A figure stepped into view. Tall. Slender. Black and blonde hair swept into a sharp, asymmetrical cut—long on one side, buzzed on the other, like indecision styled to perfection. Rings glinted on every finger. His coat swayed loosely, pristine despite the carnage..
He looked utterly unbothered by the scene. Blood on the floor, unconscious and dead men, shattered walls.
"Really, just fantastic work," he said, grinning like it was all theater for his amusement. "But if you wanted my attention, darling, all you had to do was ask."
Narza didn't move. Neither did Erin.
The figure strolled into the ruined tavern like he owned the place—hell, like he built it just to watch it burn later. His boots barely made a sound on the soaked floorboards, but every step was a drumbeat of arrogance.
"I mean really—" He gestured lazily to a splintered chair, still smoldering from a stray fireblast. "—this is just rude. I feed these boys, clothe them, give them something to stab other people for, and you come in here and just… ruin the feng shui."
He clicked his tongue. "No respect for local artistry."
Narza's blade shifted slightly in her hand, eyes locked on him.
Erin's heart was still thudding, fast and confused. Whoever this man was, he didn't seem alarmed. Or angry. Or even slightly surprised. He was—worse—entertained.
"I've got half a mind to be mad," the man went on, sweeping aside a hanging bit of broken beam with theatrical flair. "But I lost the other half somewhere between rum and riot. So here we are."
He spun once, arms wide like he was presenting the aftermath of a grand performance. "Cheers for the encore. Shame about the cast. Weak bones. Terrible posture."
He stepped over one of the bodies—paused—then nudged it with the toe of his boot.
"Ah," he said, smirking. "That one owed me money. Tragic."
"Who are you?" Narza asked, flat.
He grinned wider, like he'd been waiting for that cue.
"Torren," he said, pressing a ringed hand to his chest with mock sincerity. "Torren Sol, darling. And you've made quite the mess of my humble little corner of the Cay."
He let the silence sit for a beat—then tilted his head toward Erin, finally really looking at him.
"And you," he said, eyes narrowing slightly, "look like someone with a reason to be here."
Erin didn't answer.
Torren walked closer. Not threatening. Just… intrigued.
"I know a lot of faces," he said. "Yours isn't one of them. That makes you interesting. And I love interesting."
"We're looking for a boy," Narza said.
Torren stopped mid-step.
Then he laughed.
Not a polite chuckle. Not even a full-bellied cackle.
No, Torren Sol laughed like something had clicked. Like someone finally said the punchline to the joke only he was in on. He clapped again, once, loud and sharp.
"Oh, that's what this is," he said, delighted. "You're here for him."
His grin sharpened into something less amused. More… hungry.
"Well damn. I was worried you were just bored."
He turned his back on them like it didn't matter—walked toward the bar and casually plucked a bottle from the shattered remains of the shelf. He popped the cork, sniffed it, then drank straight from the neck.
"You're a little late," he said. "But don't worry. He's not dead. Yet."
Erin took a step forward, fists clenched.
"Where is he?"
Torren turned his head just slightly. The grin was still there, but the temperature dropped in his voice.
"Funny thing," he said. "Every time someone asks me that, they seem to think I'll just give them the answer. Like I'm some drunken oracle spewing directions to the nearest plot device."
He turned back around fully now, bottle still in one hand, the other casually flexing—faint, lazy wisps of fire curling between his fingers.
"I don't owe you that," he said. "I don't owe you shit."
The air around him seemed to waver, like the heat itself was listening.
"But—hey. I like you. You killed my men, wrecked my bar, made a dramatic entrance… I'm a sucker for a flair for the dramatic."
He took another sip.
"So let's make a game of it."
Narza stepped in front of Erin. "We're not here to play."
"Oh, everyone's here to play," Torren said, suddenly grinning again. "You just don't know the rules yet."
His tone dropped. Dead calm.
"And I don't lose."
The fire on his fingers pulsed—then snuffed out in an instant, like he didn't even care enough to let it stay.
"I've burned better people than you to ash and smiled while they screamed. But you know what?" He pointed the bottle at Erin. "You got that stupid, stubborn look. That 'I'm-not-leaving-until-I-win' kind of face. Hate that type."
He chuckled.
"Guess I'll keep you around a bit longer."
Then he walked backward—slow, hands up like a performer bowing out from the spotlight.
"I'll tell you what," he said. "Come find me tomorrow. Bring flowers. Or fire. Maybe—just maybe—I'll—"
Narza moved. Silent, fast, lethal. A streak of red scarf and steel as she lunged at his back, blade low and ready to carve up through his spine.
But Torren didn't even flinch.
His hand was already up—two fingers lifted like a maestro preparing a final note.
And he smiled.
Snap.
The sound echoed like a trigger pulled on a war drum.
WHOOM.
A column of fire erupted between them—violent, incandescent, alive. It didn't just burst—it roared, catching Narza mid-lunge and hurling her backward like she'd been struck by a falling star.
She slammed into the bar, splinters flying, smoke hissing off her cloak as she rolled and skidded across the ground. Her blade clattered out of reach. Erin called her name, but the sound barely cut through the heat still hanging in the air.
Torren didn't look back.
He just sighed.
"Oh," he said, dragging out the word like it was too heavy to carry. "Now why'd you go and do that?"
He finally turned again, his expression caught halfway between disappointment and pure, glimmering delight.
"I liked you. I really did. You've got that feral fox energy—cutthroat, twitchy, unpredictable. Charming. But stabbing people in the back? That's my thing."
Narza pushed herself to one knee, coughing smoke, eyes narrowed like razors. Erin moved to help her, but she waved him off, teeth gritted.
Torren strolled closer, embers trailing his steps like his very presence offended the room's oxygen.
"That?" he said casually, wagging his fingers. "Just a gesture. A note. I barely even meant it."
He leaned down to look Narza in the eyes.
"If I meant it?" His smile faded into something colder. "You'd be ashes by now. Pretty ashes. But still."
She spat blood at his feet.
He stepped over it.
"You've got nerve. I respect that. But let me ask you something," he said, straightening, his voice rising to fill the room like smoke under a door. "Do you understand who you're dealing with?"
He didn't wait for an answer.
"I've gutted warlords. Burned captains alive with their ships. I'm on wanted posters in places that don't even use paper." He tapped the side of his head. "They tell stories about me in places where they don't even speak this language."
He looked at Erin now. The smile was back—but thinner. Tighter. Like it was pulled on with a knife.
"And you think you're gonna walk into my den… kill my boys… make demands? Like this is your story? Like you hold the pen?"
The fire in his hand flared again—just a flicker—but it lit his face in cruel, angled shadows. One eye gleamed, half-lidded, like he was daring them to try again.
"Let me make something crystal clear, sweetheart," he said, voice dropping to a low whisper Erin still somehow heard perfectly.
"I'm not the villain you fight halfway through the arc. I'm the one who rewrites it."
Silence again. Only the steady hiss of fire licking the broken floorboards. Smoke coiling through the wreckage like watching eyes.
Then—
Torren laughed. Sudden. Bright. Unhinged.
"Man~," he said, clutching his stomach, "I love this job."
Torren laughed. Sudden. Bright. Unhinged.
"Man~," he said, clutching his stomach, "I love this job."
Erin was still frozen.
Narza was coughing, bruised, smoke still trailing from her scarf. Her blade lay just out of reach. She reached for it—but her arm trembled. She was still alive, but hurt.
And Torren was just standing there. Smiling. Like the whole tavern was a stage and he'd written the damn script.
Something snapped.
Erin didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
He moved.
He dashed past Narza, scooping up one of her knives—then the other—and lunged at Torren with a desperate, silent roar.
The world didn't slow down.
But Torren did.
He turned toward Erin with a grin that widened mid-motion, like he couldn't believe his luck.
"Oh?"
He sidestepped the first slash. Effortlessly. Like he was dancing around spilled wine.
Erin twisted—cut low.
Torren dipped his head to the side, just enough to feel the air of the blade slice past his cheek.
"You've got guts," he said, pivoting on one foot, letting Erin's momentum drag him forward.
A twist. A duck.
Torren's hand clapped lightly against Erin's wrist, redirecting the next attack just an inch too far to the left.
Erin growled and brought the second blade across in a wild arc.
Torren laughed.
He ducked under it, spun behind Erin, and let his hand trail along Erin's shoulder like a lover's touch.
"Maybe too much guts, not enough grace," he murmured in his ear.
Erin turned—furious—lunging again.
But this wasn't a fight.
It was a lesson.
And Torren was the professor from hell.
He avoided every swing like he'd already seen them in a dream. He didn't just dodge—he danced, fluid, taunting, graceful in a way that made mockery look like art.
"Tell me," Torren said, as Erin lunged again, "did you actually think this would work? Or was this just one of those… heroic reflex moments? You know—'She's down, I'm mad, time to try and win with feelings.'"
Erin swung harder. Faster.
"You think anger sharpens the blade," Torren said, weaving through the strikes like they bored him. "But it just makes your hands shake."
He caught Erin's wrist mid-swing.
Fire licked along Torren's fingers.
Erin tried to pull away.
Too late.
BOOM—
A fiery pulse erupted from the contact point. Not a full explosion—just a blast of heat and force, like standing too close to a furnace that suddenly exhaled.
Erin went flying backward, crashing through what remained of a table. Wood cracked. His back screamed. The knives skittered from his grip.
He groaned.
Smoke curled off his jacket, the heat having scorched through the outer layer.
Torren tilted his head, examining his singed nails like they'd been mildly inconvenienced.
"I was gonna let you leave with your limbs," he said. "But that little outburst might've cost you a few."
He glanced back toward Narza. She was upright now. Barely.
"And look—your girlfriend's still breathing. Team effort. Cute."
He clapped twice—mock applause. Slow. Ringed fingers chiming together like bells over a funeral pyre.
"You're brave, kid. I'll give you that," he said, sauntering toward Erin again. "But bravery's a lot like dry kindling—real useful... until I set it on fire."
He flexed his hand again.
Flame coiled up his arm, blooming out from his palm like a hungry flower.
He stepped over broken glass and twisted bodies without a care in the world.
"Last chance," Torren said, voice velvet-smooth and sharp as glass. "You want to say some final words? Something tragic? Or maybe funny?"
He stopped just in front of Erin, flame glowing in his hand, and leaned down slightly.
"I love a good death monologue."
Suddenly, his head snapped to the side, eyes narrowing. Something changed. He felt it—movement, intent, the prickling silence of a predator winding up.
His hand flared with heat as he pivoted sharply, already halfway through the motion to unleash another blast—
But there was nothing there.
Just smoke.
A thick, coiling plume rushed through him like a specter, warping the air. He cursed softly, twisting back around—
Too late.
Narza came off the wall like a bullet with a heartbeat.
One foot planted hard against a cracked support beam. The other lashed out mid-air, her body twisting with the momentum—an aerial kick backed by weight, speed, and fury.
Torren caught it with both hands, sliding back a step, boots groaning against the scorched floor.
The impact cracked the air. Wood splintered underfoot. Heat flickered from his palm where he held her leg.
He smiled.
"Now that—" he said, teeth gleaming, "—was clever. Cute. Sneaky little fox move."
Narza flipped backward, landing in a low stance, smoke trailing her every motion. Her knives were back in hand. Erin had thrown them to her while Torren was talking.
Torren flexed his wrist, licking the sting from his fingers like he'd just caught a spark and enjoyed the burn.
"I'll give you credit," he said, circling her now. "You got me to block. Not many can say that."
Narza didn't speak. She just shifted her weight, eyes locked, expression like carved stone.
He tilted his head, watching her like a curator admiring a particularly aggressive painting.
"You know the funniest part?" he went on, tapping his chest. "I haven't even been using spells."
His hand flared again—fire rising in a sudden, narrow spiral up his arm, dancing across his knuckles like a predator stretching after a long nap.
"That was just me… talking."
He stepped forward, voice low and dangerous now.
"Now I'm gonna start burning."
The air snapped. The fight truly began.
Narza struck first—a blur through the smoke, twin blades whistling through the air. One came high, the other low—a feint and a real strike bundled together.
Torren stepped inside both.
His hand caught her wrist mid-swing, the other ducking just under the low blade. With a twist of his body, he threw her over his shoulder—not with brute force, but with flair, almost like a dance partner in a violent waltz.
She hit the ground and rolled, already back on her feet, knives twirling.
"Oh, come on," Torren said, arms wide. "You really thought you'd land steel on me? I choreographed better stabs when I was twelve."
Narza lunged again. A flurry this time—strikes too fast to count, smoke trailing in her wake as she vanished and reappeared mid-motion, trying to break his rhythm.
But Torren didn't have a rhythm. He was chaos shaped like a man.
He dodged like he was already a second ahead. One tilt of the head, a lean back, a spin out of range. Her knives flashed through where he'd been—never where he was.
"Faster," he said, grinning. "Meaner. You're holding back. Don't tell me you're scared?"
She roared and slashed harder, but he caught her again—this time with fire.
A short, brutal burst of heat from his palm forced her back. Not an explosion. Just pressure. A wave that shoved her like an invisible hand.
She slid across the floor, barely staying upright.
"See," Torren said, walking forward now, slow and casual, "you're good. Really. Top ten I've seen this week. But you're playing checkers in a chess match, love."
Narza gritted her teeth, smoke gathering tighter around her shoulders.
He raised one hand lazily. A spiral of fire trailed from fingertip to elbow, writhing like it was alive.
"I told you. I'm done playing."
He moved like a man in rhythm with his own destruction.
Torren snapped his fingers—
"Pyrelight: Ember Orbs."
A series of glowing spheres burst into life behind him—seven in total, floating like lazy suns. They pulsed with heat, orbiting his shoulders and spine in a loose halo.
Then they fired.
Thin, white-hot beams of fire lanced toward Narza, one after another—staggered, precise, chasing her steps as she dove behind broken furniture, slid under splintered tables, and rolled between structural beams.
Each impact left holes burned through the wood.
Narza sprang to her feet near the corner, chest heaving. He's herding me, she realized. The beams weren't random—they corralled. She shifted her stance, eyeing his blind side.
Torren lifted his arms in a grand shrug, the orbs trailing smoke behind him.
"You're quick," he said, "but this isn't a race."
He raised two fingers to his lips, and—
"Pyrelight: Flare Kiss."
He blew—and a fan of embers sprayed across the room like molten glitter. Narza shielded her face as the heat grazed her skin. In the same motion, she lunged forward through the haze, knives drawn again from the smoke at her hips.
She cut through the air toward him, one blade aimed low, the other mid-chest.
But Torren's arm was already rising—
"Pyrelight: Torch Spire."
Flame burst from beneath his palm, forming a vertical spike of fire that erupted between them. Narza twisted mid-air, letting her feet skim the heat as she flipped over it.
She landed behind him, already turning to strike—
But he was smiling.
"Too slow, darling."
He reached for his own face—and set it alight.
Fire ignited along his jaw, his scalp, his eyes. A dragon's maw took shape in flame, horns curling from the heat above his head, a molten snarl of teeth painted across his face.
Then he looked up.
"Pyrelight: Draconic Howl!"
A deafening roar exploded from his mouth—a concentrated beam of fire blasting forward with stunning force. The tavern wall behind Narza shattered, engulfed in the inferno.
She dove sideways at the last second, the flame skimming past her boots. The heat was unreal. Part of the floor caught instantly. The building groaned from the sheer pressure of it.
Narza hit the ground hard, sliding in ash, biting back a snarl.
He laughed—mad and joyous. The dragon-fire faded from his face, leaving his normal grin behind.
"Now that felt good."
Narza coughed once, then steadied herself, legs tense.
She wasn't winning this. But she was learning.
Each attack came with rhythm. Each move had a tell. He liked spectacle. He liked watching.
And that meant he liked to drag it out.
Her fingers curled. Smoke rose from her gloves.
Let him keep showing off, she thought. She'd make him choke on it soon enough. Erin groaned as he pulled himself upright behind a half-toppled shelf, pain flaring through his ribs, but he couldn't look away.
Torren was... spellcraft incarnate.
Each movement was seamless, a step in some madman's choreography—hands, arms, fingers all flowing like brushstrokes on fire-soaked canvas. The way he conducted his flames—it wasn't just power, it was technique. A kind of precision that reminded Erin of—
Plasma.
His own magic, barely understood, volatile and overwhelming—yet this, what Torren was doing... it was like watching the future of what Erin might become.
Narza darted through the broken tavern, her boots skipping off overturned furniture, eyes sharp, breath measured. She wasn't rattled—yet—but surprise was flickering behind her focus.
"He's still going?" she muttered, watching as another Pyrelight spell lit Torren's palm.
"Pyrelight: Comet Claw."
He threw a slash forward—not with his fingers, but with his whole arm, and a sweeping arc of fire cut across the floor like a serpent's tail, kicking up cinders and heat. Narza flipped backward, narrowly avoiding the arc as it tore a molten line through the wood.
"You don't stop casting," she called out. "What's your core made of? Lava?"
Torren cackled, flipping a knife in his fingers that hadn't been there a moment ago. "Compliments? Now you're just flirting." He spun the knife, then ignited it, flame spiraling up the blade like a living ribbon. "But since you asked—"
He charged.
A sudden shift—raw speed and violence. Torren dashed forward, not with magic, but with a street brawler's step. His flaming knife slashed at Narza in a wicked arc. She caught it on crossed daggers, the heat burning close, her eyes widening—he was strong.
The moment they locked blades, Torren grinned—then winked.
"Pyrelight: Sparkburst."
The knife exploded between them in a sharp flash of flame, throwing Narza back across the tavern. She hit a table, splintered it, and rolled to her feet mid-cough, smoke curling from her clothes.
She wiped blood from her lip. "You detonated your own weapon?"
Torren wiggled his fingers as embers spun in his palm. "Weapons are moods, love. You just have to be ready to break a few to set the tone."
Narza struck next.
She vanished into a swirl of smoke and reappeared mid-air behind him, spinning into a kick. Torren ducked—but not fast enough. Her heel clipped his shoulder, and he staggered forward, laughing.
Before he could turn, she grabbed a dagger, channeled smoke around the blade—and hurled it.
It whistled through the air—and split into five blades mid-flight, a trail of smoke marking each one.
Torren clapped his hands—hard.
"Pyrelight: Flare Shroud."
A dome of fire burst from his body in a flash. The smoke daggers incinerated before they even reached him.
"Oooh!" he cooed, spinning in a slow circle as the dome faded. "Tricky. You almost got me! But I've been burned before."
He slammed his fists together.
"Pyrelight: Hellmarch."
Flames erupted from his feet—and he skated forward, riding fire like twin jets of propulsion. Narza barely leapt aside as he tore across the floor, flames scarring the wood behind him. He twisted, planting his palm into the ground mid-slide.
"Pyrelight: Vulcan Lance!"
A spear of flame shot from the floor beneath Narza, nearly impaling her mid-dodge. She hit the ground in a crouch, smoke shielding her like a cloak, blades drawn.
"Erin!" she barked, breathing hard. "You better not be just watching!"
But Erin couldn't move. Not yet. He was too caught in the spellwork—the combinations. Torren didn't just cast—he fought with the cadence of a conductor, each movement a spell, each moment a risk. The power, the speed—it was all wrong and right at once.
He wasn't just winning.
He was showing off.
And that meant there had to be a limit.
Narza's eyes flicked across the floor. The flame trails. The smoke. The way Torren landed after that last slide. She started to piece it together.
He's powerful, yes. But he moves forward with every spell.
Always forward.
Always momentum.
She whispered something under her breath—barely audible.
Then she moved
Not toward him. Not behind him. Around him.
Smoke flared beneath her boots, and she darted left—not vanishing this time, not yet. Just fast. Fast enough to blur, fast enough to leave smoke-steps in her wake—soft impressions that hissed like whispers on the wood.
Torren tracked her with narrowed eyes, smile fading slightly. "Finally dancing properly, are we?"
Narza skidded to a stop, spun, and threw out both palms. "Vellshade Art: Shroudbreak Cascade!"
A spiral of smoke burst forward—wide and sweeping, not dense, but thin and slashing like a curtain of razors. Torren raised an arm instinctively, and the smoke struck—not hard enough to burn, not sharp enough to cut, but fast enough to blind.
He hissed. "The hell is—?"
Too late.
She was in the haze with him.
A flurry of dagger strikes came from three directions at once—his left, then his right, then a sudden feint from below. He parried the first, blocked the second—
—and struck through the third.
Smoke.
A silhouette that looked solid. He grinned. "Now you're getting cute."
But his grin faltered as the real Narza struck from the exact same angle a heartbeat later—again from below—but this time her blade hit flesh. A sharp slice across his thigh.
Torren grunted, staggering back. "What the—?"
"Vellshade Art: Phantom Lash." She twirled her dagger, smoke trailing from its edge. "Hope you like magic tricks."
He snarled now. Not playful. Annoyed.
Then he cracked his knuckles—and his fists burst into flame.
"Cute won't cut it. Wanna dance? Fine." He lowered into a stance, grin returning, tighter this time. "Let's waltz."
He lunged—no fireblast, no spell—just fists. Fast. Brutal. His punches landed like meteors, each swing combusting on impact with the air, bursting tiny shockwaves of flame.
"Pyrelight: Scorch Barrage!"
Narza ducked, twisted, her cloak singed. One punch grazed her shoulder and sent her skidding. Another blew apart a chair behind her.
She vanished again—but not in full. Flickering between real and smoke, her form blurred like a broken reflection.
"Vellshade Form: Dimming Step." Her voice echoed across the tavern.
Only her footsteps remained—puffs of smoke, zig-zagging across the floor.
Torren spun. "You think I'm falling for that again?!"
He whipped around and blasted a jet of flame backward—
—and hit nothing.
Because Narza was above him.
She dove, twin daggers held in a crossing slash. "Vellshade Art: Eightfold Sever!"
Her strikes fell like falling ash—eight hits, fluid and interwoven. Each one made contact, some light, some deep—but Torren was forced back, staggering, his coat torn and scorched at the edges.
He caught her on the final strike—grabbed her wrist, flames coiling around his fingers.
Then—
BOOM!
Smoke exploded from her body, point-blank.
Not an attack. A cover.
When the smoke cleared—she was gone.
But her voice was already behind him. "You hit hard. But you talk too much."
Her leg shot out in a low sweep, knocking him off balance. Her follow-up dagger slash raked across his ribs. A second silhouette—again.
She was using two illusions now.
Torren screamed and twisted, heat spiraling from his body in every direction.
"Pyrelight: Burst Spiral!"
The tavern floor cracked beneath the wave of fire—but Narza was already out of range, flipping backward, smoke trailing from her limbs.
She landed, chest heaving. A bruise on her arm, a cut across her jaw—but her eyes were burning bright.
She was learning. Adjusting. Matching tempo.
And for the first time—
Torren looked angry.
Not amused. Not curious.
Angry.
"…You little shadow-crawling rat," he growled, voice low and seething.
Narza flicked her wrist, letting smoke drift lazily from her dagger.
"Funny. You're a flame mage, and I'm still the one making you burn."
Torren's eyes flicked down—just for a second.
He noticed the small cuts on his arms, the welt along his side, the raw heat still pulsing on his thigh where her blade had grazed him.
Burns.
Not shallow.
Not normal.
But that didn't make sense.
His flames left smoke, sure—but her magic didn't ignite. Smoke wasn't fire. So why did it feel like her slashes were searing?
His lips parted, confused. "Wait…"
"You're not the only one who leaves smoke behind, Torren," she said, stepping forward now, casually. "But yours is hotter. Heavier. All that rage, all that heat—it thickens the air."
She spun her dagger again, the tip brushing a blackened plank still warm from one of his blasts. "I've been weaving your smoke into my magic. You laid the coals. I just blew on them."
Torren's eye twitched.
"You're burning yourself."
For one long breath, he didn't move.
Then—
He laughed.
Low, shaking, almost hysterical. He hunched forward, clutched his gut like she'd just told him the funniest joke in the world.
"Oh… oh, that's rich. That's—" he wiped his eyes, still chuckling—then dropped the smile like a guillotine.
"Let's fix that."
His arms spread, and with a roar, flame erupted from his chest in a wide, spinning arc. The tavern groaned under the heat as floorboards blackened and cracked.
Narza leapt back—but he was already in motion.
"Pyrelight Style: Meteor Vault!"
Torren launched forward—propelled by a blast from his heels, his entire body wrapped in swirling fire. He somersaulted mid-air, crashing down like a cannonball where she had just landed—
BOOM!
Flames shot outward in a radial burst, setting what remained of a nearby table ablaze. Smoke burst in every direction—but Torren twisted through it like a dragon, unfazed.
Narza blinked—barely avoided a punch—and backflipped again.
"Vellshade Art: Shifting Mirage!" Her silhouette split—two, then four, moving like dancers in a fog-draped theater.
Torren didn't hesitate.
"Pyrelight: Sunfang Spiral!"
He spun, arms extended, and fire whirled around him like a cyclone. The first mirage blinked out. The second flickered. The third—
Caught fire.
The real Narza shouted and dashed clear, her shoulder smoldering. She rolled, then clapped both palms to the floor.
"Vellshade Seal: Silver Bloom!"
A wide lotus pattern flared beneath her, made entirely of smoke—a burst trap.
Torren landed in it.
It detonated upward.
A column of grey burst into the ceiling like a smoke geyser, layered and twisting—not to harm, but to blind.
He roared inside it—but didn't stumble.
Instead—
The ceiling cracked.
A jet of fire blasted upward through the floor above, searing through the haze.
"PYRELIGHT: CATHEDRAL INFERNO!"
Flames spread through the wooden rafters, igniting everything above in a twisted arc of spiraling flame—like the ribs of some burning cathedral arching above him.
He stepped through the smoke with fire cascading down behind him.
"Let's not play anymore," he said, voice echoing with layered heat. "Let's burn."
Even Narza hesitated.
"...Okay. That's new," Erin muttered from his hiding place, eyes wide as firelight lit up his face.
Torren extended one hand.
Flames gathered at his fingertips—not wild this time, but focused. Controlled. A tight, seething orb of molten light.
"Pyrelight Forbidden Form: Heartflame Locket."
He closed his fist around the sphere. "Ever see a soul combust from the inside out?"
The heat was so intense the floor warped around him.
Narza gritted her teeth.
Then moved.
Fast.
No more hiding.
"Vellshade Style: Sundering Veil!"
She struck the floor with her heel—and the smoke around them peeled upward, forming a veil that cracked like glass.
She dashed through it, and the shards followed—thin trails of cutting smoke, like crescent razors dancing in her wake.
Torren met her head-on.
Flame against smoke.
Slashes against bursts.
He roared with laughter again—but this time, he wasn't playing.
Torren's strikes came faster now—less style, more savagery. His arms carved arcs of heat through the haze, fire lashing like chained beasts. Narza ducked under one, turned a blade aside with her dagger's flat, then lunged in—but he met her elbow with a burst from his palm, sending her skidding across scorched boards.
She coughed, smoke in her lungs—her own and his, indistinguishable now.
Torren advanced, breathing heavy, sweat sizzling on his skin. "You're clever. I'll give you that. All this dancing around, slicing smoke and whispering tricks…" His boot crushed the center of her Silver Bloom seal, cracking it.
"But here's the thing." He tilted his head, flames licking up his spine. "Clever burns just as easy as stupid."
Narza stood. Slowly. Her body was flagging. One eye nearly swollen shut, her scarf half-burned away. And yet…
She smiled.
"I've got one more dance left."
Torren's brows twitched.
Erin, watching through shattered beams, gripped the side of the bar. His gut clenched. Something in her tone… was different. Not bravado. Not desperation.
Resolve.
Narza breathed in deep.
And spoke—quietly, reverently:
"Vellshade Final Rite: Deathshroud Waltz."
The world stopped breathing.
Smoke surged outward in every direction, but it didn't billow this time—it flowed, purposeful, alive. Trails curled through the air like ribboned silk, weaving around the wreckage, crawling up walls, licking the edges of flame without feeding it. It coiled around Narza, then through her—her outline blurring, shifting, fragmenting.
Then she vanished.
Not into the shadows.
Into motion.
Torren blinked. "What—?"
A flicker.
He turned just in time to block a strike from behind—but the blade phased through his guard, grazing his ribs like wind.
Another flash—this time from above. Then below. Then the side.
He caught a shape and blasted fire into it—missed.
The smoke pulsed like a heart, faster now, until it became a stage—a vast, flickering space where every breath carried an echo, every light cast four shadows. The tavern vanished beneath the illusion. Only smoke remained.
And her.
But not one Narza.
Dozens.
Each moved differently—one in slow, haunting arcs. Another with sharp, angular spins. One leapt high, another weaved low. Not clones. Not illusions. Fragments—each one a different tempo, a different step of the same deadly dance.
Torren roared. Fire burst from his shoulders in spinning wheels, trying to clear the field.
He hit nothing.
A blade slashed his shoulder. Another scraped his thigh. Blood bloomed.
"STOP HIDING!" he bellowed, eyes flaring.
"I'm not hiding," came her voice from everywhere, nowhere.
"You're just too slow for the finale."
The air collapsed inward—violently.
All the smoke figures surged at once.
Each one struck.
A hundred slashes. A thousand cuts. None fatal—yet. But all of them perfectly placed—tendons, nerves, weak points of his stance. They didn't try to kill.
They tried to strip him down.
His flames flickered. His foot slid. His next step faltered.
And that was when the real Narza moved.
From directly in front.
He barely registered her.
A blink of grey and red—and then—
"Last step," she whispered, blade to his chest.
"Bow."
She spun once, low—her dagger dragging a streak of smoke across the floor.
It ignited behind her.
A shockwave burst from under Torren's feet.
Not fire.
Vacuum.
The smoke imploded, collapsing the field, sucking the air from his lungs, his magic, his fire.
And he dropped—one knee hitting the floor with a thud.
For the first time, he wasn't laughing.
He was staring at her, bloodied, flickering with residual flame, chest heaving.
"…What the hell was that?" he muttered.
Narza didn't answer right away. She exhaled slow, the last of the smoke trailing off her shoulders.
Torren stayed on one knee, panting. Hands trembling, blood dripping down his side. His once-perfect coat was in tatters, skin laced with soot and shallow gashes. His hair clung to his face in sweat-slick strands. The tavern around him had gone silent—no more roaring flame, no more smoke tricks. Just the distant groan of burning timber.
Narza stood still, waiting. Her dagger dipped low, body loose, but alert.
And then—
He laughed.
Quiet at first. A rasp. Just a dry little chuckle, like smoke catching in a throat. But it built. Shaky. Then louder. Richer. Until it rumbled out of him like a storm.
"You—haah—you actually had me there."
Narza didn't move.
Torren leaned forward, one palm smearing through the scorched floorboards. He pushed himself up slowly, like his limbs were remembering what movement felt like.
"I felt the edge," he muttered, still grinning. "I felt the damn curtain call. And I thought—'Is this it? Is that where it ends?'" He tilted his head toward her, hair falling back to reveal the mess she'd made of him. "But you know what?"
A crack of flame burst from his spine. Not bright. Deep. A simmering violet flicker, like a dying star had been shoved beneath his skin.
His eye twitched—and began to glow.
Not yellow. Not orange.
Purple.
A sick, incandescent hue, like fire lit in a god's grave.
"You danced beautifully," he whispered. "But you forgot something important about fire."
His voice dropped an octave. The words came smoother. Richer. Hungrier.
"It doesn't die when you cut it.
It evolves."
The heat shifted.
No longer radiant. It pressed in—dense, suffocating. The air itself began to ripple, as though Brackton Cay had slipped closer to the sun. Even the floor beneath him began to smoke—without catching flame.
Narza took one step back.
Torren spread his arms.
And ignited.
His body lit from inside out, a twisting cyclone of purple fire lacing every inch of him. The color didn't flicker—it stained. His skin cracked like scorched porcelain, glowing beneath the fissures. His coat burned away completely, replaced by a corona of spiraling, unnatural flame. His hair floated upward, like gravity had become a suggestion. Purple flames coiled from his eyes like tears from a demon.
The wounds on his chest and limbs? Gone. Cauterized by the sheer heat. Sealed shut in an instant, leaving glowing trails like branded scars.
Torren grinned through the blaze, teeth bared. His breath came slow and deliberate—like every inhale fed the flame deeper.
"Pyrelight Devourer Form…"
"Ashen Tyrant."
The tavern groaned again—but not from fire.
From weight.
Heat this dense didn't just burn. It crushed.
Erin, still crouched in the shadows, choked on his own breath. His vision blurred at the edges. The heat was wrong—not just hot, but heavy, like he was sinking in boiling tar.
"Gods," he whispered.
Narza didn't flinch. Not yet.
But sweat beaded on her brow.
Torren took one step forward—and the floor beneath his foot charred black instantly, boards snapping under the sheer pressure of heat.
"You gave me a wonderful show," he said, voice now echoing with a deep, smoky timbre—like several voices overlapped. "But I think it's time we reignite the stage."
He lifted a hand—and the flames surged with him, coiling up his arm like a living thing. A single ember floated from his palm—and melted the dagger it touched.
Torren's smirk widened.
"Let's finish this, smoke dancer."
Narza didn't wait.
She vanished into a swirl of gray, reappearing low and behind—dagger already swinging in a wide arc for his throat.
Torren didn't move.
Not with his body.
The fire moved for him.
A flare like a shield blossomed from his shoulder, intercepting the blade before it could reach. It erupted outward in a violent burst, sending Narza skidding across the floor, boots carving twin trenches in scorched wood.
She hit the far wall, shoulder-first. Her breath came short, ragged.
Torren straightened.
There was no stance to read. No tells. No tension.
Only that purple flame, shifting like a cloak over his body.
"Nice try," he said, almost fond. "But we've danced that step before."
He reached for his face—and set it alight.
But this time…
It was different.
Not just flame.
An eruption.
The fire didn't crawl—it detonated across his skin, carving horns from heat and branding a dragon's grin across his face with glowing violet embers. His jaw cracked open wider than it should've, unhinged like a beast's maw. The flames that surged from his eyes weren't just light—they tore through the air like twin whirlwinds.
The tavern itself shook.
"Draconic Howl: Tyrant's Requiem."
The roar was no longer just sound.
It was cataclysm.
A beam of violet flame howled forward, twice as wide and ten times as volatile as the original. The ground beneath it fractured from the recoil. Everything in its path ignited—not just wood or cloth, but light itself seemed to bend and blister in its presence.
She dove—but too slow.
The heat clipped her leg mid-roll. She hit the ground hard, boots skidding out as the flame licked at her side and bit deep.
But the tavern?
Gone.
The far wall didn't burn—it was obliterated, vaporized into a cloud of incandescent debris. The beam kept going, carving a searing trench through the sky like a comet scraping the horizon.
Outside Brackton Cay, the beam slammed into the sea—
And the world went white.
BOOOOM.
A shockwave rattled the entire settlement, ships lurching in the harbor as a tower of steam and flame erupted from the ocean like a volcanic explosion. Water turned to mist in an instant. A fireball climbed into the sky, boiling the clouds above and casting the docks in an eerie, flickering purple glow.
From the wrecked hole in the tavern, you could see it clearly:
A crater of boiling ocean, hundreds of feet wide, where the beam had struck.
Silent.
Then came the delayed crack, like thunder snapping a mountain in half. The sound reached the harbor like a warning from the gods.
On the deck of the ship, Fenrick's head snapped toward the source—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted. A wall of violet light had erupted in the distance, searing through the dark like a second sun. The storm clouds above parted beneath the sheer heat, spiraling into a broken halo around the explosion's peak.
A moment later, the shockwave hit.
The whole ship lurched. Ropes snapped taut. Crates tumbled across the deck.
"—the hell was that?" Ariya shouted, stumbling as she caught herself on the railing.
"Something just hit the sea," Cidrin muttered from beside the mast, shielding his eyes against the glow. "Hard."
Even from this far, you could see the tower of flame and steam—an unnatural geyser tearing into the sky, glowing with a sickly violet hue. It lit up the waves around it like stained glass, sending churning foam and boiling mist in every direction.
"Did that… come from Brackton?" Fenrick's voice had turned low.
Nobody answered.
Because they all knew it did.
But they didn't know that Erin and Narza were there.
* * *
The air sizzled with aftershock.
Half the room was gone. Smoke coiled in sheets across the shattered floorboards, lit from beneath by the slow pulse of embers. Every breath tasted like ash.
Erin staggered, nearly knocked off his feet by the pressure alone. His ears rang. His eyes were wide.
"What the hell was that…? "
Torren stood at the epicenter, glowing like a god in the aftermath. His grin stretched ear to ear.
"Oh," he said breathlessly, "I missed."
His eyes turned—toward Narza. She staggered to her feet, a hand pressed to her leg. She hissed through her teeth.
"Let's try again."
He lifted a hand.
"Behind me—" Narza started, but Erin had already moved.
He didn't think.
Didn't hesitate.
Torren's flame gathered fast—too fast. Narza couldn't move quick enough. Her leg was still dragging, and Erin knew—
If I don't stop him now, she won't make it.
His body lunged forward before his mind caught up.
Right arm down. Elbow angled. Fingers curved.
Just like Torren did it.
The memory of that earlier attack flashed in his head. It had seemed the simplest thing Torren had thrown. A straight strike. A cleave of raw fire.
I can do that. Plasma's not that different… right?
He didn't finish the thought.
The moment his fingers moved, something surged.
Not heat.
Something hotter.
Brighter.
Wilder.
Plasma sparked to life along his arm in a jagged violet-red arc, flickering with unstable power. It wasn't clean. It pulsed and cracked at the edges, unrefined—but it was real.
"SOLFORGE: COMET CLAW!" Erin shouted, more out of desperation than certainty.
The spell screamed forward—violent, crackling, incomplete. But it hit.
It hit.
The violet-red arc of energy smashed into the fire gathering in Torren's hand—and split it apart.
A shriek of energy burst across the tavern.
Torren's arm jerked back as the plasma cut through his flames like a hot blade through wax. He stumbled, expression shifting from glee to stunned silence.
Erin landed hard, skidding in front of Narza with his arm still crackling, chest heaving.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"…No way…" Erin breathed, blinking. "It actually—worked?"
He didn't have time to be stunned.
He saw the look on Torren's face—confusion, sharp and sudden—and that flicker of doubt was all Erin needed.
He stepped in.
Another flare of violet-red screamed across his arm—less jagged this time. More controlled. He was learning it.
"Solforge: Comet Claw!"
The second strike came faster, tighter, aimed low. Torren caught it in a hasty guard of fire, but sparks exploded where the spells collided—and Torren gritted his teeth.
Plasma burned through.
Torren leapt back, landing hard against a splintered beam. His body sizzled at the shoulder, scorched.
"…What—" he muttered, eyes narrowing.
He looked at Erin—at the plasma still pulsing faintly around the boy's fists. At the way it had cut through his flame.
"That wasn't just mimicry…" Torren said, low. "That was Plasma."
He chuckled once—but there was no joy in it.
"So you're a special one too…"
His gaze sharpened. He tried to smirk—but it twitched.
"Another little monster from this generation."
Narza, from behind Erin, blinked.
She hadn't said anything—but her eyes were sharp now. Watching. Measuring. Like she was seeing him properly for the first time.
Erin didn't answer Torren.
He charged again.
Torren raised his arms to brace—too slow. Erin's next Comet Claw slammed against his guard, knocking him sideways through another support beam. Wood split. Fire spat embers into the air.
Erin kept pushing.
Again.
Again.
Each Comet Claw looked different—slightly adjusted angles, deeper swings, a tighter curve in the follow-through. He wasn't just repeating it.
He was learning it.
The fear hadn't left him entirely—it still buzzed under his ribs—but something else was louder now. That feeling from before. When the spell connected. When he stood his ground.
I can actually fight.
And he wasn't going to stop.
Not until Torren fell.
Torren didn't move for a breath.
Then he lunged.
No flame this time. Just speed.
Blinding, brutal speed.
Erin barely reacted in time—ducked the first blow, stumbled back. The second grazed his temple, and even that glancing strike knocked stars across his vision. His knees buckled. He nearly fell.
Too strong…
Torren pressed in close—shoulder lowered, fists flying in a flurry of wild, practiced strikes. Not elegant. Not theatrical anymore. These were meant to kill.
Erin threw up his arms—blocked one, two—but the third blow cracked across his forearm, numbing it instantly. He grunted and staggered.
I can't let him hit me clean. If he lands one… it's over.
He twisted sideways, trying to create distance. A kick swept toward his ribs—he barely deflected it with a burst of plasma, but the pressure still hurled him through a splintered table.
He coughed, rolling through ash and debris. His jacket smoked. His vision blurred.
Torren came again.
No time to think.
Erin's hand snapped up, flickering violet-red light already forming along his wrist.
"Solforge—Comet Claw!"
The spell roared forward—crude, jagged, almost feral. It wasn't artful. But it had weight. Plasma tore across the floor, carving a glowing scar through the wood. Torren raised both arms to block—
The impact smashed into him, hard enough to stagger.
Erin gasped for breath, chest heaving. Not from exhaustion—but from a rush. That feeling again.
He was hurting Torren.
The impossible was real.
But then—
Torren growled. Not like before. This wasn't a smug chuckle or a mocking whisper. This was raw—guttural.
Something cracked in him.
His heel scraped the scorched floor. His arms rose slowly, one of them trembling slightly—fingers twitching with strain.
Then—he spoke.
But not to Erin.
To himself.
"No… no no no no no…"
He looked at his shaking arm like it had betrayed him. His lips curled back, baring teeth. The flames around his body flared again—but this time, Erin noticed something different.
Cracks.
In his skin.
Veins along his forearm were glowing—like fire had taken root inside and couldn't get out. His fingertips trembled.
Ash spilled from between his clenched knuckles.
He's burning himself alive.
But Torren didn't stop. He couldn't.
He surged forward again—screaming now.
"Pyrelight: Scorch Barrage!"
His fists struck out in a hail of blazing strikes, each one detonating mid-air—shockwaves of pressure and flame rupturing everything they touched. Floorboards split. Nails burst from the walls. The ceiling cracked.
Erin dodged the first two, leapt back from the third, and raised a shield of plasma for the fourth. He couldn't dodge everything.
The fifth strike clipped his hip—and the shockwave sent him flying into a broken pillar.
He hit hard. Gasped. Slid to his knees.
The world swam.
But he didn't fall.
He looked up—and saw Torren again.
Still coming.
But his stride faltered.
His breath—uneven. His right leg dragged slightly. His jaw clenched harder than before.
The flames around him were shuddering, flickering in strange rhythms, like something unstable in a dying furnace. His body was betraying him.
And Torren knew it.
His glare found Erin through the haze. Blood streaked his forehead. One eye was almost swollen shut.
"I was chosen," he snarled, voice cracking. "I can still turn uo the heat!!"
He raised his arm again—though it shook violently—and drew the flame inward, shaping it with raw will.
Compressing it.
Condensing it.
An arc of burning gold and red curved across his forearm—bright, concentrated, dangerously unstable.
"Pyrelight: COMET CLAW."
Erin forced himself to his feet, legs screaming, vision still swimming.
But his fists clenched.
He could feel it now—the way plasma wanted to move.
Not like fire. Not wild.
Sharper. Cleaner. Relentless.
It thrummed at his core—pulse for pulse with his heartbeat.
He drew in his breath—and the crackling red-violet flared up his arm.
"Solforge: COMET CLAW!"
They collided.
Time split.
A radiant shockwave erupted at the center—plasma and pyrelight colliding in a cosmic bloom. Violet and crimson spiraled into a storm of energy that crushed the ground between them and lit the whole tavern with blinding light.
The heat hit like a tidal wave.
And then—
Torren's arm shattered.
Not cut. Not severed.
Obliterated.
The strain of his overcompressed flame collapsed from within—his forearm cracked open with a sound like glass under pressure, and the bone gave way with it.
Flame poured from the fractures—uncontrolled, chaotic, and screaming.
His body flung backward in a tangled sprawl of limbs and cinders, fire bleeding from the cracks in his flesh, wild and panicked. He slammed into the far wall hard enough to crater the stone behind him.
He didn't get up.
For a moment—nothing.
And then—
The flames died.
Not all at once. Not in a final blaze.
They guttered.
Flickered along his chest.
Dimmed at his shoulder.
Tiny curls of gold and ember-red flickered weakly around his broken arm, sputtering like the last breaths of a dying forge. He reached for them, almost clawed at the air—as if he could force the fire back into motion.
But the magic—his magic—was gone.
It burned itself out.
And in its place: ash. Smoke. And silence.
Torren wheezed, slumped in the rubble. One eye shut completely. The other stared wide at the ceiling—unfocused, trembling. His lips parted, cracked from the heat. A twitch ran through his jaw, then his chest.
He coughed—and a plume of smoke poured from his mouth.
Erin hit the ground too—hard. His palm burned, his body shaken to the core, but he forced himself to stand. The boy hadn't even realized he was shaking. Not from pain. From adrenaline. From the terrifying knowledge that—somehow—he'd just overpowered the man who nearly killed him an hour ago.
Torren tried to speak again. Failed.
Tried to rise.
His broken arm gave a sick pop and collapsed under him.
Still, he dragged himself forward an inch—then two.
But the flames didn't return.
His fire—his identity—had abandoned him.
"W-what…" he rasped, coughing ash. "What… are you…"
His voice cracked at the end.
No fury. No playfulness. No elegance.
Just fear.
Erin didn't answer.
He couldn't.
And he didn't need to.
The silence said enough.
Torren Sol—the gang boss who burned his enemies alive with a smile—lay half-conscious in a crater, broken and smoldering.
His flames were gone.
And for the first time, his stage was dark. Erin won.