The battlefield before Sorriso’s walls still smoldered in ash.

  The late-afternoon wind swept dry leaves across broken spears and torn banners.

  The air smelled of iron, burnt mana, and dust — the lingering trace of the fight where Nightmare Number 3 had turned to ashes at Lukas’s feet.

  The barbarians who followed her had already fled in fear.

  Professors and guardians from Delos had moved to reinforce the remaining flanks.

  Sorriso still burned — but this area was a new front, not the place where Lukas fought.

  And then—

  From the last tear of a portal, a shadow dropped, cracking the stone beneath.

  The impact trembled like a war drum.

  Through flame and smoke rose Fabrício Scadia — Nightmare Number 1.

  His black irises carried the burning scarlet “1,” glowing like molten metal.

  Not a Roman numeral like the Originals — but the raw mark of someone forged by Anatoly’s blood.

  Every step he took released heat and the scent of scorched ozone.

  Veins pulsed black with corrupted mana, crawling beneath the skin like living roots.

  — “Smells like prey…” his deep, hollow voice echoed.

  — “The South grew sharper. Interesting.”

  Leaves spiraled into a whirlwind.

  And from the heart of them, as if called by the Autumn wind itself—

  Sarya veyrum appeared.

  Red hair half-braided.

  Amber eyes cold and steady.

  Long spear resting on her shoulder, two curved daggers strapped to her thigh.

  No ornaments.

  No hesitation.

  Only the silence of the hunt.

  She didn’t speak.

  She twirled the spear once, testing its weight, then planted the tip into the ground — light as a breath.

  Fabrício tilted his head.

  — “Elf of Autumn… you smell of dead leaves and fake calm. Let’s see if your blood burns.”

  The city fell silent.

  Only two bodies remained — and the air between them.

  Sarya stepped forward, slow and economical.

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  Her spear traced a low, lazy arc — bait for impatient eyes.

  Fabrício moved first.

  His right hand twisted into a claw, mana densifying, and the distance vanished in a single breath.

  The claw came down in a diagonal kill-strike.

  Sarya wasn’t there.

  A short pivot — her body slid past the kill-zone like drifting leaves.

  Her spear cut through empty air — a range test.

  The Nightmare noticed and grinned.

  — “Speed. Nothing more.”

  The kick came hard.

  Sarya rotated the spear, blocked, and let the force drain into the earth.

  Even so, the impact burned her shoulder.

  Disaster blood, she thought.

  Strength that ignores bone.

  Leaves danced.

  Sarya retreated two steps… and faded.

  Not invisible — camouflaged.

  Wind, noise, reflection.

  An ancient technique of Autumn: become scenery.

  Fabrício slowly turned his head.

  The scarlet “1” flared, cutting through shadow.

  — “Run if you want. I can smell fear.”

  Her spear came from below.

  The tip sliced the tendon of his ankle.

  Black blood sprayed — thick as oil.

  He faltered one heartbeat.

  Enough.

  Sarya marked:

  — the timing between heartbeats

  — the delay in reflex

  — the breath before each attack

  She was reading the prey.

  Fabrício stared at his own blood, licked it, and the “1” glowed brighter.

  Mana dropped from mind to heart — a violent pulse.

  The mark throbbed.

  — “Interesting. The huntress has claws.”

  He advanced — constant pressure, grinder style.

  Sarya gave no ground — only angles.

  Short, sharp, surgical strikes:

  elbow — throat — shoulder — nerves.

  She was detuning his body like checking the strings of an instrument.

  — “You’re not trying to kill me,” he noticed.

  — “You’re trying to understand me.”

  Sarya breathed.

  Yes.

  — “Then learn.”

  His chest expanded — and the world sank.

  Not wind.

  Distorted gravity.

  The air thickened.

  Sound grew heavy.

  The “1” pulsed like a heart.

  Direct mana injection.

  Source: heart.

  Function: living forge.

  Sarya fixed her gaze on his chest.

  Each heartbeat reorganized the body — mana pretending to be blood.

  She shifted rhythm.

  The spear became leverage.

  Strike to the knee.

  Counter strike to her ribs — burning pain.

  She accepted it.

  Spun.

  The dagger sliced a shallow line across his flank.

  Black blood again.

  The scent of burnt iron.

  — “You’ll wear out, elf,” he growled.

  — “My heart doesn’t stop.”

  Sarya adjusted her grip.

  A small, cold smile.

  — “Then I will stop it.”

  The claw came.

  Sarya stepped in.

  Her spear locked his forearm—

  Her dagger rose toward the sternum.

  It grazed him, leaving a smoking groove.

  Fabrício laughed — the sound of stone breaking.

  — “Almost.”

  Sarya retreated, breath slow, eyes sharp, mind calculating.

  Inside her, the counting continued:

  heartbeat rises during injection

  drops a fraction after

  right-side defense slower

  forged rhythm… flawed rhythm.

  And then—

  The wind carried more leaves.

  Three landed on her blade.

  None fell.

  Fabrício raised his claws.

  — “Done studying? Then come.”

  Sarya tilted her head.

  Autumn breathed with her.

  Her spear lowered.

  Leaves swirled.

  And before the next collision, she heard it—

  Clear.

  Precise.

  A heartbeat falling out of rhythm.

  The living forge…

  was a living flaw.

  Sarya had found the tempo.

  And from now on, the tempo would be the target.

  End of Chapter 41