The wind pressure finally eased, just enough for Riven to pry open his eyes—and the sight stole the breath from his lungs.
The bar—no, the entire building—was in ruins. The floor had been torn apart as if clawed open by some vengeful god, splintered wood and cracked stone jutting upward at odd angles. Above him, the roof was all but gone, a gaping hole spanning nearly the full width of the bar, revealing slivers of a smoky sky beyond. One whole side of the structure had been carved clean off, as though sliced by a giant, invisible blade. With slow, agonizing creaks and metallic groans, the severed segment leaned forward, the supports giving way as it began to collapse toward the ground.
The air was thick with the scent of ash, damp earth, and scorched wood. Dust floated like a thin fog, stinging Riven's nose and clinging to his tongue with a chalky bitterness.
Surely the city guard would have noticed this... or would they just turn a blind eye, considering this was the lower district?
Riven didn't know.
And right now, he didn't care enough to dwell on it.
His focus was singular. With eyes narrowed, he scanned the wreckage, searching for any sign of Roman. But there was nothing. No red glow. No noble aura. Not even a trail.
Only destruction.
Where the attacks had collided, the floor was buried beneath a mound of shattered wood, jagged tiles, and broken glass. Chunks of roof and wall formed a chaotic mountain of debris. Tangled among the rubble were remnants of the bar itself—splintered furniture, a half-melted chandelier, and even what looked like a snapped tap still leaking ale into the dust.
As the wild wind currents finally relented, escaping through the shattered remains of the building into the open air, Riven's body began to slide toward the ground. His boots scraped against broken tiles and loose rubble until he landed on shaky legs. He staggered slightly, then straightened, brushing dust off his clothes with a grunt.
The moment sensation fully returned, he winced. Dozens of small cuts stung across his arms and face—shallow, but angry. His mana had shielded him from the worst of it, but the sheer fallout from the attack had overwhelmed even that.
He hissed through clenched teeth and pressed a hand to his side, blood sticky against his fingertips.
Carefully, Riven picked his way toward the center of the wreckage. Splintered wood and jagged shards of glass crunched beneath his boots, each step a negotiation with unstable ground. He kept one eye trained upward—the roof hung above him like the jaw of a beast, fractured and waiting to collapse. Well… what little of it remained.
He'd only made it a few paces when the mound of debris at the center erupted in a violent swirl of green and red energy.
Riven instinctively dove behind an overturned table, peeking out just in time to see the noble's beast rise from the wreckage in a burst of emerald light. The noble clung to the creature's leg, lifted into the air as the beast carried him away in a jagged arc across the room.
A heartbeat later, Roman's body exploded from the same wreckage—still cloaked in that burning red aura, though it had dimmed considerably. Each flicker seemed weaker than the last, as though it pulsed from a failing heart.
Riven narrowed his eyes, spotting the wound now stretched across the noble's chest—deep and ugly, leaking a steady stream of blood that dripped like paint from his torn robes. The beast should have been able to dodge that. Considering its agility earlier… it must have sustained heavy damage, too.
With a powerful jump, Roman rocketed forward, sword drawn, aimed straight at the airborne noble.
Before the sword could strike, the beast ignited with green mana, the winds around it whipping into a frenzy. In a split second, it twisted in mid-air, its wings flaring wide as it launched the nobleman downward like a stone from a sling.
Roman's great sword collided with the spiraling vortex of wind. A flash of light burst at the impact point—brief and blinding—and the next moment, both combatants were hurled in opposite directions.
They struck the walls with bone-cracking force, smashing through plaster and timber, disappearing into the ruined structure beyond.
Riven blinked, stunned. How are they still standing…?
But there was no time to ponder. Both Roman and the beast rose once more, bodies battered, movements sluggish but unrelenting.
Roman jumped back into the ruined building first, his aura now gone, exposing the raw exhaustion etched across his face. Every step looked like it hurt. His great sword, no longer glowing, had returned to its dull steel-gray—but he held it firmly, blade angled low and ready.
Across from him, the beast landed with a crash. Its wings were mangled, one hanging limply while the other sizzled with burnt edges still smoldering.
Riven could hardly believe it—they were still standing. Both the hunter and the creature, battered past reason, yet refusing to stay down. Was this what separated the high ranks from the rest of them? This sheer, unyielding will to keep fighting?
"Not bad, Roman. I'll give you that one," the noble said, brushing dust from his tattered clothes while keeping a blood-slicked hand pressed tightly to his chest. A crooked smile crept onto his face. "But what are you going to do about the second one?"
Those words slid down Riven's spine like ice water. He hoped—that the noble didn't mean what he thought he did.
A moment later, his fears took shape.
A sharp gust tore through the wreckage, scattering ash and debris as a dark blur shot in from the collapsed wall. The impact shook the ground, splinters and dust bursting outward as a massive shadow landed beside the Windmere noble. Riven's eyes widened, trying to track its movement—then the shape straightened, and the dust parted.
Riven's heart stuttered in his chest.
No… it can't be.
A towering lion-like creature cloaked in a coat of green and grey fur. Its mane flowed like wind-tossed fire, wild and untamed.
A Fanglion, Riven thought, cold sweat trickling down his temple.
A memory stirred unbidden—his first hunt, the forest, and the fangleon that had nearly ended him. The oppressive aura, the heat, the scent of burning air—it all echoed that day. Maybe that was why fear rooted deeper now, despite knowing both this creature and the eagle before it were of rare bloodlines and roughly the same grade. His body remembered what his mind tried to reason away.
Still, there was one small mercy: the creature didn't radiate the same level of power. The mana signature wasn't fully saturated—maybe it hadn't ranked up completely yet.
Riven's fists clenched as his knuckles whitened.
Riven quickly surveyed the scene, mind racing. Every logical part of him screamed that there was still time to run—that he could slip away now and escape unscathed. It was the smart move, the only move that made sense. But his gaze flicked to Roman. The man was battered, bloodied, and still standing his ground. No beast at his side. That meant he was unbonded. In his condition, taking on a rare, high-ranked beast like that would be suicide. Even if he managed to take down the eagle, it would likely cost him his life.
Riven's breath hitched. His hands trembled—but not from fear. From conflict. The thought of turning his back twisted in his gut. His mind flashed to the legends of Van Helsing, the hunter who never ran, and to his father—stoic, stubborn, unyielding. Neither would have fled. Neither would have left their benefactor to die.
He barely knew Roman, but in the short time they'd met, the man had done more for him than most ever had—taught him, challenged him, pushed him. Harsh as his words were, Riven could feel it: Roman wasn't a bad man. He was a good one.
So Riven forced down his fear, steadied his breath, and made his choice.He'd stay—and look for an opening, no matter how small, to help.
The Fanglion's muscles tensed, its paws digging into the debris-strewn ground, ready to spring.
Riven inhaled deeply and shut his eyes, checking his mana reserves. Both cores sat at a comfortable eighty percent, It'll have to be enough.
Riven glanced around, searching desperately for a weapon—anything he could channel his mana through like he had with the scythe earlier. His eyes caught a faint metallic glint to his side: a broken pipe, roughly the length of his arm. He snatched it up and examined it—rusted, cold, gritty against his palm. I hope this works.
Drawing a steady breath, Riven pushed his amber mana toward his hands, letting it surge into the pipe. He willed the end to sharpen—more a suggestion than a command—and then simply let the mana do the rest, coursing through the metal with a faint, pulsing glow.
The pipe cracked, splintered, and reshaped. Mana surged through it like molten resin, hardening into an orange, crystalized spear laced with glinting metal fragments. The weapon hummed faintly in his hand, the mana vibrating against his palm.
Riven's eyes darted toward the Fangleon. The beast's muscles coiled, its frame lowering as its emerald eyes fixed on Roman. A low rumble built in its throat, and its fangs began to glow with a sickly green light—poison, or worse. It was preparing to strike.
Riven's heart pounded. This was it—his only opening. Both beasts and the Windmere noble were locked entirely on Roman; none of them would see him coming. He didn't have time to think it through. He just had to move.
He forced every drop of his remaining pink mana to flood through his body, reinforcing his muscles, hardening his limbs, sharpening his reflexes until his veins thrummed with heat. Then, gathering even more mana than usual—far more than the Blink technique required—he hoped that the excess would stabilize the skill amidst the chaotic mana storm raging through the room.
The air around him shimmered.
Channeling every last spark into motion, Riven launched forward. The world blurred as he blinked, his feet barely brushing the floor. He angled the spear, predicting where the creature would lunge—and drove himself straight into the attack.
His timing was perfect.
Riven collided with the beast mid-pounce. The force drove the spear deep into its side, and the two of them crashed violently to the floor in a tangled heap of fur and grit. The Fanglion roared in fury, the sound a guttural, bone-rattling bellow that rang in his ears.
Riven scrambled to his feet, trying to wrench the weapon free—but it was stuck, embedded too deep.
A shriek of rage tore through the chaos.
"How dare you? Who do you think you are, vermin?!" the noble snarled, his voice raw and cracked with fury. He extended his right palm, green winds beginning to swirl and gather once more.
The declaration froze Riven mid-movement. His breath caught in his throat as realization slammed into him. This was it; he was going to die.
His blood turned to ice.
Before the dread could root itself fully in Riven's chest, a roar broke across the battlefield.
"No, you don't!"
Roman charged toward the noble like a battering ram, every step shaking the already unstable floor.
The noble's face twisted into a snarl as he spun around, the orb of wind in his hand growing denser and more volatile by the second.