Steel screams.
Zera's blade meets the incoming gauntlet at a slant, not head-on. The impact skids instead of stopping—sparks rip sideways in a violent spray as metal slides metal. She turns with it, boots biting into loose dirt, letting the force pass through her rather than into her.
She's already moving again.
Another strike flashes in from the opposite side. Zera shifts her grip a fraction, blade snapping up just in time to redirect it. The ground cracks where the blow was meant to land. She doesn't answer the attack. Not yet. She steps past it, eyes locked forward, reading the next motion before it finishes forming.
To her left, the earth gives way.
Sylvi stumbles as broken stone rolls under her boot. She windmills once, barely keeping her footing—then something slams down where she stood a heartbeat earlier. The impact rattles her teeth. Dust erupts. She scrambles back, skidding hard, breath hitching as her mind races ahead of her body, recalculating angles that refuse to stay still.
Too fast. Too close.
Aria is there before the thought finishes.
No call. No incantation.
A hand grabs Sylvi's arm and pulls as wind coils around Aria's wrist, the air tightening just long enough to shift Sylvi out of the strike's wake. The force brushes past them instead of through them, close enough to tug at hair and cloth.
Sylvi blinks, startled, then swallows and nods once—already moving again.
Far from them, the forest tears itself apart.
Fire flares between trunks as Ryoto crashes through undergrowth, heat bursting from his steps. Branches snap and ignite behind him, embers spiraling in his wake. He doesn't slow. He doesn't weave. He drives straight through, breath coming hard and fast, boots hammering earth like it owes him distance.
A shadow flickers ahead.
Ryoto surges harder.
Everything overlaps—steel on steel, stone on force, wind snapping tight and releasing, fire carving a path through green.
No one looks back.
No one reaches out.
There isn't time.
The man slows just enough to let the air settle.
Sparks crawl along the metal of his gauntlets as he straightens, boots grinding into the dirt. The speed ring at his ankle hums, impatient, light flickering around its edge like a coiled strike waiting to be loosed.
He tilts his head, visor angled toward Zera.
"Starfall Seekers," he says, voice sharp with confidence.
One gauntlet taps against the other. Sparks snap.
"Name's Vera." A grin creeps into his tone. "And you're the S-Rank they warned us about."
Zera doesn't answer.
She shifts her grip instead—blade settling into her palm, shoulders loosening, breath steady. Her eyes don't leave him. Not curious. Not impressed.
Ready.
Vera clicks his tongue.
"Tch. Figures."
The next strike comes without warning.
Vera's gauntlet flares, sparks tearing free as metal screams through the air toward Zera's head. She shifts half a step and lifts her blade—not bracing, not meeting force with force. The impact glances off at an angle, the blow sliding away instead of stopping her cold.
The speed ring hums.
Vera blurs.
Afterimages peel off him as he vanishes sideways and snaps back into view at her flank, gauntlet already swinging again. The strike whistles past where her ribs were a heartbeat ago.
Zera turns with him.
Not chasing.
Not reacting late.
Just there.
Another hit comes. Then another. Sparks burst and scatter as Vera chains his movements together, pace rising, angles sharpening. He changes direction mid-step, momentum folding unnaturally as the ring drags him across the ground in short, violent bursts. The air snaps with each acceleration.
Zera gives ground once.
Boots slide back through dirt. A measured retreat.
Then she stops.
Her stance settles—weight balanced, blade angled low, shoulders loose. No tension. No scramble to recover.
Vera's next strike crashes down harder, wider. He leans into it, speed whining louder now, forcing space open with brute acceleration.
Zera lets the blow pass.
Her blade nudges it aside. Just enough.
Again.
And again.
Never locking steel. Never committing to a counter. She redirects the force, turns it, lets it bleed off into the ground or the air. Her movements stay small. Efficient.
Vera presses closer.
The rhythm accelerates. Sparks spit faster, the ring shrieking as he pushes past clean precision into raw pace. His attacks widen, arcs stretching as he tries to overwhelm her guard.
Nothing breaks.
Nothing gives.
Behind the mask, his jaw tightens.
She isn't panicking.
The realization lands sharp and unwelcome.
He swings harder. Faster. Angles fracture as he forces the exchange, speed ring burning bright as he tries to drag her into his tempo.
Zera stays where she is.
Blocking. Redirecting.
Never overreaching.
Never chasing.
Vera snarls, irritation seeping through the cracks in his precision.
And somewhere between one spark and the next—
The balance of the fight begins to tilt.
Heavy footsteps announce him before he speaks.
The ground dips slightly under his weight as he steps out of the treeline, broad shoulders rolling beneath layered armor scored by old battles. Dust slides from his boots with each step. He takes in the two of them in a single glance—Sylvi's gadgets, Aria's stance—then snorts.
"Hah," he says, voice deep and rough, almost disappointed.
"Two girls."
He plants a fist into his open palm. The impact sends a dull tremor through the dirt.
"Starfall really scraped the barrel for this one."
Sylvi straightens immediately.
One hand settles on her hip, the other flicking a switch on her belt as a crooked grin cuts across her face—sharp, unbothered, defiant. Her green hair shifts as she tilts her head.
"Wow," she says lightly. "Big, loud, and wrong. Impressive combo."
Aria steps forward half a pace, calm despite the pressure rolling off him. Her voice stays gentle—steady.
"We're not stepping aside," she says. "You're done hurting people. And you're not taking anything else."
Brakk's eyes narrow.
Not anger.
Interest.
Then he moves.
He charges.
The ground fractures beneath his first step as he barrels forward, mass and momentum aimed straight through Sylvi's position. She snaps a device into place, calculations firing—
Too slow.
He smashes through the setup like it's paper, fragments bursting outward as his shoulder tears past. The distance collapses instantly.
Sylvi stumbles.
Brakk is already there.
Too close.
Too fast.
Aria doesn't think.
She draws one hand to her chest. The other lifts, palm forward. Her breath catches—then releases.
"Angelic Gale Voice."
Wind surges forward in a tight, cutting stream—focused, controlled.
Brakk's expression shifts.
Recognition.
"Tch."
He drives his fist into the ground.
"Earth Wall."
The soil answers violently. Stone and packed earth rip upward in a broad slab between them just as the gale reaches him.
The wind slams into the wall—
—and it cracks.
Fractures spiderweb across the surface. Chunks shear away as the barrier shudders, holding just long enough before sections crumble inward, stone breaking loose in heavy slabs.
Dust and debris rain down.
Brakk lowers his arm slowly.
Then he laughs.
Low. Amused.
"Hah… so that's it."
His gaze shifts—off Sylvi.
Locks onto Aria.
Sylvi regains her footing beside her, heart hammering as the space between them hardens into something unavoidable now.
Two-on-one.
And Brakk still looks pleased.
Ryoto is gaining.
Trees blur past him, trunks splitting under his shoulders as heat flares at his heels. Fire licks outward with every step, biting into bark, scattering embers into the dark. The gap ahead narrows. He can feel it.
Then the firelight flickers.
Not snuffed out—
diffused.
Mist rolls in low, pale and quiet, sliding across roots and fallen leaves. It swallows sound first. The crack of burning wood dulls. His own breath comes back muted, distant, like it doesn't quite belong to him.
Ryoto slows before he realizes he has.
His next step sinks softer than it should.
The hit comes from the side.
Not heavy.
Not meant to be.
Just enough to sting.
His shoulder jerks as something clips him and vanishes. Ryoto spins, heat flaring instinctively—
Nothing.
Only fog.
The second strike snaps into his back, sharp and quick, stealing air from his lungs. By the time he turns again, the presence is already gone, leaving nothing but disturbed mist.
A laugh drifts through the trees.
Light.
Mocking.
Almost playful.
It floats without a source, echoing wrong, bouncing through the fog like it enjoys being chased.
Ryoto bares his teeth.
"This isn't a duel," he growls.
He exhales slowly.
The fire around his boots dims—not extinguished, just pulled inward. Contained. His stance widens as he plants his feet, heat settling low instead of bursting outward.
The mist shifts.
Ahead of him, the pressure he was chasing thins. Not retreating—slipping. Sliding away, just out of reach.
Understanding clicks into place.
The attacks weren't meant to stop him.
The fog wasn't meant to blind him.
He was never the target.
He's not here to win.
He's here to be delayed.
Ryoto stills.
His shoulders lower. His breathing evens out. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing as he stops pushing forward and starts paying attention—to footfalls that don't quite match the wind, to the way the fog curls where something just moved.
The forest holds its breath.
And Ryoto listens.
Sparks tear sideways as metal meets metal again.
Zera's blade catches the next strike head-on this time—no redirection, no give. Her boots dig into the dirt, heels carving shallow trenches as the impact finally forces her to hold. The gauntlet recoils with a shriek of stressed metal, Ether crackling between them before snapping apart.
She doesn't chase the opening.
She just resets—blade low, eyes steady.
Across the clearing, Sylvi draws in a sharp breath and lets it out slowly. Her footing settles. Knees bent. Weight centered. One hand brushes Aria's sleeve—not for reassurance, just to mark position. Together.
Aria mirrors the stance without looking. Wind curls close to her skin, tight and contained, waiting.
Brakk straightens.
The grin is gone.
He rolls his shoulders once, armor grinding softly, feet spreading as he squares up properly at last. No rush now. No jokes. His gaze stays locked forward, measuring.
In the forest, the mist thickens.
It coils tighter around Ryoto's legs, swallowing the glow at his boots until only a dull ember shows through. The world narrows to breath and pressure and the faint disturbance of air just beyond sight.
Ryoto exhales.
Slow.
The fire draws inward with it, pulled tight beneath his skin instead of spilling out. Heat hums low and steady, no longer wild.
His shoulders drop.
The tension leaves his jaw.
Something calm settles behind his eyes.
"Fine," he mutters into the fog.
A pause.
Then—quiet, certain—
"Then you're first."
The forest does not answer.
But something shifts.
And everything is about to break.
FADE OUT.