The situation had become critical. Shauwn had been so focused on the battle with the executioner and the assassin that he had completely forgotten about the second throne, which had shown no interest from the start.
The moment it appeared, shattering all hope of a counterattack, his body recoiled instinctively. But it was not enough—just two steps, and the second throne was upon him, launching another strike aimed at his throat.
He barely survived the deadly blow through a sudden, purely instinctive gesture: throwing his head back. Shauwn couldn't regain his senses yet—he was not out of danger. And for some unknown reason, he felt that the female-shaped mist was the most dangerous of all his adversaries.
She radiated no aggression; on the contrary, everything around her seemed calm and graceful. Her steps were fluid and silent, almost as if she weren't moving at all. No, she was dancing—twirling as she moved, leaving faint afterimages that traced the choreography of her passage.
Her dance embodied her speed—Shauwn could not follow her with his eyes. When her curved blade moved, multiple others followed, forcing even the slightest air currents to bend to her will. Each movement of her sword was accompanied by whispers—irrational, hypnotic, beautiful.
This was the trap. One could not always rely on sight, as it could deceive. While he observed these details and her subliminal movement techniques, his mind became captivated and distracted, and she took advantage, opening the veins of his forearm from the wrist to the ring finger.
A warrior dancer.
It was calm, without animosity—a deadly calm. Shauwn was in pain, and with so much blood gushing from his arm like a geyser, anyone would panic. Yet nothing of the sort happened. His reaction was strange, unrecognizable. His mind remained trapped in fascination with the combat style he had just witnessed. He did not want this, yet his mind was compelled, his will corrupted in that direction.
He was right: she was the most dangerous. To ensnare an opponent in fascination and eliminate him unnoticed, leaving as his last memory a particularly attractive dance.
The second strike came—this time, she feigned a head strike, then twisted and redirected it diagonally toward his torso.
The executioner took over. No sword, just a brutal kick that sent Shauwn flying backward, seemingly regaining his senses.
Behind him, the female mist being was already waiting. The mist in her hand contracted to lengthen her weapon, forming a nearly two-meter-long curved sword. She slashed the air and, in doing so, bit into the flesh on Shauwn's back.
Before he could recover, the executioner slammed down on him, wielding his giant sword. The strike was clear and precise—a vertical blow without deviation.
Shauwn rolled to the right, avoiding the destructive strike that cleaved through the crimson sea for several meters. He could breathe slightly, but at what cost? The adrenaline surge had kept him focused; he hadn't noticed that his left arm was gone, carried off by the executioner. The strike had claimed something—his life or a limb.
A sharp pain coursed through his entire body. He stifled a scream deep in his gut—not because he could, but because he refused to let anyone savor his agony or see a sign of weakness.
The executioner seized the severed arm and shattered it, leaving nothing but blood. Shauwn was in dire straits. Was this really a dream? Everything seemed so real. He had neither weapons nor skills useful in that moment.
Yet, he understood. The longer he stayed, the more he felt connected to this place, as if resonating with it. If this was truly a dream, he could do anything. He needed no weapons—the world itself would become his.
[Antithesis Gene Awakening: 98%… 99%]
As if responding to his sudden revelation, the eyes visible through the helmet's visor blazed. He was going to finish it. The blade directed itself toward Shauwn's heart.
A single hand was insufficient to stop the sword—it simply sliced through, cutting his palm.
Shauwn knew that if he wanted, he could have driven the blade through his chest in one strike, but he was doing it slowly, making him feel progressively the piercing of his chest and the tearing of his heart by the immense, inevitable weapon.
The executioner… the name suited him: cold, merciless, fatal.
[Antithesis Gene Awakening: 100%]
[System Installation: Legacy: 𝕬]
[Installation Successful]
[Alert! Alert! External Presence Detected]
The bleak, lifeless sky of this dreamlike space shattered, and through the cracks, enormous eyes observed the scene between Shauwn, the executioner, and the dancer.
The two attackers turned away from Shauwn; he was no longer their focus. The executioner cast one last glance, as if promising to finish the task next time, while the dancer appeared to smile at him, waving her hands in farewell.
A vivid red light emanated from the two former enemies, now allies against the foreign presence that had intruded into his dream.
[The watcher is satisfied to witness one of the greatest events in history!]
[The watcher salutes the advent of the last!]
[The world greet you! The greatest and last terror of...]
Before he could read the last message of the interface, the dream shattered itself. Plunged into darkness, Shauwn awoke moments later, drenched in sweat.
"What just happened?!"