The dust hadn't settled.
Tyrandel lay sprawled on the churned earth, blood in his mouth, pain in his ribs, and silence in his thoughts. The boots stopped inches from his face.
A voice followed.
Cold. Sharp. Familiar.
"Get up."
Tyrandel didn't move.
"Get up and fight."
He groaned, rolled onto his side, and pushed himself upright. His arms trembled. His legs felt like stone. But he stood.
The figure stepped back, giving him space. Not out of mercy—out of expectation.
Tyrandel raised his hands. The miasma stirred, sluggish and reluctant. His fingers twitched, summoning the Shield of Valour once more. A faint dome shimmered into existence, weaker than before.
The next attack came instantly.
A blood beam tore through the air, followed by a barrage of swipes—arcing, slicing, relentless. Tyrandel blocked what he could, reinforced the shield where it cracked, but the rhythm was off. His breathing was shallow. His focus scattered.
The shield held, but barely.
"You're slow," the voice said. "Sloppy."
Another beam. Another crack.
"You think the Gaian Wraiths will wait for you to catch your breath?"
Tyrandel gritted his teeth, shifting his stance. He traced the incoming strikes with his fingers, reinforcing the miasma in real time. It looked like a dance again—but this time, it was desperate. Reactive. Survival, not control.
"You're going to die like this," the voice continued. "And when you do, it won't be noble. It'll be pathetic."
A blood swipe slipped past the shield and grazed his shoulder. Tyrandel winced, stumbled, recovered.
"You want to avenge your parents?" the voice asked. "You can't even defend yourself."
Tyrandel didn't answer.
He didn't want to.
Another bullet fired—this one aimed low. Tyrandel jumped, barely clearing it, but landed awkwardly. His ankle twisted. The shield flickered.
"You're weak."
The words cut deeper than the blood.
"You think power comes from pain? From training? No. Power comes from conviction. From hunger. From the will to kill."
Tyrandel's eyes narrowed.
He didn't have that hunger.
Not yet.
The figure vanished.
A blur of motion—then impact.
Tyrandel was flung backward, crashing through a dead tree. The trunk exploded into splinters, raining debris across the clearing. He rolled, coughing, the miasma swirling around him like smoke.
"You hesitate," the voice said, now behind him. "You stall. You wait for the right moment. There is no right moment."
Another blood beam fired. Tyrandel raised his shield just in time. The impact cracked the earth beneath him, sending shockwaves through the ground. Stones lifted. Branches snapped. The Dead Woods groaned under the pressure.
"You think the Shield of Valour is your salvation?" the voice mocked. "It's a crutch. You hide behind it because you're afraid."
Tyrandel's hands trembled.
He reinforced the shield again, tracing the weak side with his left hand, lifting the right to intercept the next barrage. The miasma pulsed, responding—but slower now. Less eager.
"You don't want this," the voice said. "You want it to end."
Another swipe. Another dodge. Tyrandel twisted, barely avoiding a blood bullet that shattered a boulder behind him. The explosion sent shards flying, slicing through the air like razors.
"You're not a warrior. You're a child playing with power you don't understand."
Tyrandel lunged forward, trying to close the distance. His fingers traced a path through the air, miasma flaring around him. He swung his arm, sending a wave of condensed energy toward the figure.
It was deflected instantly.
The figure spun, launching a counterstrike that tore through the ground. Tyrandel was thrown sideways, skidding across the dirt, his shield flickering.
"You think this is enough?" the voice asked. "You think this is strength?"
Tyrandel pushed himself up, panting. His body ached. His mind screamed.
"I don't want to kill," he muttered.
The figure paused.
"What?"
"I don't want to kill," Tyrandel repeated, louder this time.
The silence that followed was heavier than any blow.
Then laughter.
Low. Cold. Cruel.
"You don't want to kill?" the voice echoed. "Then die."
The figure vanished again.
Tyrandel braced himself.
Blood bullets fired in rapid succession. He dodged the first, blocked the second, but the third struck his side. He staggered, coughing, the shield collapsing into smoke.
The figure reappeared above him, descending like a blade.
Tyrandel raised both hands, miasma flaring. The shield reformed—barely in time. The impact cracked the ground beneath him, sending tremors through the clearing.
"You're going to die, Tyrandel."
The name hit harder than the strike.
"You're going to die unless you stop pretending you're something you're not."
Tyrandel's fists clenched.
He didn't want bloodshed.
He didn't want this.
But he couldn't walk away.
Not from this. Not from him.
The figure raised a hand, blood swirling around his fingers like smoke.
"You're going to die, Tyrandel."
The name hit harder than the strike.
"You're going to die unless you stop pretending you're something you're not."
Tyrandel summoned the shield again—weak, flickering, desperate.
The figure didn't attack.
Not yet.
He watched.
Judging.
Waiting.
And Tyrandel stood there, breathing hard, blood on his lips, pain in his bones.
Wanting it to end.
But knowing it wouldn't.
Not until he changed.
Not until he chose.