Vorn vanished.
There was no sound. No warning. One moment he stood before them—quiet, composed, too calm to be normal—and the next, only fog remained. It was not a retreat. It was a message.
The silence that followed was unnatural. The kind that settled in after blood had been spilled and the earth forgot how to breathe.
But the mist... the mist did not fade.
It clung to the ground and hung in the air like thick smoke, swirling as if alive, as if it possessed a will of its own. The trees became vague shadows. The dirt path beneath their feet disappeared entirely. The silhouettes of the group were reduced to silhouettes inside a dream, distorted and flickering.
None of them could tell whether what approached was a tree, a man, or something far worse.
Kellan narrowed his eyes, lowering his stance into a ready crouch. The fog couldn't mask the tension rising in his body. His muscles coiled like springs. His fingers flexed with practiced precision around the hilt of his inscribed sword. A red gleam flickered across his eyes—an instinct forged through battle, warning him that death was close.
"Don't separate," he ordered sharply, his voice carrying authority even as it was smothered by the mist. "Stay near me. He's here… and he's hunting."
Behind him, the others stirred, some barely suppressing panic. Tharic was breathing too fast. Ryn's eyes scanned the fog, jaw clenched.
Then—it came.
Not a sound. Not a footstep. Just the softest of whispers.
Shhhk.
A hiss—barely audible—like silk tearing under a blade.
Kellan spun, heart surging.
Vorn had reappeared—behind them. Still. Silent. A figure born from fog, eyes hollow like the abyss. And then he moved.
His blade, inscribed with flowing characters that shimmered faintly, carved through the air in a sharp diagonal arc aimed straight for Kellan's ribs.
But it found only air.
Kellan had already moved, reacting before thought could even catch up. He parried mid-spin, steel meeting steel in a flash of sparks. The clang reverberated in the fog like a distant bell.
And then, chaos.
The two locked into a brutal exchange—no words, no hesitation. Just metal against metal, fury against will.
Kellan fought like a blade given form. His movements were fluid, honed through years of relentless survival. Every strike came from the shoulder, the core, the soul. But Vorn was faster—strangely so. His body weaved through attacks like a specter, movements lacking hesitation, almost… inhuman.
The fog around them seemed to pulse with every clash, enclosing the fight like an arena.
Steel rang. Sparks lit shadows. The group could do nothing but listen—blind and helpless.
Then Vorn shifted.
He slid under Kellan's guard and slammed his palm forward—not to strike, but to inscribe.
Kellan's instincts screamed, but he was too late.
Vorn traced a glyph in the air, and his voice, cold and sharp as obsidian, rang through the fog.
"Engraving: Water Prison."
A tremor rippled through the ground. A second later, water burst from the earth around them as if summoned from the bones of the land. It coiled around Kellan, wrapping his form in an orb of liquid that shimmered like glass.
Within a heartbeat, the bubble solidified—glistening, flawless, beautiful... and deadly.
Kellan's sword struck the barrier once—twice—but it was like trying to break stone with a whisper. The water pressed inward, crushing his chest, numbing his limbs, weighing on him like lead.
The fog distorted his vision. The others became distant silhouettes, unreachable. He opened his mouth to speak, to shout—only bubbles escaped.
From outside, Vorn's hand hovered over the prison, fingers splayed.
"You can't break this," he said softly, almost with affection. "As long as I maintain the prison, you'll remain buried inside it. Breathless. Helpless."
Then, Vorn raised his other hand.
Another glyph. Another shadow.
A second figure stepped forth from him, identical in every way. A clone.
"You're not the only one who knows how to split your form," Vorn said. "Watch closely, Kellan. I'll slaughter your students one by one... while you watch."
Tharic's legs refused to move.
His breaths came short, shallow. His eyes stared at the clone advancing through the fog like a reaper. The silence of the forest was broken only by the squelch of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears.
Ryn moved first.
He charged, hurling three throwing daggers in a single motion. The blades spun, glinting in the mist, but the clone weaved around them with almost no effort. It darted forward, counterattacking with a single horizontal slash.
Ryn ducked. But not fast enough.
A sharp line of pain flared across his shoulder. Blood welled up, warm and slick beneath his robes.
He staggered back, teeth clenched.
"This is no normal illusion…" he muttered. "It's too fast. Too precise. We're not built for this kind of fight."
Behind him, Tharic exhaled sharply.
"I'm not… ready to die yet."
His voice was thin. But it held a weight it had never held before.
He reached into his coat with trembling fingers, pulling out a small scroll—a simple item, creased from use, worn from sleepless nights.
He unrolled it slowly, reverently, like opening the gate to something sacred. The scroll unfurled to reveal a set of rough, shaky inscriptions—his first glyphs, carved with stubborn resolve.
"I've only just learned how to use my main Engraving…" Tharic muttered. "Even if I'm not skilled, I'll fight like a real Engraving Master."
The clone turned its head at the sudden flare of energy.
Tharic struck first, lashing out with a basic but bold inscription tied to his elemental path: Magma Veil. Molten energy surged outward like a wave, forcing the clone to dodge instinctively.
That was the moment.
Ryn had never stopped moving. He had hidden within the arc of Tharic's attack—his figure obscured behind the wash of heat and light.
As the clone evaded, Ryn passed it.
His blade was already in motion.
But he wasn't aiming at the clone.
He was aiming at Vorn.
Vorn saw the attack coming, but only in the final moment. His fingers pulled away from the water prison as he raised his sword to defend. Steel met steel in a flash, but the impact forced him back a half step.
And the connection was broken.
The water prison shattered like fragile crystal. The orb collapsed inward, and Kellan fell to one knee, coughing water, steam rising from his drenched body.
But he was not defeated.
He stood slowly.
Water rolled off his shoulders, muscles tight beneath the soaked tunic. His eyes gleamed like embers—slow-burning rage, restrained no longer.
He met Vorn's gaze through the thinning fog.
And he smiled.
"You've had your turn," Kellan said, voice low and calm.
He stepped forward, each movement purposeful.
"Now… it's mine."