What remained of the table, its contents, Lucon, and Skhav were all suddenly in the air.

  The barbarian’s head snapped back, floating for a moment as Lucon’s brow furrowed. Skhav’s eyes were fading, but he was still conscious.

  Lucon felt his [Rising Twister] uppercut connect with Skhav’s chin—but the impact was wrong. Not the clean strike he’d expected. In that split second of contact, his enhanced sight revealed a blue shell of Mana coalescing around the barbarian’s jaw, softening the blow at the very last moment.

  And here I thought Mana was too intangible to be used like that, Lucon thought, his mind still rapidly revolving since the tavern. Mana was the art of creation granted to man by the gods. Every mage he’d seen used it only to conjure elements.

  Skhav had used Mana like Aura.

  They were still suspended in the air as Helto spun around, confusion morphing into fury.

  “You little—!”

  The tent flap tore open as the two massive panthers burst through, fangs bared, reacting to the attack on their master. Their presence radiated tangible pressure; each beast was as formidable as Lieutenant Kaeson. Lucon knew a direct fight would be suicide.

  As Skhav hit the ground, Lucon’s hand—guided by the fluid certainty of his new senses—snaked out and ripped the Mana Crystal whistles from the mage’s neck.

  Simultaneously, his other hand moved in a blur, snatching a handful of the glowing crystal shards still falling from the destroyed table. Without hesitation, he tossed them into his mouth.

  Agony. Instant and searing.

  It was nothing but pain—each shard asserting itself. A crystalline bite on his tongue; a burning, acidic rush down his throat as the raw Mana began to dissolve; a thousand needle-pricks of light scorching the roof of his mouth. The sensation was so vivid, so overwhelmingly loud in his heightened state, that it should have been crippling.

  But Lucon simply decided the pain was unnecessary. Strange. The pain existed, yet he didn’t react. It was as if he was above it.

  He brought the twin whistles to his lips. Drawing not on air, but on the very Mana scorching his mouth, he pushed the searing energy outward. A faint, golden glow—his own holy magic—acted as the conduit, forcing the volatile Mana through the crystal instruments.

  The result was the same two sharp, dissonant notes Skhav had used.

  The effect was immediate. The Mana within the panthers’ minds flared brilliant, obedient blue. Their aggressive stances melted away. Confused, they chuffed softly, turned, and padded back out of the ruined tent, lying down by the campfire as if nothing had happened.

  From the floor, Skhav stared up, blood trickling from his lip, his expression one of utter, world-shattering disbelief. “H-how did you…?!”

  “I just copied what I saw,” Lucon said, mouth smoking, his voice slightly distorted from the crystals burning his mouth. He watched the retreating panthers. “I would’ve chosen dogs. They’re more loyal.”

  [Holy Pillar]

  Holy light erupted around Lucon’s leg as he brought his heel down on the fallen barbarian’s head. Even if Skhav could manipulate Mana like Aura, his body lacked the resilience of a true Arisen. The blow rolled his eyes back, and he went limp.

  Then—a shift. The world’s currents was disrupted, a surge of red-hot intent igniting the sensory-air behind him.

  [Vicious Split]

  Lucon bent backward at the waist, spine curving to an impossible angle. A saber wreathed in red flame carved the space his torso had occupied a heartbeat earlier. Helto stood there motionless post-swing, disbelief etched across his face.

  Still arched backward, Lucon’s expression remained eerily calm, his form glowing gold with the holy spell of [Swift Missionary]. Vision now upside down, his gaze found Hilda—still rooted where she stood, trembling with panic.

  “Didn’t I say Banner Wave?” he asked evenly, voice unbothered despite his twisted posture.

  “I won’t abandon you!” she cried.

  Helto began to move again. He shifted his stance.

  [Cruel Chopper]

  The saber came down in a brutal arc, red Aura fire trailing it. Lucon didn’t retreat. He straightened in one smooth motion, letting the strike whistle past and bury itself in the packed dirt, the flames dispersing against the ground—close enough to nick the tip of his boot.

  He was still watching Hilda. “I can’t have fun if you’re in danger, Hilda.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes.

  “I can’t go without you!” she shouted, voice strained. “Banner Wave means we both run!”

  Her fear was raw and real–he could feel it in his new strange senses. For all her stubborn loyalty, she wasn’t wrong to be terrified. Lucon had neutralized the panthers—eliminating chance of instant death—but Helto could still very much take his life.

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  The flames roared in the man’s heart like the flames of a forge.

  First Ember Arisen.

  Almost as strong as Kaeson.

  Lucon calculated his odds. His only talent was his fists. Holy magic alone wasn’t reliable enough to save him here. Still, Hilda would certainly dampen the mood if she were caught in the crossfire.

  [Savage Rake]

  Helto’s saber sliced horizontally. Lucon dropped low, the blade carving a line of fire above his head. His hands brushed the dirt, body flowing like liquid.

  “If you won’t obey Banner Wave,” Lucon said, popping back to his feet as the blade passed, “then we use Banner Mana.”

  Hilda flinched. “I…!”

  Helto swung again, Aura heating the tent until it became sweltering.

  “You can only help me,” Lucon said, twisting aside, “with your magic—”

  Helto lunged.

  “—or your absence, Hilda.”

  Her voice trembled. “How do you know…?”

  Lucon backflipped, a streak of gold light tracing the motion as the saber grazed close enough to shear off a lock of his hair. The strand floated down between them like a fallen leaf.

  “Hilda.” His voice dropped low, solemn, stripped of humor. “Use your magic…or leave.”

  That tone broke something in her. She hesitated for a moment, then spun and bolted through the torn flap.

  “Don’t let her escape!” Helto roared toward the opening.

  Outside, boots pounded the earth, bandits shouted, and Hilda disappeared into the woods.

  Inside, Lucon ducked another slash, rolled beneath a collapsing tent pole, and burst into the open air.

  A bandit stood in his path, blade raised, ready to give chase.

  Lucon spat.

  One of the Mana shards shot from his lips like a glowing glass dart, embedding itself in the man’s eye. The bandit screamed, dropping his weapon, clawing at his face as his eyeball hissed and smoked.

  Lucon snagged the fallen weapon as he skipped past. He flicked his wrist—steel spun through the air and buried itself in the skull of another man about to pursue.

  Before the body hit the dirt, Lucon had already moved, scooping up a dropped hatchet and a broken sword, flinging both in the same effortless rhythm. Each found a throat or temple.

  Whatever had awakened his sight showed him exactly where to throw. Every target, every angle—clear as if the world itself parted for his hand.

  Helto erupted from the tent that had collapsed over him, saber flaring red, eyes burning with fury.

  “Enough!” he bellowed. “You’re killing my men!”

  Lucon, still gliding around the campfire, plucked another fallen spear and hurled it without looking. A cry rang out as another bandit collapsed, twitching.

  Helto’s rage reached a fever pitch. Around him, the surviving bandits faltered—half wanting to chase the fleeing maid, half frozen by the golden phantom weaving through their ranks.

  Helto’s jaw tightened. “Leave the girl!” he shouted. “All of you—on him!”

  The bandits hesitated, then obeyed. They turned from the woods, forming a loose ring around Lucon, weapons raised, faces grim.

  Helto knew it was the only way. If they turned their backs on this young man, it would only lead to their deaths.

  The ring of bandits closed in, flashing steel. They surged like a collapsing tide—snarling faces, glinting blades, boots thudding against the dirt. Lucon moved before the first strike landed, slipping through the cracks in their formation like a shadow caught between flickering lanterns.

  A sword whistled past his temple. Another slashed for his ribs. Lucon’s body folded, twisted, and snapped back upright, gold light tracing his movements like the afterglow of a comet.

  [Flash Strike]

  Hand aglow, his fist lashed out, knocking a bandit’s jaw sideways. His heel pivoted, and his elbow drove into another’s throat. Two fell before the first hit the ground.

  Another rushed in, swinging wide. Lucon leaned back impossibly far, the blade cutting air inches from his chest.

  [Flash Strike]

  His counter came in a lazy upward flick, a single jab to the man’s sternum pulsing with golden light. The bandit flew backward as if yanked by invisible chains.

  He flowed, not fought. Every movement was a continuation of the last—almost as if it had all been choreographed beforehand.

  Two more men came from either side. Lucon exhaled softly.

  [Twin Boulders]

  Both fists crashed forward in the same heartbeat, one striking each opponent in the gut, holy light flashing. The men folded over, lifted clean off their feet, and crashed into the dirt several paces away.

  The world spoke to Lucon in a language of shifting energies. The tension in a bandit's shoulder telegraphed a downward chop before the man even grunted. The shift of weight in another's hips predicted a lunge. It was a river of intent, and Lucon was a leaf upon its surface, carried by its currents.

  It all felt like part of one endless stream, part of one Flow. Flow sounded right to Lucon. Everything in the world was connected by it.

  He turned, posture relaxed again, shoulders loose. His glow grew brighter—the Flow surrounding him, even the chaos between order revealing itself as just another aspect within the shifting currents.

  A bandit roared and lunged with an axe.

  Lucon sidestepped, spun on one heel, and drove his knee upward.

  [Knee Spear]

  The strike landed squarely under the man’s ribs. Bone cracked. The bandit lifted from the ground, choking on air that would never come again, before collapsing in a heap.

  Every technique came faster, more precise—the Flow like a competent dance partner on a ballroom floor, showing him how to move. He was rhythm, reflex, instinct. His holy magic pulsed in time with the world’s heartbeat.

  Only a few enemies remained.

  Then he sensed sudden danger within the Flow.

  Too fast.

  [Bull’s Rush]

  Helto.

  The man crashed into him like a charging beast, shoulder-first. Lucon barely crossed his arms before being launched off his feet, his body smashing through a cooking pot, scattering embers and soup across the dirt. He skidded several yards before stopping, his ribs purpling with bruises.

  He had felt it coming. The Flow had warned him—but his body hadn’t been fast enough to obey.

  Before he could stand, the three remaining bandits charged in, weapons raised high.

  [Swift Missionary]

  His golden light flared. He rolled to his feet, sidestepped a clumsy sword thrust, and drove his elbow into the first bandit’s throat. He didn’t wait for the gurgle to fade before spinning, catching the second man’s wrist, and using his momentum to slam him headfirst into the dirt. The third came at him from behind—a bandit with a bandaged ear and a vindictive glare. They clashed only once before the man crumpled unconscious.

  Lucon dusted off his clothes, then wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His side warned him of fractured ribs where Helto had struck.

  Helto approached slowly, saber at his side. The flames of his Aura burned around his body.

  “I see it now,” he said evenly. “How to beat such a slippery eel like you.”

  He stopped several paces away, expression calm.

  “You can’t keep up if I overwhelm you with Battle Skills. You’re quick, but not that quick.” He gestured toward the golden glow still clinging to Lucon’s skin. “And I wonder…how long that light of yours will last, hmm?”

  Lucon’s eyes flicked to the fire burning inside Helto’s chest. The Aura flame pulsed there, steady and strong, feeding power to every limb. Even now, after all his exertion, it hadn’t dimmed in the slightest.

  That was the difference.

  The advantage that made an Arisen what they were.

  Superior physique. Superior endurance.

  Lucon was a sprinter in a marathon against what was almost a Mana Beast. His newfound perception was phenomenal, but his body and his reserve of holy power had limits.