Quick Recap-
The convoy is ambushed by eerie assassins in black. Sir Ronald fights brilliantly, but their leader—a skeletal void caster—emerges from shadows, absorbing attacks effortlessly.
With a "Bored now," he summons a monstrous black serpent, shattering Ronald's arm.
As the void caster raises his scythe for the killing blow, Trimat appears, standing atop the carriage.
Their silent stare-off crackles with history—"memory recognized memory."
Meanwhile, James watches numbly, while Arthur and Adam debate intervening.
The chapter ends on this chilling standoff, hinting at a dark past between Trimat and the void caster.
-Recap Ends
Two monsters met.
And the forest forgot its own name.
The voidcaster raised his chin. The rusted scythe clung to his side like death waiting to be sculpted. His shadow didn't ripple—it bled into the ground like rot with roots.
Trimat stood above the carriage.
One foot on the rail.
The wind around him didn't howl.
It waited.
White cloak whipping once.
Then still.
Their eyes met.
The carriage—behind them—did not move. Its protection glyph pulsed faintly, wrapped in an aura untouched by time or threat.
James leaned out the curtain slightly, watching.
Arthur gripped the hilt of his blade, tense.
Adam knelt beside Sir Ronald—whose blood painted the wheel's rim.
Quickly, Adam summoned his casting pressure and wrapped it into a binding mesh, pressing it to Ronald's side. The glow steadied.
Ronald blinked once.
Alive.
But barely.
Then the voidcaster stepped forward.
Trimat's cloak whipped again.
He leapt.
Smooth.
Downward.
Soundless.
He landed ten strides from the voidcaster.
His boots cracked soil like the earth resented being touched.
The voidcaster stepped back.
Deliberate.
Not afraid.
But granting space.
Trimat raised his hand slowly.
Wind surged toward it.
Folded.
Compressed.
Tightened.
A sword formed—not forged, summoned.
A single-edge blade spiraling in mid-air until its shape solidified into hardened tundra wind.
Glacier-white in hue. Not frost. Not ice.
Velocity itself, arrested into form.
The wind around it screamed without sound.
He spoke.
Not loudly.
Not kindly.
"Leave."
"Or die."
The voidcaster tilted his head.
His scythe scraped the gravel once.
Then—
He lunged.
Air didn't react.
It was torn.
The scythe carved through five pressure zones as it aimed for Trimat's ribcage.
Trimat twisted.
A gust shot outward—
Tundra Wind.
Not cast.
Not summoned.
Unleashed.
The force hit the scythe mid-swing, curving its arc.
Then—
Trimat stepped once, sword raised, slashing downward.
A spiral of condensed wind exploded from the blade's edge.
The voidcaster absorbed it—
But staggered back.
He replied with a whisper.
Black Spirals.
Dark Ether erupted behind him—
A swarm of glyph-bound snakes twisted upward, writhing into claws that shredded bark, stone, and memory.
Trimat launched Crosswind Severance—
Horizontal gusts slashed in waves.
The Ether snakes split mid-air, bleeding dark mist.
One spiral snapped toward the carriage—
Trimat flicked two fingers.
A crescent gust burst sideways—
Deleted the spell.
Mountains trembled.
Not from collision.
From witnessing.
Two monsters redrew laws.
The voidcaster twisted his hands upward—
His arms fracturing at the wrists as he summoned Grave Pulse.
A dead zone of entropy burst outward—
All light vanished.
Trimat blinked backward—
Cast Wind Step.
The tundra air shimmered—
He vanished.
Reappeared behind the voidcaster.
Struck once.
Sword pierced between shoulder blades—
But no blood.
Just tension broken.
The voidcaster spun, scythe screeching—
Their weapons collided.
The sky cracked.
Wind blasted backward.
Trees fell from reverberation alone.
Scythe devoured some wind.
Sword repelled some void.
The voidcaster kicked—
Trimat blocked with elbow, launched Pressure Snare—
Wind tendrils grabbed the voidcaster's leg mid-kick.
He flipped—landed wrong.
Trimat lunged.
Cast Gale Sweep.
A radial wave of frost-laced wind surged along the soil—
The voidcaster blocked with scythe's base.
It bent.
But didn't break.
He spun—
Cast Night Maw.
A shadow burst upward—
Fanged. Screaming. Absorbing heat.
Trimat cast Thermal Silence.
Temperature plummeted.
Night Maw cracked.
Their fight bled into terrain.
The first ridge collapsed—
Wind and shadow ruptured the mountain's root.
Dust clawed the sky like ghost-ash.
The second ridge split from a Whisper Scar cast by Trimat.
It hit the voidcaster's shoulder—
He laughed.
Not from joy.
From recognition.
He cast Deathlink Curve.
His scythe carved a circle—
A glyph formed behind Trimat—
Spectral cage snapped shut.
Trimat didn't flinch.
He whispered—
"Too slow."
His body dissolved into wind.
Reappeared inside the circle.
The glyph shattered.
He slashed upward.
Blade sliced through chest—
But not skin.
Passed like steel through memory.
Voidcaster grabbed Trimat's forearm—
Cast Wither Spine—
Death energy rippled down Trimat's veins.
Trimat triggered Wind Reversal—
The spell turned—
Hit the voidcaster's own shoulder.
A fracture.
He dropped his scythe.
Trimat cast Sky Fang.
Sword pulsed.
A lightning stream surged downward from cloud-break—
Sharp enough to shred gravity.
The voidcaster leapt—
Caught the edge—
Cloak tore.
Ribcage shimmered.
No blood.
Still none.
Now—
Both breathing.
Not from fatigue.
From respect.
Trimat stepped forward.
Cast Nine-Step Gale.
His feet moved nine precise angles—
Each step birthed a blade of wind.
Voidcaster responded with Obsidian Churn.
Dark Ether flooded upward—
Formed writhing tendrils.
Both collided—
Exploded mid-air.
Ash scattered.
Snow fell.
Sound paused.
Light hesitated.
Arthur shielded James with a shaky arm.
Adam crouched, shielding Ronald's chest.
Inside the carriage—
All still lived.
Because Trimat didn't let fate shatter.
Then—
As silence returned—
They stood.
Trimat.
Blade raised.
Voidcaster.
Scythe drawn again.
Their weapons pressed—
Against each other's neck.
Sword.
To scythe.
Wind.
To rot.
Monsters.
To legend.
They didn't blink.
Didn't speak.
They simply held still—
Waiting for the world to exhale again.
Their blades held like history pressed thin.
Wind stopped mid-breath.
Scythe at Trimat's neck.
Sword across the voidcaster's throat.
Then—
In unison—
They lowered their weapons.
And stepped forward.
Their hands met—not as rivals, not as strangers.
But as those who had once shared purpose.
A grip.
Firm.
Sure.
Quiet.
Then, layered like memories spilled into twilight:
"Long time no see, old friend. You've gotten weak."
Their voices echoed together, out of sync yet perfectly aligned.
Silence followed.
The wind dared to stir again.
But confusion rippled through the camp.
Adam looked up from Ronald's side, pressure mesh glowing faintly.
Ronald blinked, dazed but aware.
Arthur held his blade halfway lifted, unsure.
James stepped forward—
Fury tearing through his silence.
"What do you mean 'old friend'?" he shouted. "He attacked us! He murdered those soldiers! I saw it—I felt it—he cast horrors through the air—!"
Trimat turned without haste.
His blade rested at his side.
But his voice carved through heat.
"Child," he said.
"You are too small to notice."
James stopped, blood roaring.
Trimat walked past the voidcaster slowly—without flinching—and raised one hand toward the broken ridge.
The wind gathered.
Compressed.
Shaped itself into an arc—like a screen of moving glass.
Behind it—
The forest shimmered.
Dark fog peeled upward, unraveling.
Shadows rewound.
Branches straightened.
And then—
They saw it.
The soldiers.
All of them.
Still.
Unmoving.
Breathing.
Scattered like fragile tokens caught in sleep.
Adam rose slowly. "They're… alive?"
Trimat nodded, blade shifting slightly in the air.
"They never died. There were no assassins. No blood. Only illusion. Made by him."
He turned fully.
Looked directly at the man.
The voidcaster.
And said—
"This man…"
A pause.
No flourish.
Just recognition.
"…is Greton."
Whispers curled into wind.
"Greton the Nightmare."
Arthur's eyes widened.
Ronald's breath froze.
James blinked. "Greton—?"
Trimat continued.
"Breaker of false realms. Spinner of regret. Harbinger of sleepless truths. And one of the 4 Grandmaster Gear Knights of the Nautilus Kingdom."
Greton tilted his head slightly. "That name aged well," he said.
James stepped backward, uncertain. "Then why… Why lie?"
Greton stepped forward, the scythe low at his side.
His voice was velvet dipped in frost.
"You needed the illusion more than I did."
Arthur gripped his blade tighter.
Adam raised one hand, half-casting instinctively.
Greton looked at James.
"You needed fear. To remember what it costs to survive."
Ronald coughed once, then asked, "Then why didn't Trimat step in earlier?"
Trimat's blade shimmered, untouched by dust.
"I knew the moment he cast," Trimat said. "He's the only one who turns shadow into memory."
"And I knew," he added, "he wouldn't kill anyone."
"Yet," Greton said.
It was not a threat.
It was scheduled truth.
He turned toward James.
Eyes pale.
Unblinking.
He stepped forward once.
"Is it true?" he asked. "The plague…"
Trimat nodded.
"Returned."
Greton frowned. "No," he said quietly. "Awakened."
He looked past Trimat.
To James.
The boy with rage still burning.
The wind shifted.
Trimat lowered his gaze.
"Yes," he said.
"In him."
James didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Greton's hand tightened around the scythe.
Arthur stepped forward.
Adam reached sideways.
Trimat stayed still.
"You carry it?" Greton asked.
James stood taller.
"I don't want it."
"That doesn't matter."
Greton took another step.
Ronald coughed weakly, "What do you mean—what are you—?"
Trimat didn't interrupt.
The moment had already chosen its axis.
Greton lifted his scythe.
One motion.
The blade glinted.
Then—
Pointed straight toward James.
His voice was colder than prophecy.
"You have to die."
**"When False Worlds Shatter,
Old Shadows Wake"**
End Of Chapter-22
To Be Continued