Aren's boots slammed into the ground, and the battlefield shook.
He surged forward with a force that felt ancient — not just power, but purpose. His heart thundered in rhythm with each step, every breath tighter, heavier. His muscles bulged, bones locked in a stronger frame, and the dirt beneath his soles cracked from the strain of simply holding him back.
I need more.
His hand pressed against his chest — and the bear emblem ignited.
A deep orange glow flared across his torso, veins lighting up like rivers of lava beneath his skin. The symbol of the bear carved itself into being, and with it came a rush of strength so intense, it made him feel like the ground itself bent to his will. His fingers clenched tighter around the hilt of his sword — what once felt heavy now moved like paper. His heartbeat slowed, but every beat struck harder, steadier, like a war drum echoing through his ribs.
He launched.
The first strike landed like a falling mountain — vertical, vicious, and near impossible to block. Gin caught it, but the impact hurled him backward, boots tearing trenches in the soil. He twisted to keep his balance, his sword vibrating in his grip.
"You weren't moving like this before," Gin muttered, laughing under his breath. "I like this."
Aren didn't answer. His next strike came even harder — a wide, sweeping horizontal slash that stirred the wind and kicked dust skyward. Gin ducked just in time, parrying with a flick of his curved blade, but it cost him ground.
Aren pressed, faster, stronger. A downward smash. A rising cut. A shoulder-check that sent shockwaves through Gin's ribs. With the bear emblem surging through him, every motion carried devastating weight. He wasn't just fighting — he was overwhelming.
Gin grinned as he staggered back.
"I've seen power before," he said, shaking out his arms. "But this is clean. Controlled. You've trained."
Another swing. Another parry. Gin caught it on the flat of his blade, his wrist jolting from the force.
"But I bet that emblem's doing most of the work."
Aren didn't reply. He stopped suddenly, his chest still glowing — but now his left arm began to shimmer.
The air changed.
A green light spiraled outward in tight, serpentine coils — viridescent and alive, curling like smoke that knew how to kill. It climbed Aren's arm, wrapping around muscle and bone until it flared into the air beside him. The cobra took form — spectral and sinuous — its hood flared wide, fangs dripping with venomous energy, tongue flickering in eerie silence. The very air recoiled, going still and cold as if nature itself feared the beast's awakening.
This... wasn't supposed to happen.
The thought struck Aren even as he braced his stance. He could feel it — the second emblem rooting itself into his core. Alive. Burning. Hungry. The Dark Dragon told me I could only wield one. Said my current strength wouldn't hold more. But now… he hadn't forced it. He hadn't even called it consciously. His need had drawn it forth.
Did I push past the limit? Or was the limit a lie?
Behind him, the cobra spirit coiled high, casting a long, undulating shadow. Its eyes glinted, reflecting Gin's stunned face — no longer amused, no longer grinning.
"…That's a second emblem," Gin muttered. His voice came quiet, edged with disbelief. "That's not possible."
Aren stepped forward, boots grinding into the dust.
The cobra moved with him — elegant and deadly — its green energy unraveling into the shape of a whip. It lashed once toward Gin, a warning. The bandit raised his blade instinctively, just in time to deflect the strike, though it didn't even aim for flesh. It wanted him to react. To respect.
"Two emblems…" Gin said again, slower this time. His gaze locked onto Aren's. "I've never seen that in my life."
Aren didn't answer. The serpent did.
It lunged — not just as energy, but with intent.
Aren followed behind it, sword raised, letting the snake lead the rhythm. He moved differently now — looser, faster, each slash coated in spectral venom. His strikes weren't just powerful, they were unpredictable, twisting mid-air as if guided by the cobra's will.
Gin laughed as he barely dodged one.
"Oh-ho! And now you've got tricks, too?" His eyes were bright. "You are full of surprises, aren't you?"
The serpent hissed louder.
Gin's expression shifted again — this time, puzzled.
"That emblem... looks familiar."
He eyed the cobra closely, watching its motion, the distinctive twin-fang markings along its hood. His smile curled.
"Wait a second," he said. "That looks just like Flint's."
He raised his brows, bemused. "Someone here got some secrets."
But there was no anger. No mourning. Just a glint of something dark.
"Heh. Doesn't matter. He always talked too much."
Then Gin stood tall, drawing a breath.
"Well then — if we're pulling out all the fun things, I suppose I should stop holding back."
He slammed his curved blade into the earth. A crack split open beneath them, and a miasmic force erupted from his body.
His own emblem flared to life — a monstrous mamba, coiling into the air above him, larger and more grotesque than Aren's serpent. Its body was thick with muscle, its scales dark as oil, and its fangs dripped with green mist that sizzled on contact with the ground.
Gas vented from the aura's open mouth. Invisible, but thick. Aren's lungs tightened with the first breath.
[Warning: air quality compromised. High toxicity. Recommend rapid engagement or filter protocols. Time to breath failure: 20 seconds.]
No escape now, Aren thought, jaw tightening. It ends here.
Gin's blade now glowed with a sickly green light — every inch of it coated in corrosive energy. As he lifted it, steam hissed from the edge, and the grass around his feet browned and withered.
"Every strike I land melts through you now," he said, voice low, hungry. "And the air's already working on your lungs. Hope your lungs are as tough as your arms, mystery man."
Aren's sword shifted in his grip. Bear strength. Cobra speed. His muscles tensed. The serpent coiled. Behind him, the wind stirred, caught between the beast and the venom.
And Gin grinned like a wolf.
"Let's see who the real predator is."
Aren rushed in, his body fueled by the brute strength of the bear and the venomous speed of the cobra. His blade clashed with Gin's again and again — steel ringing against steel, slashes splitting the air with explosive force. For every strike Aren threw, Gin answered with a counter, each movement flowing like liquid death.
The gas was everywhere now.
Each breath Aren took scorched his lungs. The mamba's aura filled the air with a toxin so dense it clung to his skin. His vision began to blur at the edges, muscles trembling beneath the weight of his own momentum.
I can't keep this up.
He forced himself to move — a shoulder feint, a rising slash, a twisting counter. He was still faster, still stronger, but his body felt like it was sinking in the thick poison cloud.
Gin twisted low and came up with a brutal slash — the edge of his curved sword raked across Aren's chest. The corrosive energy burned through his shirt and bit into flesh.
Pain roared across Aren's ribs. He gasped — but the gas gave him no air, only more fire in his lungs.
He stumbled.
And then—
A voice, ancient and layered, rumbled inside Aren's mind like thunder behind the mountains. It wasn't Val.
It was something older.
Something dormant — until now.
The Dark Dragon stirred.
Aren's body went still. His heart thumped once, twice — and then black energy erupted from his spine like a geyser of shadow.
Dark fire spilled from within him, curling around his limbs, binding to skin. It moved like it remembered him. Wrapping, coating, crawling up his torso and along his arms, forming a sleek exoskeletal armor that shimmered like obsidian in the twilight haze. The flames pulsed between the joints and gaps, flickering like the breath of a living inferno.
He stood tall again.
The gas no longer touched him. He breathed cleanly, the haze burning away as it approached the black armor.
The mamba aura hissed, recoiling — as if sensing what now stood before it.
Gin blinked, taking a step back. "...That's another emblem," he muttered, something uncertain behind his grin.
Aren raised his sword. His arms no longer ached. His lungs filled with strength. The armor felt like a second skin — not heavy, but alive. With each movement, the flames pulsed in tandem, wild and controlled all at once.
He dashed forward.
His blade cut through the mamba's aura — not just slicing the image, but the magic itself. The serpent's spectral head split in half, dissipating like smoke on wind. Gin jumped back, eyes wide, brows furrowed.
"What are you—?"
He lunged, swinging his blade in a low arc. The corrosive edge struck Aren's armored side — and did nothing. No recoil, no mark, no crack. The dark shell absorbed the strike like a black ocean swallowing a stone.
Aren stared at him, eyes cold.
[Your Majesty,] Val's voice spoke inside his mind, [I've scanned Gin's gear. He carries no antidote, no stimulants. Nothing that could stabilize Bufo.]
Aren's gaze narrowed.
He has nothing?
"Do you have the cure?" he asked, his voice calm, almost quiet in the chaos.
Gin's eyes gleamed.
"No," he said, grinning. "Never needed one. I win my fights."
That was enough.
Aren shifted his stance. Dark energy surged to the edge of his blade, crackling down its length like lightning in a stormcloud. He gripped the hilt with both hands, fire pooling in his veins.
The sword dropped into a low, diagonal guard.
Then he swung.
A wave of black flame exploded from the blade, roaring across the battlefield in a tearing arc of power. The ground cracked beneath it. The gas vaporized.
Gin didn't move.
He tried to raise his sword — but it was too late.
The black wave struck him dead-on.
His body split in two.
For a heartbeat, everything was silent. The wind stilled. The serpent's hiss faded.
Then Gin's halves fell to the ground, twitching once, then still.
Aren exhaled — and dropped to one knee.
His breath was ragged, but he forced himself to rise. He turned toward the car, where Bufo still lay motionless and pale. Kana knelt beside him, hands stained with blood, her eyes wide as she looked up.
"Aren…?" she whispered.
She stared — not just at him, but at what he had become. Black armor shimmered with flame between the joints, each breath radiating raw, unfiltered power. His eyes glowed faintly with the aftershock of whatever had just awoken inside him.
The dragon's voice again — colder this time. Focused.
Aren staggered to Bufo's side and pressed his palm against the wound.
The flames on his armor shifted — darkened, sank into his body — and pooled at his hand. They bled into Bufo's chest, trailing across his skin like smoky veins.
Kana flinched, watching — but said nothing.
Moments passed.
Then Bufo coughed — once, hard — and his eyelids fluttered.
He breathed.
Color returned to his face, slowly, like dawn after a storm.
Aren collapsed beside him, his armor fading into smoke. The black flames curled into his chest and vanished.
He didn't move.
Kana stared, eyes wide, still holding Bufo's arm.
The pup in the corner stirred, blinking sleepily as if waking from a dream, and yawned.
Aren lay still, unconscious — his body finally at rest.
The battlefield was quiet.
And for the first time in hours, there was peace.