For a long, tense moment, the ten chosen warriors stared at one another across the obsidian field, the world holding its breath around them.
Fenara and Tara locked eyes with a fury that needed no words. Their death stares radiated a silent challenge, daring the other to make the first move. Muscles twitched. Fangs bared. Tension coiled like a drawn bowstring.
Adgrun shifted uncomfortably, his thick arms folded as he stared down the golden Dragonkin. But the scaled warrior refused to return the gaze. Eyes shut, his calm seemed unbreakable, like he was meditating before a meal rather than preparing for war.
To their right, the ogres snarled and growled, their deep, guttural noises rumbling through the earth. It was less language and more instinct, like wild beasts circling before a bloody brawl.
Darfin's gaze flickered between the mountainous giant and the ancient elf standing across from them. His hands flexed. His jaw tightened.
And Lucy… Lucy couldn't take his eyes off Vorn Cain.
Something about the elder elf froze him in place. Lucy didn't know if it was fear, nerves, or something more profound, but his hands trembled beneath his gauntlets, his breath shallow and cold.
'What is with this guy?' Lucy thought. 'He's not leaking pressure, but all I feel is death.'
Then, slicing through the standoff, Vorn finally spoke.
"Darfin," the elf said calmly, his voice low and smooth like a ripple across still water, "do you want to take this somewhere else?"
Lucy blinked. 'Huh?'
Darfin straightened at the question, standing taller, almost like a student called upon by a revered master. There was respect there—absolute, deep-rooted respect.
"Unfortunately," Darfin said with a bow of his head, "I am not your fight today, Vorn."
Vorn raised an eyebrow, faint amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. "Oh? Then, who do I have the pleasure of facing?"
Darfin didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Lucy clenched his fists, willing his legs to stop shaking. He stepped forward. "That would be me," he said. His voice came out firmer than he expected, layered with a confidence he didn't feel.
Vorn's gaze turned slowly toward him. Lucy felt something crawl down his spine when those ancient eyes locked onto him. Fear—not the kind born of surprise or adrenaline, but a cold, quiet dread—like standing in the shadow of a forgotten god.
Still, there was no hatred in Vorn's expression. No anger. Just observation. Calm, composed, and deadly.
"Lucy, was it?" Vorn asked, voice tinged with curiosity.
"Yes. Lucy the human," he replied dryly, sarcasm masking the tremor in his legs.
The elder elf gave a soft, amused chuckle. "Ah, Lucy the human," he repeated. "Would you prefer we move away from the others? I don't like fighting in crowds."
Lucy hesitated. Part of him had hoped they'd all fight side by side—maybe buy time, share the risk. But looking around, he knew better. Tara was practically vibrating with bloodlust. Her spotted fur stood on end, claws twitching at her sides. The others were the same—eager, hungry for their chosen battles.
'These maniacs aren't going to let anyone steal their prey,' Lucy thought grimly.
He turned back to Vorn and nodded. "Yeah. Let's."
Without another word, Vorn turned and walked—calmly, deliberately—his long robe catching the sunlight with soft, glimmering patterns of pale blue and white.
Lucy watched him for a beat, then followed, armor clinking faintly with each step. They walked several hundred feet from the group, the world growing quieter with each step. There were no more growls, no more tension, just the sound of wind brushing against his ears and the rhythmic thud of his boots against the obsidian.
Vorn stopped. He turned to face Lucy again, folding his hands behind his back.
"This should do," he said, meeting Lucy's gaze with that same unreadable calm.
Then, shockwaves rang out behind them like a drumbeat in the distance. The ground trembled slightly beneath Lucy's feet.
He didn't turn. He couldn't. Every nerve in his body screamed at him not to take his eyes off Vorn. It felt like blinking might cost him his life.
Vorn, however, looked back with interest. "Ah… looks like they've begun. Darfin's fighting Atius?" He smiled faintly. "Unexpected. Well, good luck to the brat."
But Lucy barely heard him. His thoughts spiraled, wild and fast.
'Why the hell is he just watching? I'm right in front of him, sword ready. Does he not even consider me a threat?'
The silence between them deepened, drawn taut like a wire between mountains.
Lucy swallowed hard.
The battle hadn't even started, and already, he was drowning in it.
However, Vorn's gaze eventually drifted away from the chaos in the distance and settled back onto Lucy, as if he'd been reading the unease written all over the young warrior's face.
"Do not fret, child," he said calmly, as if offering reassurance to someone about to jump off a cliff. "At this moment, I do not wish to fight."
Lucy didn't dare lower his blade. His arms remained taut, his stance ready—but his brows knitted in confusion. "Then… what do you wish to do?" he asked, low and wary.
"To talk, of course," Vorn said, folding his hands behind his back. "Do you take me for some kind of madman who kills without knowing the person first?"
"Yes," Lucy said bluntly. "That is exactly what I took you for."
In his mind, he saw the horrified faces of his friends when he told them he was chosen to face the Vorn Cain. The legend. The killer. The ghost of Ithriel's army.
The elder elf laughed—an honest, unguarded sound that echoed faintly against the vast obsidian plain. He even tilted his head back slightly, as if Lucy's words amused him intensely. "Ah, I do have that reputation, don't I?" he said with a smile. "But I promise you, I only wish to speak. For now."
Lucy's eye twitched. 'This is not how I pictured Vorn. First, he feels like nothing-no pressure or presence-and now he's acting like some friendly old monk? He has to be messing with me.'
Still, Lucy wasn't in a position to call his bluff. He knew full well that if Vorn was playing a game, calling it out might be his last mistake.
So, he played along.
"What do you want to talk about?" Lucy asked, even as the sharp booms of distant spells cracked through the air behind him. The battle had truly begun, but here, in this strange pocket of calm, time seemed to move differently.
To his surprise, Vorn calmly lowered himself onto the obsidian ground in the middle of the battlefield. Blood had dried in black streaks across the glassy stone, and flecks of ash drifted lazily on the wind.
Then Vorn gestured for Lucy to sit as well.
'Is he insane? He's giving me a clear shot—if I strike now, I might actually land a hit.' Lucy's hand tightened around his sword hilt instinctively.
But then Vorn looked up at him, eyes narrowing—not threatening, but sharp. The unspoken message was clear: Try it, and die.
Lucy swallowed hard.
Instead of rushing to his death, he lowered himself onto the ground with careful control, never breaking eye contact. The closer he got to the earth, the more pungent the stench of blood became. It was acrid and coppery—fresh in some places, old in others. It clung to the stone, the wind, and the air in his lungs. But at least, for now, he was still breathing.
Once Lucy settled into a cross-legged seat across from him, Vorn spoke.
"What do you think of this war, Lucy?"
The question hit harder than expected.
Lucy's mind whirled. 'Is this a test? Will he kill me if I speak freely?' His thoughts shot back to Darfin—stoic, loyal, utterly devoted to Seraphine. If Vorn were anything like him, Lucy wouldn't survive a single rebellious word.
Still, something about Vorn's tone—calm, sincere, unthreatening—nudged him toward honesty.
"I hate this war," Lucy said plainly.
There was no venom in his voice—just truth.
Vorn's eyebrows lifted with genuine curiosity. "Care to explain?"