The rain no longer fell.
It was being pushed.
The air itself trembled under the advance.
Ghatotkacha came like a living avalanche — each step crushed the ground before even completing the motion.
The mud did not splash; it yielded, sank, compressed under tons of weight and fury.
The entire field tilted in his direction.
There was no caution.
There was no reading.
There was only a brutal, direct impulse — a predatory force advancing in a straight line toward the single point that mattered.
Neriah.
The first impact came before any blow.
The colossal foot descended.
The earth sank in a dull thud that spread through the ground like an invisible wave, shaking puddles, making the water vibrate in violent circles.
And then something cut the space before him.
Rynne appeared.
It was not a long movement — it was a short leap, impossible to follow.
The air around her seemed to lag for half an instant as the body advanced.
The rapier came first.
A direct thrust to the base of the eye.
The impact did not pierce.
But it was enough to push the creature's face, breaking the line of the advance.
The second attack came before the first finished transferring.
Rynne rotated her hips, sliding through the mud with a low base, and the blade scraped the ankle tendon — not deep, but fast, precise, at the exact point where balance and weight met.
The giant's advance did not stop.
But it broke rhythm.
It was all she needed.
Her body was no longer where it should be when the colossal hand descended.
The blow crushed the ground in a heavy crash, opening a crater of compressed mud.
But Rynne was already reappearing on the other side — breath held, eyes fixed, steps short, too fast to look natural.
She did not fight to injure.
She fought to keep the monster reacting.
The rapier danced again.
Three short thrusts — throat, clavicle, shoulder joint.
All shallow.
All fast.
All forcing the gigantic body to adjust angle, rotate mass, shift weight.
And it was in that instant of adjustment that the space opened.
A short fissure tore the air behind the creature's knee.
Kaelir came out of it already in motion.
There was no announcement.
There was no pause.
The two daggers came in sequence — angular cuts, fast, precise — three short lines that crossed the side of the tendon like strokes of a blade of wind.
He did not remain.
He had already turned his body, opening another fissure beside his own torso before the weight of the movement even stabilized.
The counterattack came brutal.
The giant's arm swept through the space where Kaelir had been half a second before.
But the impact was not left to chance.
A fissure opened in the air exactly at the point where the fist would descend — to displace the impact zone.
The colossal fist entered the fissure — and, in the same instant, reappeared to the right, as if space itself had been cut and repositioned.
There was no resistance.
No locking.
The arm simply crossed the fold and completed the movement on the other side, exploding against the ground and sinking until half the forearm.
Mud rose in a heavy wave.
The fissure closed immediately after the impact, like a wound healing in the same instant.
Above the impact, another fissure opened.
Kaelir emerged from it already in motion.
A short turn of the body, light base, almost elastic.
The blades came again — four quick, crossing cuts, striking the back of the hand trapped in the ground.
The objective was not to injure deeply.
It was to lock.
Create resistance.
The colossal hand tore itself from the mud in a violent pull.
The creature's entire body reacted next.
It did not hesitate.
It turned.
The mass shifted with absurd speed for its size — the shoulder entering first, low, heavy, like an animal trying to crush distance.
Rynne was already moving.
She held her breath.
The world dragged for an instant.
Her body advanced like a white streak through the rain, sliding between suspended splashes.
The rapier struck the side of the creature's face — not piercing, but deflecting the line of the advance by a minimal fraction.
And that fraction was enough.
A fissure opened directly under the colossal foot at the instant it would descend — created at the limit of impact.
It did not swallow the whole leg.
Only the base of the step passed through the fold of space — as if the ground had been displaced sideways.
When the foot reappeared, it was already half a meter to the left of the original point.
Too little to topple the creature.
But enough to break the support line.
The weight of the entire body faltered for a single instant.
Kaelir appeared at the side of the torso, coming out of another short fissure.
The daggers crossed in a simultaneous strike, aiming at the fold of the armpit — the point where mass and mobility met.
The giant reacted.
Faster than before.
The opposite arm descended in a short arc — not a punch, but a lateral crush, seeking to sweep everything around.
Rynne tried to retreat.
But her breath failed half a beat earlier.
The acceleration that should have carried her out of reach did not come complete.
She was still inside the trajectory.
The shadow of the colossal arm fell over her.
And then space tore.
A fissure opened before the impact — created by Kaelir.
He was already there.
One dagger pushed her shoulder through the fissure while the other intercepted the gigantic wrist in a dry cut, deflecting just enough so the mass would not descend directly.
The impact exploded to the side.
Mud, water, and stones rose in a heavy cloud.
Rynne fell into a short roll on the other side of the fissure, recovering her base with irregular breathing.
Her eyes lifted immediately.
There was no exchange of words.
There was no hesitation.
She advanced again.
But this time there was delay in the movements — micro failures almost invisible in the timing of the thrusts, in the precision of the steps.
And the giant noticed.
The colossal hand no longer tried to crush.
It tried to grab.
The fingers closed in the air where Rynne should have escaped half an instant earlier.
She managed to slip by narrowly.
But the delay was there.
The colossal body leaned forward.
The steps shortened.
Heavy.
Constant.
Hunting.
Rynne attacked, Kaelir redirected, the two moving in absolute coordination — as if they shared the same rhythm, the same reading, the same intention.
But even so…
the mass advanced.
Implacable.
Each deflection only delayed.
Each cut only slowed.
Nothing truly stopped the advance.
And behind them—
the water around Neriah no longer fell.
It orbited.
Not like wind.
Not like gravity.
It turned slowly, heavy — as if the very air there were being compressed.
The cold came after.
Not sudden.
But growing.
First, like a light shiver on exposed skin.
Then, like a new density in the air, making each breath slightly harder, sharper.
The rain that crossed that zone no longer fell freely.
The drops slowed.
Wavered.
Some seemed to freeze for half an instant before following the circular movement around her.
Rynne felt it.
She did not take her eyes off the monster — but the muscles of her back tensed by reflex.
Kaelir noticed too.
The fissures he opened began to close half an instant slower, as if space itself were becoming more rigid.
But there was no time to interpret.
Because the advance continued.
Rynne entered first.
Low base, foot scraping the mud, body inclined like a blade.
The rapier struck dry against the side of the knee — not to cut, but to displace the axis at the instant the weight descended.
Kaelir appeared at the same time.
Short fissure.
One dagger drove into the posterior tendon — superficial, but at the exact point where the force needed to stabilize.
The colossal step came anyway.
But it came late.
The weight fell before the balance.
The mud yielded too much.
The knee sank a handspan beyond expected.
And, for the first time—
the body did not respond in time.
Rynne saw.
She entered immediately.
The rapier slid to the fold of the hip, pushing the mass sideways while the center of gravity was still compromised.
Kaelir opened another fissure at the exact point where the arm would descend to recover support.
The fist crossed the fold of space — reappearing half a meter displaced.
The support failed.
The giant did not fall.
But it had to halt the entire movement to avoid toppling.
It was a short instant.
But enough.
Ghatotkacha felt it.
Not the pain.
The inefficiency.
The roar came in the middle of the adjustment.
It did not interrupt the combat.
It came out with the movement — tearing from the throat while the body still struggled to recover base.
It was a raw sound.
Dense.
Not just heard.
Felt.
The whole air was pushed outward in an invisible wave.
The rain deflected in all directions as if it had struck a wall.
The mud around flattened under the pressure.
Rynne felt it first.
Her whole body was pushed backward, the boot scraping deep into the ground to not lose base.
Her arm trembled for an instant, the blade vibrating under the shockwave.
Kaelir was forced to step back an entire pace.
A fissure opened instinctively behind his heel to prevent him from being dragged.
The air burned in the lungs.
And then—
The giant's body reacted.
Not expanding.
Contracting.
But it was not a fast movement.
It was slow.
Terribly slow.
As if something inside him were being squeezed by invisible hands.
The muscle fibers began to compress under the skin — thick ropes being tensioned to the limit.
The flesh trembled.
The plates beneath the surface shifted against each other, grinding in deep cracks that did not seem to belong to something alive.
Vapor escaped first in thin threads.
Then in dense, white jets, rising from the body like the breath of a suffocated furnace.
The air around grew heavy.
Hot.
Hard to cross.
And yet—
the giant did not move.
He remained motionless at the center of the field.
Head low.
Shoulders curved.
Like a predator that realized the prey's escape had ended.
The mud around no longer sank under the weight.
It vibrated.
As if the mass were being compressed into itself.
Inch by inch.
The colossal body began to shorten.
Not losing volume.
Concentrating it.
Each second made the silhouette smaller.
More compact.
More tense.
More wrong.
The pressure in the air increased with it.
The rain that fell around began to deviate trajectory before even touching him.
As if the very air around were being expelled.
A fissure opened beside Rynne.
Kaelir emerged from it already still, and the tear in space closed behind his heels.
She watched the creature without any haste in her gaze.
"It would be useful…" she said, simple.
"If your fissures could close over living matter."
Kaelir did not take his eyes off the scene.
"If they could…"
"I would not be a guardian."
The silence that followed was not empty.
It was dense.
Heavy.
On one side of the field, Ghatotkacha's body still released vapor in irregular waves — raw heat escaping between compressed muscles, distorting the air like a living furnace.
But behind them—
the air gradually grew colder.
Not abruptly.
It was a slow, constant drop that made breath leave in pale threads and stiffened the movement of suspended drops.
The entire field came to exist between those two extremes.
And at the center—
Rynne, Kaelir and Skýra remained motionless for a single instant,
as if waiting for the moment when one world would crush the other.