The moment my blade left its sheath, the chamber seemed to hold its breath. Fredrick's eyes narrowed, veins along his dark armor glowing faintly red, as if the blood of the sacrificed ones pulsed through him.
Beside me, Carmila's crimson aura ignited, her floating blood blades orbiting her like lethal satellites. The oppressive energy pressed against my chest, clawing at my lungs, demanding submission. I forced my shoulders down and squared my stance.
The lieutenants struck first. The woman with twin curved blades lunged with terrifying speed, each strike humming through the air with deadly precision.
I pivoted, letting my aura guide every movement, a pulse of energy sharpening my reflexes. My sword became an extension of my body, every strike adaptive, brutal, and honed for killing. Sparks scattered like fireflies as steel met steel, echoing off black stone walls.
I twisted, redirecting her momentum against the stone wall. Bones cracked; she crumpled, and the hollow thud of her body striking the floor sounded like a funeral drum.
Carmila's eyes flicked toward me—brief, approving. Then her blades danced outward, intercepting the gaunt man whose violet lightning crackled like living veins across the chamber.
He attacked with chaotic precision, forcing me to calculate each step, each parry. Aura shimmered along my blade, augmenting reflexes, guiding me through a deadly dance.
With a swift diagonal strike, I shattered his weapon, and Carmila's blood daggers pinned him against the floor before dissolving back into her aura. A subtle hiss of vapor was the only sign he'd existed. My chest heaved. The air smelled of ozone and iron—magic and blood intertwining in a scent that made my stomach knot.
Fredrick's gaze never wavered. Calm. Predator-like. Assessing. Calculating. Then he moved toward the ritual circle, a predator closing on its prey. The runes beneath the altar flared violently, consuming every flicker of light. My stomach clenched.
He was drawing power from the corpses—the ritual feeding him directly. A memory surfaced: the B-rank he had once been, a restrained threat. And now… this audacity, this gamble of life, this escalation beyond mortal bounds. My mind reeled. Survival alone wouldn't suffice. I needed strategy, focus, precision.
"Adrian! Focus!" Carmila's voice cut through the chaos like a blade of its own.
I blinked, forcing the world back into sharp clarity. Fredrick's form blurred with speed, each strike carrying the oppressive weight of forbidden magic. My aura surged along my blade, slicing through the pressure that threatened to crush me.
I parried, countered, twisted, and attacked. Every move had to be perfect; hesitation was a death sentence.
The chamber echoed with the roar of combat—steel against stone, aura against dark sorcery, bone against unrelenting force. Carmila's presence beside me was both shield and arrow.
Her blood magic formed a tempest—blades, daggers, spears orbiting, striking, piercing, vanishing. Each attack was surgical, precise, ruthless, her eyes never leaving me. Together, we dismantled the remaining lieutenants, leaving corpses broken and bleeding in our wake.
Fredrick's laughter finally broke through the chaos, a manic undertone underlying controlled malice.
"You… you're stronger than I expected! Do you see it? You leave me no choice!"
With a thunderous slam of his palms against the altar, runes erupted, violently drawing the energy of the sacrificed corpses into him. A red aura burst from his veins, glowing like molten veins, his body elongating, muscles expanding beyond human capacity. My vision blurred, the chamber tilting beneath the strain of the unleashed magic. Every fiber of my body screamed against the unnatural weight of his ascension.
Carmila faltered beside me, aura flickering, her movements slower but unwavering. Then, a brutal strike from Fredrick slammed into her side. She fell, unconscious, blood seeping from her lips. Rage surged through me, raw and consuming.
I roared—a primal sound that shook my soul and fueled every counterattack. The chamber itself seemed to respond. Stones cracked under the pressure, mana-thick air vibrating, red light splintering across the ceiling like lightning trapped in crystal.
Blood pooled around the dais, mixing with the remnants of the sacrificed souls, a swirling maelstrom of energy and death. My muscles burned, vision blurred, yet each strike, each maneuver, remained calculated. The sword in my hand was no longer metal—it was purpose, precision, survival incarnate.
Fredrick turned fully toward me. Desperation mixed with malice, every movement testing the outer boundaries of my endurance. His attacks were relentless, merciless—each strike a tidal wave of destructive intent.
Blood streaked my face, my breathing ragged, consciousness flickering on the edge of collapse. My aura burned along the blade, a fine thread holding me upright, each swing a lifeline against the impossible force he now embodied.
And then, as his blow descended—faster, stronger, inhuman—splitting the air with the sound of death itself, a presence shattered the chamber.
The force hit Fredrick like a hurricane incarnate, tossing him aside with ease no mortal could comprehend. His aura exploded in violent ripples before collapsing inward, his life, drained from forbidden sacrifice, extinguished as if it had never existed. His body crumpled like an insect under the weight of a god.
The voice that followed resonated across the chamber, divine, otherworldly, yet faintly familiar:
"You are not ready yet."
I blinked, stunned, trying to comprehend. The voice carried eternity in its cadence, authority without visible form. The figure vanished as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving only a pull in my chest, a sense of recognition threading through memory and soul. My gaze searched the darkness, but the chamber was empty, save for Carmila lying unconscious, bloodied and broken behind me.
Exhaustion hit in waves. Pain from wounds, mental strain, and the relentless assault threatened to claim me. I tried to speak, to move, to reach the figure—but he was gone. Only the echo of that voice remained, pressing a question into the marrow of my bones: Who was that man? How could he know me?
I sank to my knees, hands digging into the cold stone, aura flaring weakly to stabilize my body. The chamber hummed with residual magic, the runes beneath the altar dimming, feeding faintly on the last remnants of energy.
I could feel the stolen life ebbing into nothingness, yet somewhere, a spark of something greater lingered. Memories surfaced—ancient lessons, long-forgotten training, nights spent carving a warrior from weakness.
Each memory burned bright, a reminder that survival was not just skill, but will. Fredrick had gambled with life and power; I had survived, not by strength alone, but by strategy, patience, and the bond with Carmila. The storm was not yet over.
Slowly, I rose, bloodied but unbroken. Carmila groaned, eyelids fluttering, and I moved to support her. The altar loomed ahead, an obsidian idol still pulsing faintly, feeding faintly on lingering mana. Even in death, Fredrick's ascension left traces—reminders of forbidden knowledge, of the danger that could rise if unchecked.
And above all, the echo of that figure's voice lingered:
"You are not ready yet."
A promise. A warning. A challenge.
I clenched my teeth, letting aura pulse through my veins, burning, brightening, steadying. There would be no faltering. No surrender. I would rise, stronger, faster, sharper. Whoever that figure was, whatever force had intervened, I would be ready. And when the next storm came, I would face it without hesitation.
Carmila's hand twitched in mine, a faint pulse of life. I tightened my grip, a silent vow: We had survived today, but the war was far from over. And the shadow of the unknown—of someone who knew me—was only the beginning.
The chamber was silent once more, but the air still trembled. Shadows seemed to stretch, drawn toward the obsidian idol. Somewhere deep within the stone and blood, a whisper promised that power, patience, and survival would be tested again. And this time, we would not merely survive—we would strike back.