The air was thin this high up, biting at Niko's lungs with every breath. He dangled for a moment off the slick tendril wrapped around a cracked edge of the Dark Tower. The blow he'd landed just moments ago had drawn blood—but more than that, it had drawn something far more dangerous:
Lancer's full attention.
Below him, the son of Dem Oche floated in place—no wings, no platform—just suspended on air alone, like gravity had chosen to forget him. His green hair rustled from the wind, his violet eyes sharp now, the usual smugness peeled back into something focused. Something precise.
Niko could feel it.
The pressure had shifted.
Lancer's expression was calm, but a twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed something else. Agitation? No. Intrigue.
"You're not bad," he said, his voice carried by a sudden gust of wind that coiled up like a serpent. "But you won't get another one in."
Niko didn't respond. He was too busy thinking.
He hasn't put a shield up around himself this entire fight. He always uses bursts—localized blocks. If it were an energy issue, he wouldn't be floating like this the whole time… no, it's the contract. That thought rooted itself deeper. If he constantly shielded, the punishment might trigger. It has to be that.
Which means… timing and redirection were key.
His eyes narrowed. "Let's find out."
Niko kicked off the stone and flung himself toward Lancer again, using a tendril through his palm to shoot forward like a tethered projectile. The wind howled as he closed in, blade ready—but it wasn't for a clean hit. He expected it to be blocked.
And it was.
A concussive wall of air erupted in front of Lancer's face, cracking against Niko's sword and jolting through his arms. But he didn't resist it. He let the air hurl him to the left—using the force to twist mid-air and flick another tendril behind Lancer, anchoring it to the base of a nearby spire still jutting out from the tower's outer wall.
Then he yanked.
His body reversed direction mid-spin. He wasn't aiming for Lancer's front anymore.
Go for the blind spot.
Lancer moved—just a twitch of his hand. A new pressure burst behind him.
But Niko had already expected that.
He angled his body sharply and twisted again, slicing down—not at Lancer—but at the rush of wind itself. Using Blitz, he shattered the blast into harmless spirals, redirecting the attack as if splitting a wave.
He burst through the weakened zone like a bullet.
This time, Lancer wasn't ready.
Niko didn't go for the chest or head—he aimed low. He slashed clean across Lancer's thigh, where the air hadn't coalesced in time. A thin spray of blood followed.
Lancer grunted—more out of surprise than pain.
Niko didn't wait. He kept moving.
He ricocheted off another conjured tendril, moving around Lancer like a wasp. Left, then up, then spinning down. Feints, real swings, a strike followed by a lashing tendril.
And Lancer? He was blocking. Still, his motions were tighter now, more reactive. He couldn't coast through the fight anymore.
"You're adapting," Lancer admitted between strikes. "I see now… you're not as dull as you look."
Niko didn't respond. His body burned, not from exhaustion—but from clarity.
His mind, his instincts—they were syncing. He wasn't swinging wildly anymore. He was dancing.
But the tension was still there.
One mistake, and Lancer would remind him exactly why he was feared. The wind was his to command. Not just the bursts—he could twist it, carve it, compress it into invisible daggers sharper than any blade.
Another gust screamed toward him. Niko ducked under it, letting it shear past his hair. Then, mid-tumble, he shot out two tendrils—one to halt himself, another to whip around and come up from beneath.
Lancer raised a hand to stop him—but he wasn't going for Lancer this time.
He aimed at the air below him.
The blast from Blitz shattered the updraft, dropping Lancer a meter before he caught himself.
It was enough.
Niko's sword caught him across the side—another cut. Not deep, but this one hurt.
Lancer winced and backed off, floating up several meters to re-center himself. He placed his hand to his ribs, touching the blood with mild annoyance.
"Okay," he muttered, licking a trace of red from his palm. "That's twice."
Niko hung below, panting, sweat sliding down his jaw. His arms trembled, but not from fear.
He was learning. And quickly.
"You're not invincible," Niko said.
Lancer grinned. "No," he admitted. "But you'll wish I was."
The wind screamed again, and this time, it wasn't an attack.
It was a storm forming.
…
Lancer inhaled deeply, his chest rising like a drawn bowstring. The winds around him shifted, drawn inward, whispering and coiling at his heels like loyal dogs returning home.
Then, he spoke—four calm, deadly words:
"Cleave of the Gale."
Niko didn't see it.
There was no arc, no flash of a blade, no trail to follow—only a burst of pressure, sharper than lightning, denser than stone.
Suddenly, the air screamed.
A streak of silver tore across the tower behind him, carving a massive diagonal gash deep into its face. It wasn't as monstrous as Chalice's Heavenly Divider, but to Niko, it was just as terrifying. Because he wasn't watching the tower.
He was watching his arm.
His left hand had already left his body. The severed limb spun in the air like a discarded glove, fingers still twitching as if trying to hold onto the tendril it had just cast. For a half-second, Niko didn't react. His body floated in stunned silence.
Then pain hit.
A lightning bolt screamed through his nerves.
His lungs seized.
"G-Gah—!"
He bit down hard, cutting off the scream. Eyes wild. Breathing shallow.
Blood sprayed in a wide arc as he reflexively threw out a tendril to catch the arm mid-fall. He didn't even think—his energy moved for him. He wrapped the tendril around the detached limb like a bandage, yanked it back, and immediately forced another tendril into his own shoulder socket. It snaked deep beneath the flesh, locking into bone and muscle, trying to hold the arm in place.
The agony was sharp, raw, but he grit his teeth and bore it. Sweat broke across his face, cold and stinging. I can still move it… barely. That's enough.
Below him, Lancer didn't wait. Of course he didn't.
The green-haired son of Dem Oche raised a hand lazily, like swatting a bug from the sky.
"Airgun."
Then he disappeared. Just—gone. And suddenly—
He was above.
Hovering upside-down like a phantom. One hand aimed down at Niko's back.
"Gun of the Gale."
The air detonated.
A sonic blast struck Niko's spine with the force of a cannonball. The world turned into a smear of sound and wind and pain. He rocketed downward, arms flailing, spinning like a broken comet.
His body crashed through three clouds. The air stung his eyes, whipped his hood back, ripped a chunk of his cloak clean off.
From the ground below—the Sanctuary trembled.
People looked up. The sky tore open like the heavens were weeping flame. A streak of red and black fell from the tower's side, trailed by smoke and splinters.
Screams echoed across the stone streets.
Panic spread like wildfire.
Elsewhere—near the market district, Juno chewed absentmindedly on a skewer of meat, his legs kicked up on the edge of a bench. Mena sat beside him quietly, sipping tea from a tiny porcelain cup, blind eyes half-closed.
The streets were busier than usual. Crowds murmured, voices agitated.
Juno squinted, licking sauce from his thumb. "What's all the noise? Festival?"
Mena cocked her head slightly. "I don't believe so."
"Mm," Juno shrugged. "Probably weaklings starting a fire or something. Humans panic too easily."
But then—
He felt it.
A pressure, like a massive tear in the atmosphere. Then a scent—burnt stone, sweat, blood, and—
Familiar energy.
His head snapped toward the sky just as something crashed past the top of a nearby building—trailing smoke and wind and—
Someone.
Someone was falling.
A grin stretched across Juno's face like a kid spotting candy in a shop window.
He tossed the skewer behind him. "Never mind."
He was already moving. The world around him blurred into shadows.
Mena sighed, drained the rest of her tea in one calm gulp, and stood.
"Wait up, master."