The black-armored figure stepped fully into the ruined clearing, his presence alone bending the air around him. Each rune etched across his armor glowed faintly, pulsing in rhythm with his breath, as though he carried an ancient heart not his own.
Rondan's blade was already raised, its steel reflecting the crimson shimmer. His crimson eyes narrowed, reading every movement, every subtle twitch that might betray weakness. But this was no ordinary foe—this was the will of the Shroud given flesh.
"Who are you?" Rondan demanded, his voice steady.
The figure tilted his helm slightly, the burning sigils across its surface flaring brighter.
> "I am no one," the voice answered, deep and inhuman. "I am the Shroud's hand. The weight that breaks the unworthy. To resist us is to resist the flame itself."
The words struck like hammer blows, echoing inside Rondan's chest. But fear did not settle there—only fire.
With a sharp exhale, he lunged. His blade carved a silver arc through the smoke, aiming straight for the enemy's chest.
Steel met crimson light.
The impact sent a shockwave ripping across the battlefield, scattering embers and ash like a storm. Leina staggered back, shielding her eyes as the ground split beneath their feet.
The armored figure barely moved. He raised a single hand, catching Rondan's blade mid-strike as if it weighed nothing at all. Runes crawled across his gauntlet, snaking toward the sword, trying to consume it.
Rondan gritted his teeth, crimson fire flaring from his eyes. He poured his will into the blade, igniting it with the cursed flame that had followed him since birth. The runes hissed, recoiling from the searing heat.
For the first time, the figure faltered.
Leina's voice cut through the chaos.
"Rondan! Don't let him bind the flame—the Shroud's runes are chains!"
Her warning came just in time. The figure twisted his other hand, and the air solidified into chains of crimson light, lashing toward Rondan like vipers.
Rondan broke free with a roar, flames bursting from his body, the cursed fire devouring the chains before they could close. The battlefield glowed with his defiance, shadows dancing wildly on the broken stones.
The figure tilted his head, unshaken.
> "Good… The catalyst awakens."
But Rondan's blade was already moving again, cutting through the smoke, striking with the force of someone who refused to bow.
This was no longer just a battle.
It was a declaration.
The Shroud wanted chains. Rondan would give them fire.