariel already had the burning spear at her throat.
Unshaken. Unburnt.
"Surrender."
The word struck harder than any fist.
"I don't want to kill you," he said, voice low. "Not again… Not now."
His eyes—black as endless night—held something worse than fury.
Grinis didn't speak.
She didn't move.
She hesitated.
And Icariel's eyes didn't blink.
"Make your choice," he said. "Before I do."