Fur moved fast.
The moment intent crystallized, his body was already in motion—no warning, no sound, no wasted breath. He cut across Agatha's blindside in a low, brutal arc, axe drawn back and then released with the full weight of a veteran's timing. It wasn't a strike meant to test. It was meant to end.
Agatha felt it before it existed.
Magic rippled—not flaring, not announcing itself—just a quiet recalibration of threat. Space shifted by a fraction. Her body followed the correction instinctively, stepping aside in the narrowest possible margin.
The axe passed through where she had been.
Fur did not slow. Momentum carried him through her former position, boots tearing into the earth as he adjusted for a second strike that never came.
Agatha countered instead.
Her hand snapped out, fingers spread, nails elongated just enough—black, sharp, precise. She went for his face.
Fur bent.
Not back. Not away. Just enough.
Her hand passed through his hair, claws missing skin by the width of a breath. Several strands tore free, caught between her fingers as Fur slipped past her reach and landed hard behind her.
They separated without another exchange.
Fur hit the ground, rolled once, and was already moving—running toward Bash without looking back. He closed the distance in seconds and skidded to a stop beside him.
Bash was bent forward, hands braced against his knees, breath ragged. Sweat traced lines through the dirt on his face. His chest heaved as he fought to pull air back into himself.
Fur reached behind him without hesitation, fingers slipping into a hidden pocket. He produced a small vial and pressed it into Bash's hand.
"Drink," he said. No urgency. No panic. Just fact.
Bash hesitated—only for a heartbeat—then uncorked it and swallowed. The potion burned on the way down. His breathing steadied, not fully recovered, but enough. Color crept back into his face.
Across the clearing, Agatha stood where Fur had almost struck her down.
She looked at her hand.
Dark strands of Fur's hair lay tangled between her fingers. She did not crush them. Did not let them fall. Her grip remained loose, deliberate, as if the strands themselves were information worth keeping.
Her gaze lifted slowly back to them.
Fur straightened beside Bash, eyes never leaving her.
They spoke low. Fast.
"We can't keep this up," Bash said, voice tight. "Every second we stall puts us deeper in the hole."
"She's not pressing," Fur replied. "That's worse."
Bash nodded. "We weren't sent to win. We were sent to deliver the box."
"And get back alive," Fur added.
Bash exhaled through his nose, jaw tightening. "Then we end this quickly."
Fur glanced at him. "How?"
Bash was quiet for a moment. Then: "I pull my trump card."
Fur's eyes narrowed. "You mean—"
"Summoning," Bash said. "Spirits. And a great one."
Silence stretched between them.
Fur studied him, not doubting his resolve—but measuring the cost. "Can you do that in this state?"
Bash didn't look away from Agatha. "Not cleanly. Not safely. But it'll force her to split her attention."
"And while she's busy?"
"We leave," Bash said. "The moment she's distracted, we disengage and get out."
Fur considered it. Another way might exist—but time was already bleeding away. He gave a single nod.
"I'll buy you that time."
Bash's lips pressed thin. Then he nodded back.
They turned together.
Agatha waited for them, calm and unmoving, strands of Fur's hair still resting in her hand as if she had never thought to let them go.
And the air began to change.
Bash moved.
He dropped to one knee and reached into his coat, fingers closing around objects that should never have shared the same space. The totems were small—bone, splintered wood, warped metal—each etched with symbols that refused to settle in the eye. They were corrupted not by rot, but by purpose. By having been used too many times for things they were never meant to channel.
Fur stepped forward without waiting.
The ground seemed to tense as he advanced, axe coming up into both hands, posture low and driving. He did not rush. He pressed. Every step measured, every breath controlled, his presence forcing pressure into the space between them.
Behind him, Bash slammed the first totem into the dirt.
The earth rejected it.
A low crack split the ground as the totem anchored anyway, sinking halfway in as if dragged down by unseen weight. Bash hissed and drove the second in beside it, then the third, forming a broken arc at his feet. His breathing steadied—not from relief, but from focus.
Agatha watched.
She did not interrupt him immediately.
Her fingers lifted, and the air hardened.
Three barriers unfolded around her in sequence—not walls, but layers. The first shimmered faintly, barely visible. The second distorted light. The third was felt rather than seen, a pressure that pushed outward, resisting approach.
Fur's advance slowed.
The space between them resisted his movement, like wading into deep water. He adjusted, shifting his angle, boots digging in as he tested the barriers with presence alone.
Agatha's gaze flicked briefly to the totems.
Then she acted.
Telekinesis snapped into place.
The corrupted totems tore free from the ground, ripping loose with a shriek of displaced force. They spun into the air, whipping around Agatha in a wide orbit before streaking outward again—not toward Bash, but toward Fur.
Fur reacted instantly.
The axe came up, haft rotating as he deflected the first totem mid-air. It shattered on impact, fragments exploding into dark motes that stung his arms and face like burning ash. He barreled through, shoulders hunched, momentum unbroken.
Agatha followed with magic projectiles.
They were not elemental. No fire, no ice, no lightning. Just condensed force—dense, fast, precise. They slammed into the space around Fur, detonating inches from his body, each blast forcing him to twist, roll, adjust.
He could not get close.
Every step forward cost him ground.
Behind him, Bash bit down hard and dragged a blade across his palm.
Blood spilled freely.
It splashed across the remaining totems, soaking into the etched symbols. The corruption reacted violently, the markings glowing dull red as the blood was consumed. Bash's teeth clenched as the pull began—an immediate, brutal drain that made his vision blur.
He forced himself upright.
"Answer," he rasped, voice shaking but deliberate. "I call—by bond, by blood, by debt unpaid."
The air thickened.
Something shifted beyond sight.
Agatha felt it this time.
Her barriers flexed as pressure pressed inward from nowhere, the space above Bash distorting as if reality itself were being pulled toward a single point. Her eyes narrowed, calculating.
She flicked her wrist.
The remaining totems surged again, now reinforced by her magic, streaking toward Fur in erratic patterns. One clipped his shoulder, spinning him sideways. Another struck the ground at his feet, erupting into a concussive burst that threw dirt and stone into the air.
Fur hit the ground, rolled, and came up snarling.
He did not retreat.
He advanced again.
Each step was harder now. The barriers pushed back, Agatha's control tightening, her telekinesis keeping him at a distance just beyond striking range. His muscles burned. His breath came heavier. Still, he pressed.
Bash staggered.
The pull worsened.
Veins stood out along his neck as he carved another line into his arm, feeding more blood into the summoning. The symbols flared brighter, the corruption screaming as it was forced into alignment with something far larger than it could contain.
"Come," Bash whispered hoarsely. "Great one. I offer what remains."
The ground trembled.
Not violently. Not yet.
Agatha's lips parted slightly—not in fear, but in interest.
"So," she said calmly, voice carrying through the chaos, "you choose escalation."
She extended her hand.
The barriers condensed, overlapping into a tighter configuration. Space warped violently between her and Fur, compressing his advance to a crawl. Magic projectiles continued to rain down, forcing him to twist and dodge, unable to commit to a full strike.
Her other hand closed slowly around the strands of Fur's hair she still held.
She did not let them go.
Behind Fur, Bash swayed, barely upright now, blood dripping freely onto the ground. The totems screamed, cracks spiderwebbing through their forms as something vast began to press back through the summoning circle.
The air howled.
The great spirit had heard.
And it was coming.
Bash felt the boundary of himself failing.
Not collapsing—stretching, pulled so far beyond its intended shape that every instinct screamed rupture. Mana no longer flowed in channels; it churned, slammed, rebounded inside him like a storm trapped in bone and flesh. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, each pulse forcing more pressure against limits that had already been exceeded.
Something was pushing from behind him.
Not physically.
Existentially.
He slammed his forearms together with everything he had left.
The sound was not a clap.
It was a detonation.
Air shattered outward, pressure imploding instead of dispersing as Bash wrenched his arms apart, veins standing out like cords about to snap. Space screamed.
And then it tore.
A vertical rupture split open behind him, fifteen feet tall, jagged and uneven, its edges peeling back in layers as though reality itself were being flayed. Light bent violently around it. Sound died near its edges. The forest bowed inward, trees bending as gravity twisted toward the wound.
Wind rushed into the tear.
Not out.
The corrupted remnants of the totems vaporized instantly, reduced to ash and drifting sparks as something vast pushed back through the breach.
A foot emerged.
Heavy.
Armored.
It struck the ground with such force that the earth buckled, cracks racing outward in spiderweb fractures. Then another step followed, and another, each one compressing space beneath it as though the world itself was struggling to bear its weight.
The great spirit emerged fully.
Twelve feet tall. Encased in layered armor etched with sigils that warped perception the longer one stared. Plates overlapped in impossible ways, edges bending inward at angles that should not exist. A thorned helm crowned its head, barbed ridges spiraling backward like a cruel diadem.
In its hands rested a greatsword longer than a man—its blade dragging the air toward it, gravity collapsing inward as dust, leaves, and even light distorted along its edge.
Aura rolled off the spirit in visible waves.
Spatial pressure followed.
Trees groaned. Bark split. Stones sank into the earth as if pressed down by invisible weight.
Bash dropped to one knee, blood running freely now from his arms, nose, mouth.
"Strike," he forced out, voice raw, torn. "Against—Agatha."
The spirit turned.
Its gaze locked onto her.
And the world tilted.
Fur had already moved.
The instant the spirit's full form resolved, his instincts screamed louder than pain ever could. This was no longer a controlled escalation. This was a breach—something that would not end cleanly no matter who won.
He retreated fast, boots tearing through soil as he reached Bash's side and hauled him upright, Bash's weight sagging heavily against him.
"You alive?" Fur muttered.
"For now," Bash wheezed.
Agatha hissed.
Her lips peeled back slightly, teeth bared as she felt the battlefield slip—just a fraction—out of her grasp. She did not fear the spirit. But she despised what it represented: intrusion, disorder, a foreign authority pressing against her own.
And then she saw Fur turn back to Bash.
Leaving.
Her eyes sharpened.
Two massive spiritual arms erupted behind her, translucent constructs layered with spell matrices and reinforced will.
The first slammed downward.
A concealed barrier detonated outward in a silent pulse—eighty meters wide, fifty feet high. The forest sealed itself. Sound collapsed. Mana signatures folded inward like crushed breath.
Nothing outside would witness this.
Nothing inside would escape.
The second arm rose.
A colossal sigil unfurled above Agatha's head, rotating slowly as glyphs rearranged into predatory alignment. From its center, four elongated necks burst forth—hydra heads, formed of shadow, spirit, and malice.
They screamed.
Then they launched.
They struck the great spirit like a living avalanche.
Jaws clamped onto armored limbs and torso, teeth biting deep into sigil-etched plating. One head exhaled a torrent of dark breath, corrosive and suffocating, coating the spirit's armor in writhing black residue that ate at spatial reinforcement. Another coiled around its sword arm, constricting as pressure detonated outward.
The great spirit roared.
The sound bent the air.
It swung.
The greatsword carved through space itself, cleaving one hydra head cleanly in half. The severed form dissolved into shadow—only to reform again moments later, snapping back into place with a shriek.
Shockwaves rolled outward. Trees snapped. The ground heaved.
Agatha raised her hand.
A magic circle bloomed at her palm.
Dark mystic arts surged—curses, layered, insidious, threading into the battlefield like invisible veins. They clung to the spirit's aura, gnawing at its coherence, destabilizing the spatial logic that held it together.
Fur dragged Bash toward the forest's edge opposite her, boots slipping as Bash staggered, barely conscious.
Then they hit it.
The barrier.
Invisible.
Absolute.
Fur slammed a hand against it. Nothing. No ripple. No resistance. Just finality.
"…Trapped," Bash rasped.
For a breath, neither spoke.
Then Fur exhaled, sharp and controlled.
"No," he said. "Then we finish it."
Bash looked up at him, blood blurring his vision. "You mean fight her?"
Fur turned back toward the battlefield—toward Agatha beneath the hydra sigil, toward the great spirit being dragged, crushed, and torn apart piece by piece.
"There's no other way out," he said. "If she stands, we die."
Bash swallowed.
"…Then we assist."
They moved.
Bash raised a shaking hand, forcing mana through torn channels, targeting the hydra heads. Decay mystic arts surged outward, rot clinging to spectral flesh. One head shrieked as its form destabilized, chunks dissolving mid-lunge.
Fur charged.
Agatha's eyes snapped to him.
Dark lances formed instantly, streaking toward him in precise, lethal lines. Fur dodged, rolled, leapt—one lance grazing his side, burning through armor and flesh alike.
He didn't slow.
He closed the distance.
The axe rose—
Lightning chained.
A defensive array detonated around Agatha, arcs slamming into Fur mid-swing. He crossed his arms, axe haft absorbing part of the impact, but the force hurled him back, muscles screaming as electricity tore through him.
He hit the ground hard.
Rolled.
Stood.
Aura exploded outward from him, raw and violent, as he overrode his natural limits. Muscles thickened. Veins glowed faintly. A magic amplifier wrapped around his frame, reinforcing bone, tendon, nerve.
He charged again.
Agatha rose.
Flight lifted her just beyond reach. Fur's attacks came in brutal patterns—feints, full-body arcs, killing blows meant to overwhelm—but none landed. She was always just out of reach.
She countered without looking.
Imps erupted around Bash.
They swarmed him, clawing, biting, dragging him down. One slammed him into the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
The great spirit roared again—then fell.
The hydra heads crushed inward, dark breath flooding its armor, spatial energy collapsing in on itself. With a thunderous crack, the spirit shattered into cascading light.
The backlash slammed Bash into the ground.
Hard.
He did not rise.
The hydra heads withdrew, dissolving back into the sigil before vanishing entirely. Silence crept back over the battlefield.
Fur turned.
Bash lay motionless.
Something twisted inside him.
He limped forward—
Agatha acted.
She reached into her dimensional space and withdrew a voodoo doll.
Crude. Human-shaped.
In her other hand: a thin needle.
She bound the doll with the strands of Fur's hair she had never released.
Chanted once.
Then drove the needle into the doll's thigh.
Fur screamed.
Pain detonated through him as if his muscle had been pierced clean through. His leg buckled, body collapsing to one knee, breath tearing from his lungs.
She struck the doll's arm.
His grip failed. His axe fell.
Magic circles snapped into existence around him—layered, complete, inescapable.
He froze.
Then a voice spoke beside him.
Calm. Familiar. Irritated.
"What a hassle."
Agatha gaze upon the figure.
And recognized him.
Seth stood there.