Pride Draws Blood

  Malrik raised a gloved hand.

  “Advance.”

  The remnants obeyed—disciplined, furious, eager to erase humiliation.

  Kael moved first.

  He kicked his mount forward, weaving through debris, staying low and fast.

  “Borgas—left,” Eryn called. “Kael—right. I’ll cut the legs.”

  Kael laughed breathlessly. “With math?”

  “With light.”

  The Solar Rifle clicked.

  Blast Mode — 60%.

  Eryn aimed—not at Malrik—but at the horse.

  The shot screamed across the plaza like a shard of sunrise. It struck the warhorse’s leg.

  Bone cracked. The beast collapsed in a shriek of pain.

  Malrik rolled clear as the body slammed into stone, landing on his feet with practiced grace. He did not look back.

  He drew his rapier.

  Elegant. Precise.

  Deadly.

  Silver threads unraveled from his mustache—straightening, thinning, extending. Piercing and slashing only. No binding. No tricks.

  Pride made manifest.

  Borgas threw up his Titan hands.

  SKRRRRT—

  The silver threads screamed against his palms, sparks skittering across stone. Borgas held—but the strain bent his spine.

  Kael darted in behind him, sword flashing in short, precise strikes. Flicks. Hand cuts. Throat feints.

  Malrik parried them all.

  “You are still alive,” Malrik said coolly.

  “Surprise,” Kael spat.

  The mustache-threads lengthened further—losing thickness, gaining reach.

  Malrik lunged.

  Rapier aimed for Kael’s throat.

  Borgas slammed both Titan hands down, sending a shockwave through the plaza. Malrik twisted aside, silver threads carving a shallow cut across Borgas’ arm.

  Borgas hissed.

  Eryn fired in Gun Mode, controlled pulses snapping into legs and weapons. Soldiers fell screaming—but Malrik advanced.

  Then—

  “Enough.”

  The word did not shout.

  It settled.

  A presence stepped into the plaza.

  The Last Line Holds

  The plaza no longer resembled a plaza.

  Stone tiles were cracked and overturned. Market stalls lay splintered, their wares scattered and trampled into the dust. Vines meant to fortify the streets hung torn and lifeless, as if the city itself had been wounded.

  Kael’s mount—a massive Albion wolf with ash-gray fur—paced in tight circles, claws scraping stone. Kael’s grip on his sword trembled, not from fear, but from exhaustion he refused to acknowledge.

  Eryn crouched behind a shattered fountain, one knee submerged in water, both hands locked around the Solar Rifle. The prototype hummed faintly, its barrel glowing with residual heat. He had no clean shots left—only calculations and prayers.

  And between them stood Borgas.

  His Titan Force was active—both arms swollen to monstrous size, forearms thick as stone pillars. The rest of his body strained to compensate, legs trembling as he fought to maintain balance. Each step was a gamble.

  But he did not retreat.

  He planted those massive hands into the ground—not just to block, but to move. He shoved, leapt, pivoted, using them as anchors and momentum points. Clumsy. Inefficient.

  Effective.

  Across the plaza, what remained of Eryndor’s detachment regrouped.

  Not an army.

  A scar.

  Lord Malrik Veynar stood amid them, his warhorse slain behind him, silver blood drying along the cobblestones. His once-pristine formation—over a hundred strong—had been reduced to fewer than twenty.

  His gaze lingered on his soldiers first.

  “Explain,” he said calmly, voice sharp as glass.

  No one answered.

  Malrik’s mustache twitched.

  Not curled with pride now—but drawn tight, silver threads vibrating with restrained fury.

  “Traps are expected,” he continued softly. “Resistance is expected.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Failure is not.”

  Only then did he look at the trio.

  Disgust flickered across his face.

  Kael shifted his mount sideways, eyes scanning gaps, angles, escape routes. Borgas exhaled slowly, Titan Force straining. Eryn whispered without lifting his gaze from the rifle.

  “Win condition unchanged.”

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  Kael grunted. “Survive.”

  Borgas nodded once. “Buy time.”

  They all knew the truth.

  They could not win this.

  Lyssandra was injured.

  Yava was locked in a divine clash elsewhere.

  Their best chance was one man.

  The chef.

  The Chef Steps In

  Dael walked forward carrying his gear like a man arriving late to dinner.

  His eyes took in everything in a single glance.

  The trio—bloodied, shaking, unbroken.

  Malrik—furious, exposed.

  Dael sighed.

  “…You idiots.”

  Relief hit Kael like a physical blow. Borgas’ Titan Force trembled. Eryn’s hands went slack around the rifle.

  Dael stepped between them and Malrik.

  Malrik sneered. “The Chef.”

  “You’ve done enough damage in my students’ direction,” Dael replied calmly.

  Malrik attacked.

  Rapier thrust. Mustache slash. Perfectly timed.

  Dael stepped into the dead angle.

  Two fingers redirected the rapier’s flat.

  His other palm struck Malrik’s wrist.

  CRACK.

  The rapier fell.

  Dael stepped forward and placed a single palm against Malrik’s chest.

  No flash. No flourish.

  Just force.

  Malrik flew backward and slammed into the ground.

  His mustache spasmed—silver threads trying to lash out once more.

  Dael placed his foot gently atop them.

  The threads snapped.

  Malrik stared in horror as his mustache sagged, cowering.

  “You should be proud,” Dael said quietly. “You bought time.”

  Malrik tried to rise.

  “I can do this all day,” Dael added politely while cracking his hands.

  Malrik froze.

  Weapons clattered to the ground.

  Surrender spread.

  The trio finally breathed.

  Because the chef stood in front of them.

  And that—

  That was what it meant to stand behind a Divine.

  When Storms Walk

  Pressure shifted.

  Not Malrik’s anger.

  Something older.

  Storm clouds rolled inward, spiraling with intent.

  Boots struck stone.

  Heavy. Deliberate.

  A figure stepped through the battlefield like it belonged to him.

  Serath Valen.

  Storm pressure bent the air around him. His gauntlets hummed with restrained violence.

  His gaze found Yava instantly.

  A grin spread across his face.

  “Fox,” Serath said. “Still alive.”

  Yava adjusted his sleeve.

  “You’re late.”

  Serath laughed softly.

  “Show me,” he said. “What you’ve got.”

  And the storm remembered its name.

  The Fox Shows His Fangs

  The wind screamed.

  Not wildly—angrily—as Serath’s pressure crushed the plaza into a bowl of fractured stone. Lightning snapped along his gauntlets, carving glowing scars across the air itself.

  Yava stood at the center of it.

  Still.

  Untouched.

  He exhaled slowly.

  “…I was hoping not to use this.”

  Serath’s grin widened.

  “Oh? Saving face, Fox?”

  Yava did not answer.

  Instead, he raised one hand—and the space behind him folded inward, as if the world itself made room for something older.

  A presence stepped through.

  White fur shimmered like moonlight pressed into flesh. Golden markings traced power that did not roar, did not flare—but judged. Massive paws touched the stone without sound, yet the plaza buckled beneath the weight of intent.

  The Celestial Guardian of the West had arrived.

  Baihu.

  The storm hesitated.

  Serath sneezed.

  Once.

  Twice.

  “…You absolute bastard,” he muttered, wiping his nose with the back of his gauntlet.

  Yava’s three-section staff unfolded into his grip with a soft, familiar click. The segments flowed together as if they had never been apart, white metal etched with weathered symbols.

  Wandering Clouds.

  The weapon he had carried long before divinity had ever noticed him.

  “Still using that old thing?” Serath said, voice rough. “Borrowing claws now?”

  Baihu’s gaze shifted.

  The storm tightened.

  Not suppressed.

  Rewritten.

  Wind slowed, its vectors stiffening unnaturally. Pressure lost cohesion, lightning fracturing into incomplete paths that refused to connect. The storm remained powerful—but no longer obedient.

  Baihu attacked in tandem with Yava to overwhelm Serath.

  He had bound the idea of storm itself.

  Serath sneezed again.

  Yava allowed himself the faintest smile.

  “A contract,” he said calmly, “isn’t a crutch.”

  He leveled Wandering Clouds.

  “It’s leverage.”

  The Storm Breaks Back

  Serath stopped smiling.

  He wiped his nose once more, then straightened—shoulders rolling, stance widening. The lightning along his gauntlets dimmed… then returned, tighter, more deliberate.

  “Hah,” he breathed. “Good thing that scientist gives antihistamines to me”

  The storm changed.

  Not louder.

  Not larger.

  Sharper.

  The wild turbulence collapsed inward, reorganizing into disciplined currents. Pressure aligned. Lightning followed structured paths. The air itself felt heavier—not chaotic, but purposeful.

  Storm Rider remnants halted mid-movement—then withdrew instantly, pulled away by precise, commanding currents.

  Serath lifted his head.

  “Enough games.”

  The clouds above him rotated into a vast, controlled formation, calm at the center, lethal at the edges.

  “Divine Authority — Maelstrom’s Throne.”

  The pressure slammed outward.

  Baihu’s golden markings flared—then strained, light flickering as the storm resisted being sealed. Wind no longer obeyed Baihu’s bindings alone.

  Serath stepped forward, calm replacing irritation.

  “Storms don’t serve me,” he said.

  “They are me.”

  His gaze locked onto Yava.

  “Round two.”

  The Fox Removes His Mask

  Yava inhaled.

  Then exhaled.

  Not violently.

  Precisely.

  Calm did not leave his face.

  It sharpened.

  Armor manifested around him—battle-wrought, celestial, heavy with quiet authority. Plates aligned along impossible angles, seams humming as space itself bent to accommodate their presence.

  A glaive formed in his hand.

  Its blade did not glow.

  It distorted.

  Distance warped at its edge, the air stretching thin as if reality hesitated to exist too close to it.

  The storm faltered.

  Just for a breath.

  Serath grinned.

  “There you are.”

  Yava raised the weapon.

  No flourish.

  No declaration.

  Only truth.

  “Come,” he said softly,

  “with all your might.”

  The storm answered.

  And the world held its breath.

  Baihu’s golden markings flared once more—then dimmed.

  The great white tiger stepped back, massive head lowering slightly, he looked at Yava signaling something.

  Yava nodded.

  “Retreat for now, my friend.”

  With a measured breath, he raised his hand.

  Light folded inward, the Celestial Guardian dispersing into motes that vanished like drifting snow.

  Baihu’s form dissolved—not shattered, not dismissed—recalled. The contract folded cleanly back into itself, energy conserved with deliberate restraint.

  The space around Yava compressed.

  The storm surged forward instantly.

  Serath did not waste the opening.

  Yava’s armor manifested.

  Gold—not bright, not radiant—but judicial.

  Plates formed along impossible angles, etched with sigils that did not glow, but measured. Space warped subtly around each seam, as if reality itself was being forced to obey an accounting.

  The Celestial Arbiter Regalia.

  In Yava’s hand, the glaive completed its form.

  The blade was narrow, elegant—its edge distorting distance, bending perspective. The shaft hummed softly, a reservoir waiting to be filled.

  The Immortal Judgment Glaive.

  Serath’s eyes narrowed.

  “…So that’s how you plan to survive.”

  Vindblastreka

  Serath moved.

  Not like lightning.

  Like the storm deciding where it belonged.

  His fist crashed forward—water and wind spiraling together, pressure detonating at the point of impact. Yava shifted half a step, the blow sliding past him, tearing the plaza apart behind him.

  A kick followed.

  Then another.

  Each strike carried layered force—typhoon compression, rotational drag, lightning crawling along Serath’s limbs.

  Yava parried.

  Not blocked.

  Redirected.

  Each impact rang through the Arbiter armor—force divided, siphoned, measured. The glaive pulsed faintly, storing what it could.

  Serath pressed harder.

  Wind condensed into a spiraling mass in his palm.

  “Vindblastreka!”

  The blast detonated point-blank.

  Yava was driven back three steps, boots carving trenches through stone.

  The armor held.

  Barely.

  Serath smiled.

  “Oh, I see it now,” he said. “You’re counting.”

  Valhallar Kall

  Yava steadied his breathing.

  He had not struck once.

  Baihu’s voice echoed in his mind.

  Not yet. Let him finish charging it.

  Serath felt it too.

  The hesitation.

  The calculation.

  Irritation crept into his expression—not fear, but impatience.

  “Tch.”

  He rolled his shoulders back.

  Storm pressure collapsed inward.

  Then exploded.

  “Enough,” Serath snarled.

  “Let’s end this.”

  The storm devoured him.

  Water vortex wrapped his frame. Lightning caged his limbs. Wind compressed until even sound struggled to escape.

  Serath became the storm.

  “Valhallar Kall!”

  He vanished.

  Then reappeared mid-strike—body transformed into pure destructive momentum, a living invitation to war and death.

  Yava’s eyes widened.

  “…This is bad.”

  Baihu’s voice was calm.

  It’s fine.

  The energy is full.

  The Threshold

  Yava exhaled slowly.

  He brought his palms together.

  Palm Joined,

  The world seemed to lean in.

  Storm, stone, air—everything paused for a fraction of a second too long.

  Serath was already upon him.

  And Yava finally spoke.

  “Divine Authority—”

  End of Chapter 17