Draven's fingers tightened around the hilt of his dagger. Lightning crackled along Cedric's blade, illuminating the storm-slicked forest with jagged bursts. His jaw clenched. This bastard doesn't stop. He just keeps coming.
Cedric shifted, boots barely touching the branches, moving like a streak of living lightning. Draven's body coiled, ready. Every nerve screamed, every muscle burned—yet his mind was razor-sharp. Focus. One slip, and I'm dead. Just keep moving… keep him guessing.
The clash began. Cedric lunged, a golden-white arc of steel screaming through the air. Draven ducked—the blade missed him by inches, carving a jagged line across the tree behind him—and came up swinging, dagger a blur in one hand, his other ready to catch the next strike. Sparks hissed as metal met metal.
A branch snapped under his boot as he leapt, twisting midair and landing on another slick trunk. Rain stung his face. Faster. Must move faster. Don't give him an opening.
Cedric struck again—faster this time—slicing through the air where Draven had just been. A streak of lightning tore across his left hand—flesh split, blood sprayed. Pain flared, white-hot, but instinct took over. Draven caught the severed hand midair, pressing it back to his arm. Bones clicked, sinew fused, and his fingers flexed around the dagger once more.
Goddammit… again? This bastard's insane.
Cedric didn't hesitate. He pivoted, blades snapping, forcing Draven backward through the mud. The forest became a deadly blur. Each movement was measured, precise—a dance of life and death. Draven blocked, parried, twisted, dodged—but Cedric's strikes were relentless, each one faster than the last. A brutal slash nicked Draven's left arm; then, as always, the wound instantly knit itself back together, leaving him whole—but the searing fire of mana still tingled along his veins.
The forest was chaos. Every step was peril, every blink risked death. Blood slicked the leaves; rain hissed across fractured wood. Draven's mind was pure instinct and brutal calculation—his body, a weapon honed for the storm.
Each dodge, each parry pushed Draven to the edge—muscles screaming, lungs burning.
Lightning and rain streaked through the canopy. Draven lunged forward, dagger snapping upward to intercept a strike aimed at his throat. Sparks hissed as steel met steel, and the force of the blow sent him careening backward through a wall of branches. Mud and leaves showered around him as he crashed into a tree's thick trunk. Teeth gritted, muscles twitched under the strain. Mud and rain sprayed into his eyes.
Draven crouched low on the branch, dagger flicking in small, precise motions. Every instinct screamed, every nerve tensed. Gotta find an opening… just one opening… then it's over.
And with that thought, he lunged again—feet barely touching the wet wood—moving like a predator through the storm. His dagger sliced through the air, reflexes blinding, ready to push Cedric to the very edge.
Can't stop now. Not for a damn sec.
Draven charged, spinning, dagger poised—but Cedric was already on him again. Another strike—this time aimed at his side. He barely had time to rise before Cedric struck again. The slash cut through his hands. Pain exploded as his hand was sliced clean off. Not today… Reflexively, he grabbed the severed hand, pressing it to his arm. Flesh and bone wove together in a sizzling pulse.
The storm roared around them. Lightning split the sky. Branches tore beneath their weight as they twisted, lunged, and spun through the forest. Each attack, each counter, each motion was a blur. Draven barely registered the pain anymore; adrenaline and instinct burned it away.
Another lightning-imbued strike—aimed straight for his neck. His dagger shot up to block, the force rattling his arm, sparks flying. He twisted his body, narrowly avoiding decapitation. The world narrowed to the edge of the blade—the hiss of displaced rain, the scream of wind through the leaves.
Too close… too damn close.
His dagger spun in his arm, changing grip as his body shot forward in one piercing motion. The dagger pierced straight toward Cedric—only an inch from his face.
> "But you can die."
Then—
A flash of lightning. The blade slashed through the arm holding the dagger. Intense lightning surged from Cedric's blade, incinerating the blood as it fell. The sword stopped inches from Draven's neck. His eyes widened, reflecting the gleam of the blade, catching it from the corner of his vision.
> "FUCK."
His only thought.
And then, at the apex of the strike, the impossible happened. A shadow flashed in the corner of his vision—a rush of motion—an interception.
The maid.
She appeared out of the storm, stepping between Draven and death, her battle axe swinging in a wide, precise arc. Steel met steel with a ringing clash that split the storm—the sound deafening. Cedric staggered. Sparks and lightning danced along the edges of steel as she held him off, momentarily throwing him off balance.
She swung a second time, with deadly precision—but before the steel could land, a blur streaked past.
Draven's chest heaved. Blood, mud, and rain streaked his face, but his eyes never left Cedric.
Cedric moved instantly—like lightning—dispersing himself, dodging her swing.
Draven moved from the spot like a shadow, feet barely touching the slick forest floor, body coiled. One instant beside the maid—the next, gone. Cedric's eyes widened in surprise. Impossible… he moved like… lightning. The blade surged and swung sharply.
Draven, blood dripping from what was left of both arms, planted his boot on the ground and twisted his body sharply. The swing missed him by inches, crimson eyes fixed on Cedric.
Cedric hesitated—instinctively surprised—and in that split second,
Draven's leg shot out with terrifying force. His boot connected with Cedric's chest in a brutal arc, muscles coiling like a spring loaded to bursting.
Cedric flew backward through the rain, crashing into a tangle of trees with a sickening crack. Wood splintered, leaves showered down, and the storm's roar masked his scream.
Draven landed lightly beside the maid, crimson eyes blazing. Rain-slicked hair clung to his forehead, chest heaving.
> "Bastard."