The courtyard was a chaos of steel and magic, but for Aldric, the world narrowed down to the man in front of him. Clarence Vane, the dual-wielding assassin of the War Hounds, moved like a viper. Aldric had never faced a nastier man than he, and even having a trait didn't make a difference.

"Still pretending you can do it, Aldric?" Vane mocked, feinting left before launching a rapid string of strikes at Aldric's abdomen. "Or did you come here just to die?"

Aldric didn't waste breath on words. He deflected the blows with the haft of his spear. He was fast, faster than he had been back in the valley; his levels bolstered by Reidar's power-leveling sessions made him even deadlier than he was before.

But Vane was fast too, and his movements were erratic enough to give trouble even to him. Besides, Clarence chose unique skills to fight, and fueled by them, he had generated a cadence of battle that was putting Aldric at even greater difficulty, despite him having the range advantage.

Aldric's breath hitched as Vane spun; the assassin's blades blurred into a crosscut that seemed to fill his entire field of vision. He stumbled back and felt the cold bite of steel scoring a shallow line across his chest plate.

<Damn…>

"Too slow!" Vane laughed, pressing the advantage.

Aldric realized he couldn't keep fighting defensively; otherwise, he would lose. Vane was whittling him down with every mocking strike, waiting for a single mistake to deliver a fatal blow that Aldric knew was bound to come. The mere concept was absurd, because thanks to his trait, Aldric should have been able to kill this man easily.

Yet he couldn't.

<Lorian…>

The voice in his head was a cold, mocking whisper, coiled like a snake in the back of his mind. <Finally decided to stop playing hero, have we?>

<I can't hit him,> Aldric said, but he didn't like it at all. <He's too fast. He anticipates every move. My trait… it's not suited. The stars boost me, but they don't change the fundamental rules of the fight. He is just too strong… too insidious.>

<And you think I can do better?> Lorian's amusement at that point was obvious. <Of course you do. My trait doesn't just borrow power like yours,> Lorian said.

<Don't taunt and just do it,> Aldric snapped, dodging another venom-laced strike by a hair's breadth. <Kill him.>

<Oh, I will.>

The change was instantaneous. Aldric's posture changed, his grip on the spear relaxing into something loose and predatory.

Lorian smiled.

His grip tightened on his spear. He focused inward, tapping into the well of power that defined him—his Trait.

World-Weaver. Vane faltered as he sensed the changes in the surrounding mana. "What the—?"

"Let's play, shall we?"

Lorian channeled mana into his spear, invoking the base structure of a simple Flame Burst skill. But as the mana left his body, it twisted under the influence of his trait. The fire lost its heat, gaining form and fluidity instead.

Thrusting the spear to unleash the altered skill, Lorian watched as a thick, viscous stream of liquid mud shot from the tip instead of the original flame, while still keeping part of the qualities that composed fire and moving with the speed of an explosion but carrying the smothering heaviness of a landslide and encompassing a huge area.

Vane tried to dodge, activating a skill that teleported him, but he didn't consider the area.

The assassin reappeared, but his boots sank into the sudden mire that had coated the ground. His agility and speed became useless.

"What is this?!" Vane tried to pull his legs free.

Lorian didn't let up. He spun the spear again, this time pulling on a Wind Slash. Under his will, the cutting wind solidified, turning into a large blade of concrete.

It was less of a blade and more of a floor-shaped blade designed to crush rather than slice.

"It's the end," Lorian said while Vane was turned into a paste.

—***—

The ramparts were a storm of violence, but for Jake, the world had shrunk to the space between him and Aaron.

Jake was strong, incontestably so, and Aaron knew. But many times Aaron saw flickers of hesitation in the young man's eyes. It was logical. He was young, and even if he fought against monsters and likely took part in the decimation of the War Hounds squads, it must have still not have been easy for him to fight against a human, especially one such as himself.

It wasn't just that, but Aaron was clearly better at fighting than him.

While at the beginning of the fight, Jake had the advantage because of his summons, and because of his explosive speed and strength, Aaron wasn't a pushover either.

If Jake increased his speed, likely because of a trait, Aaron did the same using spells of his own invention, and given the abundance of mana he had access to because of his peculiar condition, matching Jake wasn't hard at all.

Whatever Jake did wasn't enough. Aaron matched everything; he anticipated every feint, parried every thrust, and slowly, disdain crept upon his face.

"Is this all?" Aaron taunted, sidestepping a slash that would have decapitated everyone else. He countered with a palm strike that sent a shockwave of mana through Jake's ribs.

"All that power, and you still fight like you are throwing a tantrum."

Stone scraped and boots shrieked against the ground as Jake skidded backward. A grunt was the only response; no words followed, for the suffocating weight of survival left no breath for them.

A tide of steel surged from all sides, weapons flashing as the many War Hounds sought any opening. Jake was clearly stronger than them, but they saw him as a kid, and they were terrified of Aaron, who gave them the order to kill him.

A spear thrust hissed; the arc of an axe followed. Jake avoided the attacks, but Aaron was ready to seize the moment the others gave him.

He caught Jake's wrist mid-strike, his grip like iron. With a twist, he sent the boy crashing to the ground.

Jake gasped as the air left his lungs. He tried to scramble up, but Aaron's boot slammed onto his chest, pinning him to the cold stone.

His summoned creatures had been decimated already, mostly by Aaron, and there was no one who could help him, as the Spriggans were fighting at a numerical disadvantage.

"You have potential, boy," Aaron said, raising his mana blade. "But potential means nothing in front of me."

Jake stared up at the blade. He struggled against the weight, but his mana was flickering, his body screaming in protest. He didn't cry. His last tears had been shed already, and in the cruel world in which he lived, crying brought nothing.

Aaron smiled, with a cold, victorious expression. "Well, it certainly was a surprising fight."

The blade never arrived.

Jake wondered what was happening and raised his head to see.

Aaron froze. His eyes were wide because of pain and the utter confusion ravaging his mind. He looked down, only to see a dagger point protruding from his chest, right over his heart. It dripped with blood.

He gasped, and the mana blade in his hand flickered and died. He turned his head slowly, disbelief etched on his features.

Lena stood behind him. She was bruised and covered in blood, but her eyes burned with a cold, absolute fire.

"Hello, Aaron," she said, her voice like ice. "I always wanted to tell you this: You talk too much."

She ripped the blade free with a twist.

Aaron fell to the ground and hit it hard, his hands clutching at the hole in his chest, trying to stem the flow of blood. He looked up at her, his face pale, his breathing ragged.

"You..." he wheezed, blood bubbling at his lips. "YOU!"

"Yep, me. Did you think I wouldn't come for you?"

Lena looked down at him, her expression unmoving. She didn't offer him pity. She didn't offer him anger. She just watched him die.

Aaron's eyes glazed over. His hand fell limp. The traitor, the monster who had sold his soul for power, was gone.

Jake pushed himself up, coughing, staring at the body. "Lena..."

"Get up, Jake," she said, turning her gaze back to the battle raging around them. "We're not done yet."

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