Dane took a deep breath.

  Every instinct screamed at him to rush the man, to anchor himself in time, to die again and again until he learned the measure of Tormund. It worked on the Shade Devil and it could work here.

  Chrono Anchor hovered at the edge of his thoughts.

  But one thing stopped him. He felt no power coming off the man at all. That told Dane everything he needed to know.

  Tormund's control was so complete that he could stand in the open and leak nothing, not mana, not intent, not pressure. Power that contained itself like that was mastered.

  Dane let his Demon form fall away. Scales receded beneath his skin, heat bleeding off as his body returned to its baseline. He needed to conserve what he had left.

  The fight with Ryn had taken its toll; his Dragon Essence was cut in half, his HP down by a quarter, and his mana nearly drained. He couldn't afford excess.

  Huntsman found no weaknesses he could exploit. He would need to create an opening.

  Mana Sight was strange. Tormund had no affinities at all.

  That, somehow, was worse.

  The blades at Tormund's hips drew Dane's attention next. They were mismatched. The one on the right was longer than a bastard sword but just shy of a true greatsword; its proportions were lean and unsettling. The blade on the left looked like a hunting knife that had been stretched into a short sword, thick near the hilt and brutal in its simplicity.

  They began to circle.

  Dane never took his eyes off Tormund's center of gravity. Hands and feet lied. Swords feinted. But the hips would always tell the truth. They dictated where everything was going.

  He was only halfway through assembling a plan when the wind cut his cheek.

  It happened so fast that Dane barely registered the draw.

  The short sword was already in Tormund's left hand.

  Tormund surged forward, his movement strange and deliberate. It looked less like a charge and more like a dance, one whose steps only he knew.

  Dane dashed backward, trying to buy space.

  Another wind-shear tore past him, catching his side just before his heel hit the sand.

  He blinked, teleporting out, but not before the air ripped through half his leg.

  Dane tore space open and vanished again.

  The world snapped sideways as he reappeared several paces away, boots skidding in the sand as pain flared through his torn leg. He didn't give himself time to breathe. The pickaxe was already coming up, body turning to re-engage... and the air behind him folded again.

  A presence passed through the distortion he'd left behind, the spatial tear warping and collapsing as it was used. Dane felt it before he saw it.

  Tormund stepped out of the tear a heartbeat later. Close enough that Dane felt breath brush his ear.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "You always leave it open," Tormund whispered.

  The words were quiet and instructional.

  Dane's Danger Sense screamed as steel moved. The short sword slid in, shallow but exact, biting into muscle without crippling it. Pain flared, sharp and deliberate.

  "I've fought space abominations like you," Tormund continued softly, as if they were still circling. "They all think distance is safety."

  Dane wrenched himself free and stumbled forward, forcing separation through sheer momentum, boots digging trenches in the sand. He spun, pistol half-raised, pickaxe trembling in his grip.

  Tormund didn't chase.

  He stood where Dane had meant to escape to, blades loose at his sides, watching him with calm attention.

  "You hesitate before you jump," Tormund said. "You need to think about where you'll land."

  His eyes lifted, meeting Dane's.

  "Your reflexes are too slow."

  The space between them felt smaller than it had before.

  Not because Tormund had moved, but because Dane now understood that Blink was no longer an asset.

  Dane planted his feet and raised his left hand.

  Timefire bloomed.

  Twenty-four phantom projectiles fanned outward in a staggered arc, each one screaming through fractured seconds, their paths overlapping and diverging in ways that hurt to look at. Only one was real. Dane chose it at the last possible instant.

  Tormund reacted anyway.

  The long sword moved, precise and economical, intercepting three false trajectories before they could collapse. The short sword came up a heartbeat later, carving through another cluster as if cutting smoke.

  The real shot slipped past them.

  It struck Tormund square in the chest.

  The impact barely phased the Titan.

  The force only drove him back half a step, armor ringing as the delayed temporal collapse detonated a fraction of a second later. Dust and fractured light exploded outward, time snapping back into place with a concussive crack.

  Space folded.

  A portal tore open at his side, a ragged oval of distorted air that showed another section of the arena floor, broken stone, jagged and unstable. He stepped through without breaking stride, emerging twenty paces away as the portal snapped shut behind him.

  Tormund didn't hesitate.

  He stepped into the space Dane had left behind and vanished.

  Dane felt it immediately. The pull. The alignment. The way Space answered Tormund's intent.

  So Dane changed it.

  The portal twisted mid-transition, its exit re-anchoring in an instant. Instead of solid ground, it now opened thirty feet above the arena wall, angled outward.

  Tormund emerged into empty air. The long sword bit into stone as he fell, arresting his fall with brutal precision. He rolled once and came up on his feet, blades already in motion.

  "So you can think," he said.

  Dane didn't answer. He opened another portal, then another, layering them across the arena like open wounds in space. He shot off Timefire again, phantom rounds threading through the rifts, their trajectories bending and folding as they crossed thresholds that hadn't existed moments before.

  For the first time, Tormund slowed.

  Not because he was overwhelmed, but because he had to reassess the battlefield. A slight grin bloomed on his face like a child who had solved a puzzle.

  He stepped toward one portal, tested it with the tip of his blade. Dane shifted the exit. The sword passed through and reappeared a dozen paces away, slicing empty air.

  Tormund withdrew it, nodding once.

  "Better," he said quietly.

  He stepped forward again.

  Dane altered the portal's orientation mid-step, rotating the exit to the side. Tormund emerged at an angle, boots skidding as he corrected, momentum bleeding off for the briefest instant.

  Dane used it.

  The pickaxe came down hard, Dragon Essence flaring as it struck Tormund's shoulder, the blow ringing like a hammer on an anvil. The impact drove him back a whole step, stone cracking beneath his heel.

  It was the first real hit.

  Tormund looked down at the fractured armor, then back up at Dane.

  A thin smile touched his lips.

  "There it is," he said.

  Then he moved.

  The portals screamed as space buckled under the force of his advance, blades flashing as he cut through collapsing exits and shifting angles. Dane retreated through his own rifts, changing destinations on the fly, dragging the battlefield with him.

  But each change cost him.

  Mana bled away in heavy chunks. The Ascendant's Core throbbed, pressure building as Dragon Essence strained to compensate.

  Tormund felt it.

  "Calm down, my candle, you'll burn yourself out," he said calmly, stepping through a portal that shouldn't have been stable. "You should pace yourself.”

  Dane slammed a portal shut between them and staggered back, chest heaving.

  For the first time, Tormund didn't advance immediately.

  He watched Dane with something far from approval.

  "I suppose it is time to get serious," Tormund said.