Albrecht's armor gleamed like a falling star as he charged, Sunpiercer trailing arcs of golden fire through the ruined air of Valtoria. With a thunderous battle cry, he leapt into the circling mass of lesser Wraiths and carved a brilliant path through them. Each strike of his blade seared flesh and mist, burning the shadows away.
For a brief moment, the army behind him rallied.
Then—a blur.
One of the four elite Wraiths appeared behind Albrecht, silent as death. Before the Glory Knight could turn, a blackened heel drove into his back with enough force to shatter stone. Albrecht was sent flying, crashing through a decayed wall with a metallic groan, buried in rubble.
The Wraith who kicked him vanished into the mist again.
The battlefield turned into a killing field.
Thea's blades—dual Hemlock swords glowing faintly—cut down two lesser Wraiths that lunged for Ryle's flank. Her movements were sharp, clean, precise. Ryle had told her not to wield the Twinlight here. Its divine glow was too distinct, too revealing.
"Keep it quiet," he'd said. "We don't want anyone learning what you really carry."
She listened. But stealth didn't mean mercy.
Thea ducked under a lunging claw, swept a leg, and drove one blade into a creature's throat. But as she turned—a pulse of black lightning struck her shoulder.
Her body froze mid-motion.
Eyes wide. Muscles locked. Her breath shallow.
A cloaked Wraith stepped toward her, whispering something only she could hear.
And then—Dalen approached.
His robes didn't flutter. The mist parted for him. His feet made no sound on the cracked ground.
Ryle stepped between Thea and Dalen, claws tightening.
Dalen smiled. "You're fast. Strong. But what you really are… is influential."
He tilted his head.
"You could help us. Spread our name. You're the World's Strongest Journalist, aren't you?"
A pause.
Then—Ryle's wings burst free.
Black scales shimmered down his back. Purple claws flared to life, vibrating with barely-contained rage.
"I'll give you exposure…" Ryle said, voice low and molten, "…for being killed."
He vanished.
When he reappeared, it was with a sound like thunder.
His claw punched straight through the heart of one of the elite Wraiths—just as it threw itself in front of Dalen.
The Wraith didn't scream. Its body dissolved around Ryle's arm like dust in wind.
Dalen's smirk faded.
The remaining two elite Wraiths flanked Ryle instantly, coming from opposite sides—one from above, another from the shadows beneath.
Ryle didn't retreat. He roared.
He became a storm.
He grabbed the airborne Wraith mid-leap and snapped its spine with one twist before hurling it into a ruin.
The one beneath lunged upward, shadow blades aimed for Ryle's heart.
But Ryle twisted midair, landed behind it, and cleaved its head off with one sweeping arc of his glowing claws.
Both bodies hit the ground seconds apart—then melted away.
Only Dalen remained.
They stared at each other.
The battlefield fell silent around them.
Thea still lay frozen.
Albrecht groaned, barely climbing from the rubble, his blade forgotten at his side.
And Ryle and Dalen began the final dance.
Their duel was nothing like the chaos around them.
It was silent. Methodical. Cold.
Dalen fought like a phantom—flashes of black steel, teleportation spells, illusory duplicates.
Ryle was the opposite—every move raw and grounded in truth. He didn't waste movement. Didn't roar. He cut, stepped, predicted, countered.
They were opposites in every sense.
And that was why Ryle won.
A claw slashed across Dalen's ribs.
Another pierced his thigh.
A final blow shattered his staff, sending the shards skidding across the floor.
Dalen collapsed, breath ragged, face half-buried in dirt and ash.
Ryle stepped over him, claws dripping with black mist.
Blood leaked from Dalen's lips.
He smiled.
"You think you've won," he whispered. "But we were never the true threat."
Ryle crouched, claws twitching.
Dalen's last breath rattled from his throat.
"Be careful… of the Fiends…"
He went still.
Ryle stood.
Behind him, Albrecht finally approached. His armor was cracked. His blade dragged behind him. But his eyes—those noble, golden eyes—were fixed on Ryle.
He stared in stunned silence.
"…You're not…" he began, voice hoarse. "…you're not a regular human."
Ryle turned slowly.
The dragon wings. The claws. The golden eyes glowing faintly in the darkness.
Then the look. Cold. Uncompromising.
"Shut your mouth…" Ryle said, "...or lose it."
Albrecht flinched, his hand instinctively reaching for Sunpiercer.
Ryle raised his claws.
Thea coughed—she was moving again. The paralysis faded.
Kessia called from behind the walls. "Ryle, are we clear!?"
He didn't answer.
Albrecht took a slow breath. "Fine… I didn't see anything."
Thea stepped up beside Ryle, touching his arm. "You okay?"
"Yeah," he muttered. "But Dalen wasn't lying. There's more coming."
He looked at the blood on his claws.
Fiends.
That thing again.
Something worse than Wraiths.
And something was telling Ryle—this battle was just the beginning.