Sina Palen lay face down on the cold stone floor, her breath trembling, her body stiff with fear. Yet her mind was not focused on the monstrous spider that spun steel-hard webs and tore through the chamber with earth-shaking roars.
Instead, her thoughts spiraled around the man who had appeared at her side when death loomed — Connor McCloud.
Until now, she had viewed him as a rival she was destined to surpass. Time and again, she had thrown herself into duels against him, determined to claim a single victory. Each time, defeat had been absolute, yet never did she think it impossible. His startling display during the academy's opening ceremony only deepened her obsession.
But the Connor standing before her now was unrecognizable.
He had cast aside his worn longsword and, through a feat of advanced subspace magic, summoned a new weapon into his hands. Such magic was no simple trick. Even veteran mages required years of training to master equipment retrieval. And the weapon he produced — a dwarven-forged blade from the distant eastern continent — was rarer still, the kind of artifact noble collectors spent lifetimes chasing.
With that weapon in hand, Connor had charged directly at a Rank 38 Meteor-class spider without hesitation. His movements were fearless, his aura steady, in stark contrast to her own trembling legs moments before.
The boy she once measured herself against now stood on a level that seemed unreachable.
Her chest tightened with frustration, with envy, with helpless awe. She prayed silently that he would not fall here. If someone like him, who always triumphed, were to perish, it would feel like a cruel kind of theft.
Then, the moment came.
Through the haze of stone dust and falling debris, she saw him rise again — tall, unshaken. Magic, deep and alien, burst from his body, cloaking his face in a strange blue glow. The light condensed, shaping itself into a red mask adorned with jagged horns, its surface rough like the shell of some ancient beast.
When he raised his blade once more, he no longer seemed like the Connor she knew. He felt… inverted, as though another presence had awakened inside him.
And then the massacre began.
The spider unleashed volleys of web-spears, hardened threads strong enough to pierce rock. But Connor's blade met them with flawless precision. Each swing was impossibly sharp, splitting spears into fragments before they could even touch him. His movements carried no hesitation. His strikes were neither wild nor desperate, but practiced — the techniques of a swordsman who had spent a lifetime slaying monsters.
Visions flickered before his eyes — not warnings of his own death, but glimpses of victory, showing him exactly how each strike must land to kill. No longer was he avoiding death; he was carving a path through it.
Eight spears flew at once, aimed at his body from every direction. His sword danced faster than the eye could follow, eight cuts drawn in the span of a heartbeat. All eight projectiles fell in pieces.
With relentless steps, he pushed through the storm of webs, cutting them down as if the spider's assault had already been predicted.
The creature shrieked, its body trembling with frustration. Purple flames flared across its carapace as it retreated, leaping toward the two helpless students still cocooned nearby. Its fangs sought their life essence.
For the first time, doubt flickered across Connor's expression. He knew he could not outrun it. The future was already painted — the captives would die.
Yet, just as despair pressed in, a sudden gale tore through the chamber. Wind howled where there had been none, shredding the webs and breaking the spider's footing. A figure's presence rippled like a storm, halting the beast in its tracks.
The Meteor clawed at the cliffside, desperate to cling on, but its last struggle was futile. Connor surged upward with explosive force, blade reversed in his grip, and drove it down.
The strike pierced the monster's skull cleanly, purple fire extinguished in an instant.
Silence filled the chamber.
Dragging the two cocoons across the floor, Connor delivered them safely beside Sina and Myael. Their injuries were light, their lives intact. Relief softened Sina's face as she collapsed back against the stone, while Myael's lips curved into a quiet smile.
But when Connor reached for his face, he froze. The mask remained. The revelation struck him cold — Sina had seen everything. From the summoning of the dwarven blade to the awakening of the horned mask, there was no concealing it now.
And yet Myael's expression was far from suspicious. She observed him with calm certainty, as though the mask had only confirmed what she already knew. She even spoke with unsettling cheer, teasing him as though his secrets were obvious.
The truth, however, was far more terrifying.
She revealed that she had followed his footprints here — not by luck, but because she had memorized his every step, every shift of weight, every habit from their duel a week ago. His stance, his gait, the way he pressed his heels into the ground — she had captured them all and could now identify him by tracks alone.
Even Sina, who had begun the day determined to defeat him, looked at Myael with unease. That kind of precision was unnatural, terrifying.
Connor could only answer with weary humor, asking that she never do such a thing again.
The battle was won, but the mask remained — and with it, a storm of questions that would not be silenced.