I keep silent and watch. My eyes struggle to follow the fight. Every strike comes faster than I can track, and every clash blinds me with light.

Azrakel's body begins to change. Dark lines creep across his skin, the same as the Stone monsters we fought before. His veins pulse with black and violet fire, and his face twists with a fury that feels less his and more borrowed. The warhammer glows brighter, the plasma on it shaking with unstable power.

He presses forward, his swings heavier and faster. The hammer smashes into the ground and throws molten stone into the air. He chases Iskara with strikes that land like storms, and the wetlands roar under his weight.

Iskara holds against him. Her golden veins blaze, and her fists keep meeting the warhammer head‑on. Yet something feels off.

I see her stumble after one strike. I see her swing too wide and leave an opening before she recovers. The power is there, enough to stand against him, but her movements do not match the precision of her aura.

She slams her fist into the hammer and drives Azrakel back, but then she almost falls forward as if her strength carries too far. She steadies herself, yet the strain shows.

King Baalrek, I whisper in my mind.

His voice comes low and sharp. She cannot control it. Her body is immune to being torn apart by the flood of buffs. That is the gift of Lucifer's Veins. But immunity is not mastery. She holds a storm inside herself that she can't fully control. Her power is too great for her to keep up with it.

Another clash shakes the wetlands. Azrakel grins through the black marks spreading across his face, while Iskara's golden eyes burn bright yet waver for a moment.

"You cannot master it," he says. "Lucifer's Veins only give strength. They do not give control. You swing too far, and you leave openings you cannot cover."

His warhammer glows as plasma fills it. He steps in and brings it down. The strike drives Iskara to the ground, and cracks open under her body.

She pushes herself back up, her veins still burning with gold, but her arms move unevenly. Her body shakes with power that does not obey her.

Azrakel lifts the warhammer again. Black and violet lines crawl across his skin as the Corruption grows. Lightning spreads over the weapon until it shines with raw force. "You end here."

He swings and a giant lightning bolt detaches from the warhammer, aimed straight at Iskara, whose faltering control makes dodging impossible. The strike tears through the air, wide enough to destroy everything in front of him.

Darkness spreads across the ground before it lands. A flat wall of void rises in front of Iskara. The lightning collides with it, and the plasma disappears.

Orrivane jumps beside her, his hair floating upward as his veins pulse. His tone is steady. "I will not let you."

Azrakel stumbles back as his own power vanishes into the void. His breathing grows heavy. The black marks on his body spread further, and his hammer glows again with unstable heat.

Iskara stands, her chest rising and falling with effort. Her body is still filled with golden light, yet each movement shows strain.

I watch them in silence. Azrakel grips his warhammer. Iskara steadies her stance. Orrivane holds the curtain of void in front of her.

Baalrek's voice presses into my head. Lucifer's Veins can hold endless power. But strength is not control. She can resist the force inside her, yet she cannot guide it as she wills. It is already remarkable she can fight like this at all. That she can fight at Peak Diamond Rank while not having even reached the Peak of Gold is a feat beyond most.

Iskara steps beside Orrivane. She clenches her fists, and the gold veins in her arms blaze again. Her stance wavers for a moment, but she forces it steady.

Orrivane lifts one hand. The void spreads from his fingers and settles into a thin wall that hovers in front of them both. "I will block. You strike."

Iskara nods once. She bursts forward as the curtain of void shifts aside for her. Her fist slams against Azrakel's hammer. The ground splits under the impact, and the shock runs through the wetlands.

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Azrakel swings again, his warhammer exploding with plasma. Orrivane places the curtain of void in the way, and the blast disappears. Iskara uses the cover to drive in another blow that lands on Azrakel's chest. He stumbles back a step, the Corruption burning brighter in his veins.

The fight becomes a rhythm. Azrakel swings with force that shakes the ground. Orrivane places the void to stop the strikes. Iskara pushes through the gaps and lands punches that crack stone and send bursts of heat rolling through the air.

Azrakel snarls as blood runs from his mouth. His warhammer pulses with unstable plasma, and he forces it down in a strike heavy enough to shake the chamber. Orrivane braces. The void absorbs the impact, but his body trembles under the strain.

Iskara moves again. She drives her fist straight into Azrakel's side, and the glow of gold spreads across the wound she leaves behind. He growls, his body shaking, but he does not fall.

Baalrek's voice cuts into my mind. They can hold him for now. But the more he uses the Corruption, the stronger he grows. And the Princess is still fighting against her own body. She's taking too much damage. Soon, she might be finished, Jacob Cloud. What's your plan? Why did you ask her if she had a Skill to—

Wait, it's almost time, I say inwardly, interrupting King Baalrek.

Azrakel roars and drives forward again. The black lines across his skin spread wider, and parts of his arms begin to tear open under the strain. His veins spit black and violet fire, and each movement of his warhammer shakes the ground like a quake.

Orrivane sets the void in his path, but the impact makes his knees buckle. The wall holds, yet his breath grows shallow as the force keeps pounding against him.

Iskara bursts out from behind the void and strikes Azrakel in the chest. The gold veins blaze, and her fist leaves a burning wound across his flesh. But when she pulls back, her arm trembles, and her next strike swings too far.

Azrakel takes the opening. His hammer smashes into her side and throws her across the broken stone. She rises, but her legs shake, and she steadies herself only with effort.

The black marks on Azrakel's body crawl up his face. His eyes glow with violet fire, and his aura swells again. His warhammer pulses as if ready to rupture at any moment. He charges Iskara with strikes so heavy that even her golden fists start to give ground.

Azrakel smashes his hammer down, and Orrivane is forced to intercept again. The void swallows the blast, but Azrakel chains a second strike—too fast. Orrivane can't raise the veil in time; the blow hammers him to the ground and he coughs blood.

Iskara charges once more, her face hard with determination, yet her movements lag behind the power in her body. She lands another hit, but the recoil almost spins her off balance.

Azrakel laughs, his voice rough and broken. "You burn yourself, sister. You will fall before I do."

* * *

From a sunlit room of a palace facing an emerald‑green sea, a man dressed in luxurious, colorful clothes watches the fight in a mirror. Another apprentice of his watches with a deadpan stare.

"Why don't you send me, Master?" the apprentice asks. "Why send such a weak disciple? Look how he struggles."

"He struggles, but the threads of Karma speak clearly," the man in riches says, smiling. "The Fake Champions are done. We snuff out the Generation of Legends before calling forth greater Karma. I know you're eager to prove yourself, child, but we don't want to trigger a Karmic Conflict."

"Master, you wouldn't need to send all of us," the young man says. "I alone would be enough. Why send Azrakel? He's not ordained. He isn't a Champion."

The man takes his eyes from the mirror and sighs. "Ten and ten fighters—no matter how weak—would generate a Karmic event. I sent Malrik and Toran thinking they'd be enough to kill a bunch of brats. They weren't. We don't send our best. Fate would intervene and strengthen these Fake Champions into a Karmic standoff with you and the others."

The young man doesn't look convinced, but he says nothing.

"I know you don't understand the greater powers of Karma, child," the man continues, gentler now. "But there's a reason you and the others were selected from survivors, not nobility."

The apprentice bows his head, recalling how his fortunes began only because of his master. "I'm sorry for my insolence, Master."

"It's alright," the man says, rising to pat the boy's shoulder. "Learning is lifelong. Not even I possess all the wisdom of the world. Only a fool imagines they've seen it all."

The young man nods slowly, absorbing the lesson.

"Azrakel is about to kill his sister," the man says, turning back to the mirror. "Once he does and the Generation of Legends is broken, we'll take their corpses and resurrect the will of our Lord. Soon, the tyranny of the System will end. The Karmic bonds of old will cease, and everyone will be free."

They watch in the sunny room. The mirror shows the wetlands and three figures. The master leans back and folds his hands. The apprentice stands beside him with arms crossed.

"They are about to die," the master says, voice flat. "Orrivane Nyxmoor, the Void Mage; Iskara Drazhal, the Infernal Princess; and Jacob Cloud, the weakest among the Fake Champions. They will die. I told you. The plan is flawless."

"He executed it more than well," the apprentice repeats. "He will be rewarded."

"There is nothing that can go wrong now," the master says. "Nothing at all."

"Nothing at all," the apprentice echoes.

They watch the wetlands in silence for one long breath. The mirror shows the three figures below. The master leans back and breathes out. He pats the apprentice's shoulder once, smiling as if victory is already sealed.

Then the image in the mirror changes.

The master sits forward. His smile falls. His eyes go wide.

"How is that possible?!" he shouts, throwing himself out of the chair.

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