Silence settled, ash of amber kissed the ground that stood in between them.

  The red-scaled predator smiled, horns catching and bending the firelight as if the flames themselves were drawn to him. His posture was loose, confident, weight distributed like a man who expected violence and welcomed it.

  Across from him, Arion exhaled once, steam coiling from his lips in a controlled release. He met the stare without blinking—cold, calculating, entropy threaded through human sight as he measured distance, balance, space.

  An assessment.

  They stood unmoving, a pocket of stillness carved out of the camp’s collapse.

  Chaos raged around them—fire screaming, earth tearing, men dying.

  It meant nothing.

  Their target stood before them.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Shouts of spells and pain flooded the camp, overlapping until meaning dissolved into noise as the smell of iron, ash, and scorched wood engulfed it.

  Braziers exploded as a titan of earth barrelled through the tents, scattering flame in violent arcs. Canvas tore like paper. Poles snapped. Blood and mud churned together beneath boots that no longer knew where to run.

  “Flame Dart!”

  “Frost Needle!”

  Elemental projectiles streaked through smoke slamming into the moving mass of stone and soil only to fracture, disperse, or fizzle harmlessly across its hulking frame.

  “You fools! Tier-one magic ain’t going to do anything!” shouted a man with tied-back blond hair and a thick beard, his voice hoarse with authority and panic. “Don’t waste your Vitalis—lead it away from the camp!”

  “But Vix, he doesn’t seem interested in lea—”

  The sentence ended as a massive arm of rock and compacted earth swept through the space where the man stood, pulverising flesh and bone in a single, indifferent motion. What remained barely resembled bodies.

  Vix hurled himself aside, hitting the ground hard as debris and gore sprayed past him. He rolled, came up coughing, eyes wide.

  “Where’s Karlon, damn it!”

  He scrambled to his feet and ran for the centre of the camp, boots slipping in mud and blood alike.

  …

  As Vix reached Karlon’s tent, he yanked the fabric aside. “Karlon!”

  Inside, the roar of destruction dulled abruptly, replaced by the low crackle of firelight and the smell of ink and parchment.

  Karlon wasn’t there.

  Instead, a man stood amid scattered documents—dark skin, red eyes catching the glow, black hair falling loose as he rifled through notes with unsettling calm.

  “Draven? Where’s Karlon, have you—” Vix’s words cut short as his gaze dropped to the papers in Draven’s hands.

  “Ah, Vix,” Draven said mildly, not looking up. “No, I haven’t seen Karlon. But I did hear he went to deal with our little intruder.”

  Unease settled like lead in Vix’s gut.

  “Why are you going through the boss’s things?” he demanded. “You know he’ll kill you for this.”

  Draven turned slowly, red eyes lifting to meet his. A grin lingered there, lazy and unbothered.

  “Hah… Vix-Vix-Vix. You’ve always had such an annoying eye on me,” he sighed coupled with a shrug. “Why so suspicious?”

  “Because a little birdy told me all about you,” Vix snapped. “Your history with the organisation. You think I’d believe you crawled back without an ulterior motive?”

  With a flick of his wrist, he summoned his weapon—a three-headed flail bristling with cruel spikes. The chains rattled softly as it settled into his grip.

  Draven’s grin never faltered.

  Then he began to clap.

  A mocking ovation.

  “Vix. Amazing,” he said. “That’s exactly what I liked about you. You weren’t stupid, like the rest of these rats. I’m honestly surprised they haven’t gone extinct already.”

  “Funny,” Vix growled. “You should have gone extinct yourself. Demon scum.”

  Draven frowned for half a heartbeat—then chuckled.

  “Mmm. I nearly did.” He reached out, summoning his own weapon—a large, curved blade fitted with nine loose rings along its spine. “But that’s the thing, Vix.”

  The rings sang as the blade settled into his hand. Nearby nails vibrated. The air itself seemed to hum.

  “I’m quite a tenacious motherfucker,” Draven said pleasantly. “And I mean that literally.”

  The blade pulsed lively as if joining in on the joke.

  Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Hard to kill. Even harder to extinguish.”

  Vix stepped forward. “Bold words for a dead man.”

  Draven stared at his blade, caressing its edge with his fingers. “Don’t worry. I’ll make this quick.”

  A grin formed—

  —and motion exploded.

  Flame tore outward from the tent as metal clanged and wood splintered. Vix burst through the canvas, skidding through mud as blood traced his path. Draven followed, stepping through fire as if it were smoke, the rings of his blade singing in cold harmony.

  Vix staggered, realising too late how much damage he’d taken.

  He roared and swung his flail, carving through the earth.

  Luminary Art—

  "Earth Fang."

  The ground ruptured. Large jagged spikes of stone tore upward, racing toward Draven.

  Dodge into a lunge.

  Step—deflect.

  Sparks flew as Draven’s blade scraped stone mid-flight, boots striking the next spike as he flipped forward.

  Draven sprinted down the jagged line, another earthen fang rising to meet him.

  His blade spun in a perfect, arced motion as the air displaced.

  The nine rings along its spine began to shiver—first a faint tremor, then a rapid metallic crescendo;

  Ching—ching—ching

  Luminary Art—

  "9-Ring Choir."

  Each collision birthed a new note, nine tones rising in discordant harmony. The air warped around the vibration; dust lifted in an invisible rhythm.

  Then the sound sharpened.

  Music weaponised.

  One sweeping strike released the stored resonance. The rings screamed together, a metallic choir that shattered the spike as if marble had been struck by a bell.

  The air snapped cold as sound bent around him.

  The nine rings kept singing—devils in a cathedral, laughing as they tore the earth apart.

  Draven leapt clear, swinging again. The sound screamed toward Vix, who slammed his flail down, murmured a spell and raised a wall of earth. The vibrations cracked through it, fractures spider-webbing outward—

  Then Draven casted.

  “Black Fang.”

  Shadow as sharp as blade cut through the cracks, exploding the wall entirely, only for the black shadows to erupt into red flame.

  The shadows gave flame momentum and waves engulfed Vix.

  Skin singed. He swung his flail, ripping the flames apart. Only for a curved blade to replace it, slicing through his shoulder, he managed to step back in time before it did even more damage.

  Draven pressed forward, grinning.

  Shit! When did he close the gap this much to Blademaster? Why didn’t I sense it?

  They danced in a flurry of combat. The flail had more weight and crushing power, something Draven was careful of, deflecting it on the perfect angle.

  The blade had speed and had a nasty bite. Vix kept him at a distance with footwork, where the flail had the advantage for wider arcs.

  CLANG!

  THUMP!

  CLING!

  They both wielded their weapons to near mastery, fighting with tenaciousness and experience. Exploiting mistakes and punishing the opposition.

  But Vix had sustained damage, blood was getting into his sight and it was only a matter of making a crucial mistake.

  Which Draven saw.

  Vix finally misjudged his overhead power strike—overextending.

  The flail came down at an angle, a miss—footing slipping. His bloodied eye painted the battlefield in red.

  Draven stepped inside the flail’s arc, and punished it with brutal precision.

  A blade slid into Vix’s chest, cutting deep—biting through flesh and armour.

  Strength fled as he groaned.

  His body didn't protest anymore. Grip loosened as he fell backwards, his body surrendering to exhaustion and damage.

  Draven stood over him, glaring from above.

  CORUGHH—GAH.

  A bloody, wet cough sounded.

  “Ha…haha, tenacious, I’ll give you that. But the past always catches up, Draven… just like me.”

  He coughed out more blood. Then continued.

  “Killer. Bandit. Mercenary. Justicator. Doesn’t matter what you become. The past lingers.”

  Draven crouched, eyes cold.

  “The past can take what it wants,” he said quietly. “When I let it.”

  He stood, turning toward the chaos.

  “For now, people have some dying to do.”

  Vix tried to speak again—

  —but the words never left his mouth.

  “So you can go shove that shit back up—oh…”

  He looked back at Vix, only to realise he'd finally bled out.

  Draven sighed. “Fuck. Talking to dead guys now. How embarrassing.”

  He flicked blood from his blade. The rings sang once more.

  “Let’s see how Karlon's doing…”

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  A shockwave travelled between tents and flame, the wind blew embers of destruction between the gazes of two figures locked in a standoff.

  Karlon grinned. “Those fragile valuables behind you, they might want to back off. Don’t you think, Mr Hero?”

  “...Sure, pal.”

  Arion glanced back. “Step back, guys.” His gaze returned, steady. “Us adults have business to settle.”

  Karlon chuckled. “Pal? No, that just won't do, friend. Call me Karlon.”

  He caught a piece of charcoal flying near him, and proceeded to smoke it like a cigar.

  After a large inhale, he roared—flame burst out from within his throat, like a high pressure tank on fire.

  …

  The flames dissipated as the wind took back the eerie silence.

  “Mmm? Nothing?” Karlon groaned, “Really, that always gets some kind of reaction out of the lads…”

  I seriously can’t put a finger on this guy. That's the thing that scares me the most.

  Karlon let out a tired sigh, rubbing his chin.

  “Guess we have to go through our usual script… “

  “So, the villain enters… The brave heroic stand... Villain’s introduction…” He pointed. “Then the Hero speaks.”

  “Fuck off”

  Karlon blinked.

  Then narrowed his eyes, as if counting something in his head.

  “One-hundred and seventy-nine.”

  Arion frowned. “...What?”

  “You’re the hundred and seventy-ninth person to say that.” Karlon said, smiling just a little too gently.

  Pause.

  “I always wonder why it’s the last thing they say.”

  Arion needed a moment to mentally buffer that.

  Karlon brightened.

  “Now!” Karlon clapped. “The heroic speech.”

  A moment went by, then Arion shifted his weight.

  He spun Recall, her pulse whistling through the air.

  “I’m getting tired of your games. I've put plenty of assholes in the dirt… and, unsurprisingly, you’re just another one of them.”

  Karlon stood there, taken aback.

  Then—

  Clap!

  A second clap.

  Then a third — slow, theatrical, delighted.

  “Bravo. Truly. And look at that, you’re the first person to say that one to me.” His smile dropped into something mournful, almost tender.

  “A shame, really. Well, at least I’ll have something to remember you by.”

  Arion’s eye twitched.

  “I'm gonna enjoy putting you in your place, scum.”

  Karlon leaned in slightly, teeth glinting.

  “Careful now, friend. I might actually enjoy that.”

  Then, with a sudden soft voice—

  “But killing you? That will wound me. Deeply.”

  They stepped forward in tandem, the distance collapsing—hunter and hunted switching roles every footfall.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  Black Fang

  Tier 2 — School of Darkness

  Description:

  Black Fang summons jagged spikes of condensed shadow that erupt upward from existing cracks, seams, or points of weakness. The manifested darkness hardens instantly, tearing through stone, timber, and armour alike as it surges skyward.

  Rather than striking a surface directly, the spell exploits what is already broken—forcing shadow into fractures until resistance fails and the structure bursts apart from within.

  Frequently used to breach fortifications, impale clustered foes, or punish enemies who rely on cover or terrain.

  Essence Principle:

  Darkness does not create force—it claims absence.

  Where light, matter, or integrity is already compromised, Luminary Essence yields, allowing shadow to take form. The deeper the fracture, the sharper the manifestation. Shadow does not cut like the blade; it replaces what should be there, and reality gives way around it.

  Solid structures fail not because they are pierced, but because the darkness denies them cohesion.

  Practitioner’s Note:

  Black Fang is strongest where the world is already wounded. Cracks, gaps, and faults invite deeper penetration and more violent emergence.

  Forcing the spell against flawless surfaces greatly increases Essence expenditure and reduces stability. Darkness resents being made to carve where it can instead invade.

  Maintain distance—shadow eruptions are indiscriminate once released.

  Maxim:

  “All walls have teeth marks. Shadow simply bites where the world is weakest.”