Sylvia stood silent for a moment after taking in what Riven had shared.
"That's not the worst plan I've ever heard, but are you certain it will work?" she asked.
Riven simply nodded.
"Then let's go. We don't have time to waste."
Both turned and broke into a dash toward the ongoing battle where they could see the noble fighting.
As they closed the distance, the battlefield came into focus—chaos carved into the earth. Jagged rock spikes jutted out in wild clusters, some shattered, others cracked down the middle. Deep, sharp grooves slashed through the ground like scars, as if some giant had taken a knife to the terrain and raked it across with malicious intent.
The air was heavy with the stench of dust. Each step crunched against gravel and brittle shards.
Riven's eyes swept the battlefield, locking onto a green glow buried beneath a massive, undulating shape—the Scorchcoil. The beast was relentless, lunging over and over at the noble. In response, the man whipped wind blades in every direction with little aim or restraint. Each arc of wind sliced across the snake's armored coils, making it hiss and recoil with every strike.
Peering closer, Riven spotted the noble's form—bloodied and bruised, standing on sheer willpower. Two massive holes marked his right shoulder and left thigh, both the size of a clenched fist.
But that wasn't why Riven had come. His focus drifted past the noble to another green glow, this one encased in a ring of stone spikes. As he and Sylvia moved closer, the source became clear—the Quackefang.
It was in bad shape. Its thick, rocky scales were torn and ragged, some areas sliced clean through. From between the cracks, deep crimson blood seeped in a slow, steady stream, pooling in the broken dirt beneath it. The sharp smell of iron stung Riven's nose.
That Fanglion really did a number on it. Riven was impressed, though in hindsight he should have expected it. Wind magic was inherently strong against earth, especially the kind laced with the sharpness aspect—like what the Fanglion wielded.
Still, it was clear the Fanglion didn't have much time left. Its body trembled, bleeding from a dozen places.
As if on cue, the Quackefang released another burst of power, spikes erupting around the Fanglion in a sudden quake of force. The ground cracked beneath their feet. The Fanglion let out a dying roar, a final sound soaked in fury and pain, before its body went still. Its once-green fur was now a deep, soaked red.
Riven held his breath. The Quackefang was still nearby, its presence looming and dangerous. But then, to his relief, it turned. With sluggish movements, it began slithering toward the noble—likely intent on finishing what it started and claiming both prizes.
Only once it was far enough did Riven and Sylvia approach the Fanglion's corpse.
It didn't take Riven long to find what he was looking for. The familiar motes of light hovered above the body, five in total. Each shard resembled a bismuth crystal, prismatic and layered, though each held a dominant hue. Four glowed a radiant green and one pulsed an electric blue.
Riven raised his hand for collection and the shards began to drift toward him one by one. They passed through his skin and sank into his soul-space like water soaking into dry ground.
The colors seemed to hold meaning as the green ones surged like a powerful river, his mana channels igniting with raw energy. But the blue... the blue was different.
It hit like a spiraling tornado, a twisting cyclone of liquid force that tore through his insides. Riven winced as the sensation surged up his spine, his nerves alight.
Why do these hurt?
This didn't happen when I absorbed the others.
He didn't have time to dwell on it. They needed to move.
Turning to Sylvia, he saw her watching him expectantly. Of course. Only he could see what had just happened.
"It's done. Let's head back."
Sylvia didn't move instantly, as though uncertain anything had occurred. Then her shoulders rose in a slight shrug, and without a word, she turned and started walking away.
Riven wanted to explain further but now was not the time, instead he followed after her. They had taken only a few steps when a desperate voice rang out behind them.
"Help me! We can kill them together!"
The voice was shrill, strained with panic—but unmistakable. It was the noble.
Riven's pace faltered, hesitation gnawing at his resolve. Could they actually kill all three beasts if they worked together?
Sylvia, noticing his pause, slowed to match him. She drifted close to his side, her voice low and grim. "If we try to help him now, Roman will die. And there's no guarantee he won't just run off after we save him. He's not worth the risk."
Her words cut through his doubt, easing the weight of guilt that had threatened to grow in his chest. The memory of being locked in that cold, dark cell for two days, not knowing if he'd ever see his family again, resurfaced—and with it, the guilt twisted into anger.
Riven clenched his jaw and shouted over his shoulder, his voice sharp with fury, "Go to hell!"
Right after, they broke into a sprint again, urgency thudding in every step. Within a minute, they reached the edge of the second battlefield, where the colossal brown Quackefang was locked in a thunderous clash with a blur of crimson. Riven's breath hitched with momentary relief—Roman was still alive. But it was clear from the way he was being knocked back with each blow that he was losing ground. His movements were slower, his defense sloppier. Mana running low, body battered.
Riven stopped a few yards short of the battle, scanning the chaos ahead. Sylvia surged past him, her rapier gleaming at her side. A brilliant white light enveloped her as her beast companion, the towering Ice Knight, burst into reality behind her in a shimmer of frost and power. The knight charged, its massive greatsword cleaving through the air in horizontal arcs that crashed against the Quackefang's rocky scales, leaving pale icy lines—but little else.
Even with the underwhelming damage, it had the desired effect. The Quackefang let out a gravelly hiss and lunged at the knight, slamming into it with brutal force. The collision sent out a concussive wave of air, and the knight shattered into icy fragments.
Riven didn't flinch. He knew the beast wouldn't die unless its core was destroyed. True enough, the fragments hung in the air, trembling, then slowly drifted back toward each other like a reversed explosion. The knight reformed, piece by piece.
Still, concern edged into Riven's thoughts. Will they hold out long enough?
He shook his head. No. Now's not the time to doubt them.
Pushing aside the gnawing worry, Riven turned his attention to the battlefield. He needed a mana conduit—and fast.
The estate was a wreck. What was once a pristine garden woven with stone paths and lush greenery was now a scarred wasteland. Torn-up soil, shattered hedges, and streaks of dark, crusted red were scattered across the grounds. Jagged stone spikes jutted from the earth where the Quackefang had passed, ripping apart the carefully maintained paths. Parts of the mansion's outer walls lay in rubble, likely crushed beneath the shockwaves of battle.
Amid the debris, something glinted.
Riven darted over, his boots crunching against gravel and broken stone. A half-buried piece of metal caught the sunlight—it was the front half of a sword. He reached down, gripping the hilt, and pulled.
Stone gave way with a grinding scrape as the weapon emerged—an entire blade, surprisingly intact. The metal gleamed a cool gray, its surface unmarred despite the chaos. The leather wrapping on the hilt was tight and well-maintained, and though it bore no crest or insignia, the craftsmanship was familiar. It reminded him of the broken kusarigama he'd once held.
A small smile tugged at his lips.
He raised the blade above his head, inspecting its balance, the way the light danced along its edge. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes and sank into his soul space.