The blade bit deep.
But not deep enough.
At the last possible instant, Varkos twisted—not wildly, not panicked, but with eerie control. The motion was subtle, almost elegant. Just enough of a shift to change the angle.
The Dreadlord's death-forged weapon, once aid to pierce the Archfiend's heart, instead scraped against ribs—skimming past the fatal zone by re inches.
A burst of black ichor erupted from the wound, arcing into the air like oil flung from a forge. It hissed as it touched the ground, vaporizing on impact—leaving behind scorched cracks and sizzling stones.
Sylen seeing this kicked off the ground, boots grinding against debris, and launched himself back into the chaos. The montum was his only anchor now.
Only forward.
Dreadlord ca down again with his sword, hamring toward Varkos with the weight of a collapsing star.
But the Archfiend moved effortlessly.
He ducked low, knees bending with unnatural fluidity, and the greatsword whooshed over his horns, missing flesh by inches.
Varkos had beco faster.
Not just reactive.
Composed.
Refined.
Dreadlord swung again, this ti horizontal—his blade a guillotine of midnight steel ant to carve Varkos in half.
And the blow connected.
But once again it wasn't clean.
It was never clean anymore.
Varkos pivoted with the strike, absorbing the edge which dealt.shallow cut.
It was just another scar on the body that healed almost imdiately.
Sylen darted in, his silhouette slicing across the battlefield like a shadow set free. His blade flashed—a brutal slash across the Archfiend's side, followed by a rising arc toward the vulnerable line of Varkos' neck.
But again and again—Varkos shifted with the blow. Rolled with it. Lessened the damage like a fighter trained in a thousand battles, redirecting montum, slipping away from lethality like it was routine.
Sylen landed hard, skidding on broken stone.
He pulled back, panting, his breath ragged, chest heaving.
Sweat mixed with the blood streaking down his cheek. A thin line traced his jaw, stinging, ignored.
The crowd beyond the barrier roared—a tidal wave of sound. From their vantage, it looked like Sylen and his summons were pushing the Archfiend to his limit.
Each blow rang loud. Each strike burst with visual fury.
Sparks. Shockwaves. Sprays of blood.
It was a spectacle.
It looked like progress.
It looked like victory was approaching for Sylen at least against the archfiend.
But Sylen knew better.
Much better.
He wasn't fooled by the noise.
Not by the damage.
Not by the glancing wounds.
None of these blows had landed true.
Not one had been fatal.
None had even hindered.
Because Varkos was ever evolving.
What once had been sheer brute force—a storm of claws and lightning—was becoming sothing worse.
Precision controlled.
His footwork had shifted.
His steps no longer thudded with wild power—they flowed. Rotated. Adjusted. His counters found new angles, and his guard was tighter with every exchange.
Each swing from Dreadlord missed just slightly more than the last.
Each dodge from Varkos ca earlier.
Sharper.
Cleaner.
Like a machine born in blood and honed by battle, Varkos studied every strike, every feint, every reaction.
And every mont they gave him, he improved.
Varkos' was about to strike Sylen, but Noctherion imdiately reacted, parrying the attack, then snapped out with a retaliatory strike.
But the Archfiend was already gone.
He'd created distance, leaping backwards, before the blow even started.
Sylen hissed through clenched teeth, eyes narrowing.
The beast was becoming a problem.
Dreadlord surged forward again, blade raised high. A thunderous swing.
Varkos didn't even bother turning.
He just stepped aside.
The giant sword sliced empty space.
Varkos turned his body slightly—just enough—then lashed out with a short, brutal jab. His clawed fist, wreathed in crackling lightning, dented Dreadlord's flank with a single hit.
The death knight reeled.
But the ssage was clear.
Varkos didn't see him as a threat anymore.
Dreadlord was a tool.
A smokescreen.
A distraction.
Sylen's jaw tightened until his teeth ached.
'This won't work.'
Not like this.
His strategy was failing.
Varkos was moving too well now, slipping through every trap, adjusting to every rhythm.
He turned his head, eyes scanning across the burning battlefield.
His shadow army still fought on the flanks, attempting to pin down the remaining clones, but it wasn't going well.
Alex's copies moved like phantoms—sharp, coordinated, relentless. Each one operated like an extension of a shared mind, weaving through the fray with lethal fluidity.
One clone flipped through the air, delivering a spinning kick to the jaw of a reford hound. The beast exploded into shadow mist before it hit the floor.
Another slipped past a knight's strike, pivoted on one foot, and landed a precise reverse-grip slash across the helt—shattering it—before vanishing into a horde of Sylen's shadow hounds decimating them.
Efficient. Deadly. Unstoppable.
Sylen didn't linger on them.
He scanned deeper—past the frontline carnage.
To the far edge of the arena.
Near a shattered area where the earth had cracked and folded when Alex had used [Worldbreaker].
There—
His eyes locked on movent.
A towering figure, caught in a brutal lee with one of Alex clones.
Eight feet tall.
Armor-like iron bones. Twin tusks spiraling from a helm carved from a boar skull.
It was the Boar Knight.
One of his elites.
A summon of great weight—powerful, but rarely used. It fought with raw strength, heavy strikes, and a low center of gravity that made it near-impossible to topple.
And right now?
It was barely holding its own.
Sylen's breath hitched.
Behind him, Noctherion and Varkos continued to clash in bursts of silver and violet. Explosions of lightning. Roars of steel. The kind of chaos that echoed in nightmares.
But Sylen didn't turn.
Didn't flinch.
Because the mont was here.
That summon.
Of all of them…
His fingers twitched at his side.
Then he exhaled, conflicted.
He hadn't used it for this purpose in a long ti.
He'd made a choice.
A promise.
The consequences were…difficult.
Not worth it unless—
Unless his life truly depended on it.
Unless death was the only alternative.
Unless he was willing to compromise his sanity.
And yet—
The line he drew was cracking.
Now, he found himself at that edge.
Regret blood quietly in his chest, heavy as a stone, but his expression didn't change.
He didn't allow himself to doubt.
He couldn't afford hesitation.
Not now.
Not after, all the effort.
He cursed:
"Damn it."
Before palming both hands to perform a taboo.
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