Yet in the center, all that mattered was the King and Ren. Every other clash, every other struggle, faded into background noise, insignificant against the storm of authority that pressed from both sides.

Ren's fog writhed around him, black-blue tendrils reaching like fingers of judgment. The King loomed ahead, immense, shadow stretching, aura pressing like the weight of mountains. Each step he took made the ground tremble, each movement threatened to crush Ren, yet the boy advanced.

Nyxa's voice flowed inside him, calm and precise. "He bends reality with presence, but presence can fracture. Pressure him slowly. Do not rush. Find his rhythm, his hesitation, and exploit it."

Ren inhaled, the air thick with ash and mana, and moved. Tendrils lashed, black and alive, seeking weak points. The King struck first, fists of pure force aimed at Ren's core, intent to obliterate. Ren folded the fog, letting the strikes pass through empty space, twisting, snapping, yet never fully colliding.

The King's eyes glowed like furnaces, aura spiraling outward in raw, oppressive dominance. He struck again, faster, a hammer of will and muscle. The ground beneath them fractured, stones shattered into clouds of dust and shards. Ren staggered, pain flaring across his body, yet his eyes burned. Fog coiled tighter, learning, adapting, probing at the King's edges.

Nyxa hissed, guiding, precise. "You are an authority. Do not let him intimidate you. Do not yield. Break him slowly."

Ren pressed closer. Each strike of fog snapped against the King's forearm, ribs, legs. Each strike drew a reaction, a fraction of hesitation. He noted it, adjusted and flowed with the rhythm, like water against stone. The King's strikes became more erratic, faster, desperate, and heavier, yet each one was a footprint into his own unraveling.

Ervin, Vael, and Elara remained on the periphery, battered but alive, their eyes fixed on the duel. Golden light from Elara's hands stitched fragile sections of the battlefield. Lightning and wind from Ervin lashed outward, threatening to disrupt the King's movements, but he endured massive aura bending and folding, countering with raw dominance. Vael stayed low, dagger ready, a shadow moving across the battlefield, eyes on openings.

Ren's pulse synchronized with the fog, black-blue spiraling in perfect resonance. Mental pressure, presence, intent. He struck with all three. Tendrils dug into the King's aura, tugging, unraveling, forcing him to bleed presence like a wound. The King swung with full force, aura slamming against Ren's mind. Pain flared, every nerve screaming, yet he did not falter. He had learned to endure, to absorb, to push back.

Nyxa's whisper became a chant, weaving through his awareness. "He is unbending, but all unbending things break under the right pressure. Do not destroy yet. Pull him apart. Make him doubt himself. Make him bleed from within."

Ren tightened the fog, wrapping around the King, not to crush but to unravel. Fingers of darkness pressed into the seams of presence, pulling at overconfidence, tugging at the arrogance that held the massive form upright. The King roared, a storm of soundless weight that buckled the air, yet the fog clung, unbroken, alive, relentless.

Tendril struck leg, arm, shoulder, twisting, snapping. The King countered, swinging hands of immense power, yet for the first time, his movements were forced, staggered, reacting rather than commanding. A slight stumble, almost imperceptible. Nyxa's voice hissed in approval. "There. Do not hesitate. Keep the pressure. Fragment him further. One strike at a time."

Ren's eyes narrowed, black-blue fog tightening like a vice. Pain scorched through him, every scar, every wound a reminder of endurance. Every strike from the King pushed him to his limits, yet every success, no matter how small, drew him closer to mastery.

The slow-burn war of body and mind stretched onward, infinite in tension. The King pressed, an avalanche of force and presence, but Ren adapted, learning, fragmenting, surviving, striking. The battlefield itself seemed to wait, watching, trembling under the duel that could decide all.

Nyxa whispered, dark and eternal: "Soon, he will break. But when he does, you must be ready to strike not with haste, but with inevitability."

Ren stepped forward, fog thrumming like a living heart, wrapping tighter, ready to pull the first major fracture from the unyielding monolith of the King's power. The slow unraveling had begun.

The battlefield trembled under the weight of their presence. Smoke swirled around craters and shattered stone as the air itself seemed to strain under the raw force between Ren and the King. Every spell, every tendril of fog, every pulse of aura carried intent. Each breath of Ren's chest matched the rhythm of the world around him, each heartbeat synchronized with the pulse of Nyxa's guidance.

The King advanced with deliberate power, each step cracking the ground beneath him, each swing of his massive fists bending reality with unyielding force. Ren's fog surged in response, black-blue coils snapping toward the King like living chains. They struck, slashing across armor and aura, only to meet resistance that pressed against Ren's mind as much as his body. The King's presence was suffocating, vast, impossible to ignore.

Nyxa's voice flowed inside him, patient and precise. "Push him, do not yield. Every motion, every intent, you can bend. Observe the gaps between strikes, the hesitation in his confidence. Do not force, guide, and consume."

Ren's hand lashed forward. A tendril wrapped around the King's forearm, wrapping it in absence, drawing pressure where it had not been before. The King shifted, massive arms swinging with destructive intent, attempting to crush the encroaching fog, yet it held, stretching, gripping, pressing against him like a relentless tide.

He struck back, the first blow catching Ren's shoulder, sending a shock through his spine. Pain flared and heat seared through his arm, yet he pressed forward. Each strike from the King was calculated, crushing, designed to overwhelm. Every one Ren met with control, countering not with equal force but with adaptation, letting the fog anticipate and absorb.

A second blow hit his midsection, winded, burning. He stumbled but did not collapse. Nyxa's voice whispered, guiding. "Endurance is your weapon. Pressure is your strategy. Do not stop. Push him to reveal his edges."

Ren's eyes narrowed. Fog coiled around his legs, slipping under the King's defenses, wrapping around the aura that tethered him to the ground. The King responded instantly, aura snapping to defend, massive fists swinging to crush the encroachment. The tendrils of darkness twisted, shifting, attacking, retreating, each move precise and calculated.

The ground around them quaked. Stones lifted, splintering, air warped under the magnitude of their power. The King's aura pushed outward, attempting to dominate, but the fog responded, wrapping like tendrils of will, resisting, shaping, imposing its own authority.

Ren's breathing was ragged. Sweat and blood streaked across his body, yet his eyes were steady. Nyxa whispered again, sharper now, sharper than the wind against the battlefield. "He is powerful. His strength is unmatched. But it can be divided, split into openings. Exploit the weight of his intent. Pull him into your rhythm."

Another strike slammed into Ren's leg, sending him skidding back, yet he did not falter. The fog responded, surging higher, tighter, twisting around the King's massive frame. He lashed tendrils toward his head, shoulders, torso. The King staggered slightly under the pressure, not from pain but from the constant adjustment, the need to defend.

Every movement Ren made was deliberate. Every coil of fog, every strike of darkness, chipped at the King's composure. Mental pressure, intent, physical strength—they all collided in the center of the battlefield. Each clash echoed, sending shockwaves outward that flung debris across miles.

Nyxa's voice was a constant guide, a shadow in his mind. "Patience, patience. Do not overextend. Wait for the split. Wait for the hesitation that even he cannot hide. Then act with certainty."

Ren's pulse aligned with the battlefield, the fog twisting and writhing, alive, responsive, patient. He was not moving blindly. Every strike, every motion, every coil pressed against the King's supremacy, probing, bending, demanding reaction.

The King raised his massive fist for another blow, but this time, Ren anticipated the timing. The fog twisted upward, striking at the King's wrist, forcing his swing off-axis. The King's balance shifted, ever so slightly, his massive aura faltering for a breath. That was all Nyxa needed him to see.

"Now," she whispered inside his mind. "Push forward. Show him the weight of what he faces. Make him question himself."

Ren advanced, fog snapping forward like a storm, each tendril precise, calculating, relentless. The first real opening appeared, the tiniest deviation in the King's defense. Ren pressed, black-blue tendrils winding around him, pulling, guiding, coiling. The battle had begun to tilt, imperceptibly, one measured step at a time.

The slow war was far from over, yet the King had felt the first true pressure of Ren's command. The battlefield held its breath as the dance of authority and dominance continued, inch by inch, strike by strike, mind against mind, until only endurance and will decided the next move.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.