The moment the battle began, the very air around Maldrak’s fortress shuddered.


    Nyroth moved first.


    No blade. No stance. No visible effort.


    Yet Maldrak barely saw the attack coming.


    A shockwave of pure force erupted as Nyroth struck—not with a weapon, but with his bare hand. Maldrak barely managed to twist away, but the ground beneath him cracked and cratered, the sheer force of the strike shattering stone like glass. The fortress trembled. Maldrak’s smirk vanished.


    Nyroth’s crimson eyes burned like twin stars in the darkness.


    "Come now, Maldrak. You wanted to face me." He stepped forward, unhurried. "You should have prepared."


    Maldrak growled, his fingers weaving dark sigils into the air. "Don’t mock me."


    The ground beneath Nyroth erupted in an explosion of blackened spikes, jagged tendrils of dark energy lunging for him. He did not move. The spikes struck—


    And shattered into dust upon impact.


    Maldrak’s eyes widened. "What—"


    Nyroth punched forward.


    Maldrak flew backward, crashing through the stone doors of his own fortress. The force of the impact sent debris cascading in all directions, the walls groaning as cracks splintered up their foundations. Maldrak rolled to his feet, blood trailing from his lips. His golden-red eyes burned with something new—something he had not expected to feel.


    Fear.


    Beyond the castle walls, the war waged on. The elite forces of Eldris tore through the enemy ranks with unrelenting fury. Yet in the midst of the carnage, a sudden pulse of unimaginable force rippled through the air, sending warriors and monsters alike staggering back. The sky itself seemed to tremble, the winds howling with unseen fury.


    Commander Oris of the Ironbound halted mid-swing, his warhammer buried in the skull of a demon. He turned his gaze toward the fortress, his grip tightening. "That… was not normal."


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    Edris the Unyielding, shield raised, felt the impact through his very bones. "That was Nyroth," he muttered, a grim smile breaking across his face. "The real battle has begun."


    Not far from the dungeons, Dren and Siris stood victorious over the fallen werewolves, their bloodied bodies sprawled across the stone floor. The battle had been fierce—these creatures were as strong, as relentless than the ones Ilara and Varrian had faced before. But it hadn’t mattered. The Guardians had been merciless.


    Siris flicked the blood from his twin blades, glancing at the carnage. "That was almost interesting," he muttered.


    Dren merely exhaled, planting his scythe into the ground for a brief moment before straightening. "We keep moving."


    Then, they felt it. A tremor shook the stone beneath them.** Dust rained from the ceiling, torches flickered, and for a brief moment, an eerie silence settled.


    Siris exhaled sharply, tightening his grip on his twin blades. "We don’t have time for this. Whatever’s happening up there—" He glanced at Dren, who remained unreadable. "—we need to move faster."


    Dren simply nodded once, his scythe gleaming in the dim torchlight. "We find them. Now."


    The next clash tore the world apart.


    Maldrak lunged forward, now matching Nyroth’s speed. Their fists collided, sending shockwaves that ripped apart the stone walls around them. The very air howled with the force of their strikes. They moved faster than human eyes could follow, blurring in and out of existence as they struck, countered, and struck again.


    Maldrak unleashed a blast of raw Astra, but Nyroth caught it with a single hand, gripping the writhing energy before hurling it back. The explosion carved a deep trench into the fortress floor, sending Maldrak crashing into a pillar. He staggered, coughing, but barely a moment passed before he was airborne again, already counterattacking.


    Fists shattered the air. Kicks blurred like phantom blades. Every strike felt like a thunderclap, every movement like a tempest unleashed. Power incarnate against power incarnate.


    Maldrak raised a hand, and a spear of pure Lux Astra formed in his grip. He hurled it. Nyroth dodged—


    No. He caught it.


    Then he crushed it in his fist.


    Maldrak snarled, leaping high into the air, darkness flooding into his limbs. The sky itself seemed to warp around him. "Fall, Solvain!" He descended like a meteor, his Astra forming a blade of light and shadow as he slashed—


    And Nyroth finally moved his hand to his hilt.


    Not to draw.


    Just to parry.


    Maldrak’s Astra-blade shattered upon impact. Nyroth had used only a fraction of his strength.


    He stared at Maldrak, unimpressed. "You truly thought you could win this?"


    Maldrak panted, chest rising and falling. He was losing.


    And he knew it.


    But then, his grin returned. Wider. More wicked.


    "Winning isn’t always about strength, Nyroth."


    His hand snapped to his robe. And when it emerged—


    A scroll rested in his palm.


    Nyroth’s eyes widened for the first time.


    "No—"


    "Oh, yes," Maldrak hissed. The scroll glowed with dark power, pulsing like a living thing. "You know what this is, don’t you? One of the scrolls. Ancient. Forbidden. And now—" He unrolled it. "Mine."


    A storm of power erupted from Maldrak’s body.


    Nyroth stepped back, shielding his face as waves of energy crashed through the ruined fortress. The very air distorted—light bending, darkness expanding, reality itself screaming under the force of the scroll’s influence.


    Maldrak’s form changed. His skin darkened with sigils, his eyes became pits of endless abyss, his veins pulsed with unholy power. A monstrous force unlike anything before stood in his place.


    And he was laughing.


    Nyroth’s crimson eyes narrowed. "The scroll’s power is corrupt. It will consume you."


    Maldrak threw his head back, howling in amusement. "Corrupt me? Solvain, I was already corrupted. I am beyond redemption!"


    His laughter was swallowed by another pulse of power, the very ground trembling beneath him.


    Nyroth exhaled slowly.


    Then, for the first time in this battle, his hand fully grasped the hilt of his sword.


    The light of the blade gleamed in the darkness.


    The real battle was about to begin.