"I was under the impression we have the same goal in mind," the witch says coolly, her stride shifting as she rises gently from the ground. Her movement is effortless, each step measured like clockwork.
"Did you change your goal during these past seven hundred years?"
She flicks her hand dismissively. Kael is flung violently through the air, crashing across the broken terrain like a broken puppet until his body smashes through a thick tree trunk, snapping it in half with a thunderous crack.
"Is he aware of your actions, Sylaris?" she asks, voice lowering as it begins to echo with the growing whispers around her. The air churns. The wind howls violently as a storm forms in an instant—clouds boiling overhead, twisting and curling like possessed serpents.
But even as the sky convulses, a strange phenomenon unfolds.
The shadows cast by the writhing clouds—shadows that should be in motion—suddenly stop.
They freeze in mid-air.
Still.
Unmoving.
The hooded figure walks downward from the air itself. Each step silent, each motion unwavering. The witch ascends toward them, lips curling with a cool, curious disdain.
"It's a shame," she murmurs, voice now little more than a breath, "I thought we were alike."
BOOM!
In the blink of an eye.
They vanish—
Then reappear.
A deafening boom detonates between them as Sylaris swings her black misty blade downward in one hand. The strike cleaves through the air, warping the atmosphere around it. Pressure blasts outward, carving a scar through the air.
The clouds above spiral violently, then twist into wide, grinning mouths—grotesque, unsettling, too many teeth packed into wide, flickering voids. Bright purple lightning crashes from their grinning maws, a shriek of energy ripping downward like the heavens vomiting fury.
The lightning slams toward Sylaris.
She doesn't move.
Still holding the blade with one hand, she angles it forward. As the lightning hits, a brilliant, blinding shockwave erupts—
CRACKAAAAK-BOOOM!
A massive portion of the forest is instantly reduced to rubble. One side cleaved in a massive diagonal scar where the sword strike extended—trees split at the molecular level, their upper halves disintegrating in a delayed burst. The other side obliterated under the impact of the cursed lightning, an entire stretch of woodland blown skyward, falling like ash.
And through the chaos—hovering in the eye of destruction—the witch rests with her head leaned lazily against her hand, floating mid-air as if reclining on an invisible armrest. Her legs cross delicately. She watches.
Unbothered.
Unimpressed.
In an instant, the witch's eyes flick upward.
Past the boiling clouds, beyond the cursed lightning and warping skies—another cloaked figure walks calmly through the heavens, high above it all, unhurried. As if the chaos below means nothing.
They toss something over their shoulder.
A small cube, no larger than a stone.
The moment it falls, the cube bursts with a blinding blue surge—
BOOM—HUMMMMMM
An enormous cube of energy expands outward from the impact point, edges perfect and lines too straight to be natural. The blue light screams across the sky, enclosing the entire peak of Mount Rui within a shimmering barrier of luminous force. The cube pulses once, stabilizing in midair—then locks in place with an echoing metallic chime.
The world pauses for half a breath.
The witch raises her palm. A faint spark jumps from her skin—small, chaotic. Her brow furrows as she narrows her eyes.
"How well prepared," she murmurs, golden pupils swirling lazily within blood-red irises. "How troublesome."
She exhales slowly and attempts to gather her mana—but the moment she pulls inward, the energy within her revolts.
The air warps.
Her veins flare with violent, unstable light. Mana spirals out of control, like a whirlpool spinning the wrong way. Her breathing remains calm, but her gaze darkens. She stares at her palm again, as if it's misbehaving.
A flicker of movement—
The cloaked figure from before appears behind her, silent as a falling feather. They make no gesture, no sound. And yet—
From the folds of the witch's own cloak, something unnatural crawls out.
A hand.
Gnarled. Withered. Grey as ash. Its skin is peeled and shriveled like ancient paper, the flesh wrapped too tightly over bones that should not move. It slithers upward slowly—disgustingly—its fingers long, spindly, and sharp, like they were designed to puncture thought itself.
The hand stretches. It grows. Elongates beyond natural length until it reaches over a foot long—grotesquely elegant, a thing of bone and hatred.
And then—CRACK!
It lashes out with violent speed, grabbing the black blade the cloaked figure still holds.
The moment it makes contact—
BOOOOM!
A shockwave explodes outward from the clash.
The entire mountaintop shudders. The protective barrier ripples. Trees on the lower ridges sway violently. The sky bends, light distorting around the grip of the skeletal hand.
Down the blade, something slithers—
A slick, black, slime-like energy begins crawling along the edge of the weapon. It writhes, like something alive and hungry, inching toward the cloaked figure's hand.
But they release the weapon.
The blade vanishes in a hiss of black mist. The hand grabs nothing.
The cloaked figure steps back, unbothered.
The witch doesn't turn. She doesn't need to.
"Don't attack her," she murmurs, her voice so soft it nearly blends with the storm. Her golden-red eyes remain forward, untouched by emotion. "She's no fool."
The skeletal hand twitches, shifting slightly, about to spring again.
She reaches back—still without looking—and grabs the wrist.
Her grip is delicate. Barely firm. Yet the skeletal hand halts, obeying her.
And for a moment—everything stills again.
The cube glows quietly.
The clouds continue to grin.
And the three monsters stand in silent orbit.
"Eastern arrays are truly impressive. Something like this doesn't come cheap," the witch murmurs, examining the air around her with an amused calmness. She flicks her wrist, attempting to circulate her mana—
Nothing.
The spark fades. Her fingers twitch with restrained irritation.
BOOM!
BOOM!
BANG!
The hooded figure slices through the space like death itself, each motion a blur of intent. Their blade tears the air into ribbons, every slash leaving a trail of darkness—slicing arcs that hum with dread, the fabric of the dimension groaning beneath their force.
But just as they near her—
The witch lifts her gaze.
Her golden pupils dim.
Her crimson irises ignite, glowing with overwhelming intensity, expanding until they swallow her pupils entirely.
Everything stops.
A sickening silence falls.
Reality glitches.
The sky folds inward, shadows flickering in reverse. Sound ceases, replaced by a low, pulsing hum that reverberates through the bones.
Then—
Whispers.
"Kha'tesh...vel'ra...shuun-drai..."
They seep into the air like venom, curling into the space between heartbeats. The air itself twists, bending like liquid glass, warping the battlefield into a swirling, hazy spiral of disorientation.
Stone floats.
Light bleeds from the cracks in the sky.
The very concept of distance becomes unreliable as the battlefield distorts, folding and tilting like a broken dream caught mid-spin.