Seraphina
The standoff held for three heartbeats.
Harren assessing tactically—wounded target, but dangerous even exhausted. Two Hunter Kings dead behind him. Domain manifestation. This boy had killed experienced eighth-tier fighters.
The knights held formation, waiting for orders.
She stared at Avian Veritas. The boy who'd killed Amara and Roland in the Underground. Who'd spared her like she was nothing. Who'd escaped at the Academy vault.
Twenty-one days of training. Dying and being brought back. Rage with nowhere to go.
Until now.
She didn't wait for orders.
Didn't wait for tactics.
Just sprinted directly at him with seventh-tier speed, blessed sword raised, divine light blazing.
"LADY SWORD SAINT, CO BACK!"
Harren's roar echoed through the clearing. The title hung in the air like a thunderclap.
Avian
Lady Sword Saint? Three weeks and they made her a Sword Saint? Youngest ever. They really did turn her into a weapon.
Avian brought Fargrim up despite exhaustion. His arms shook. His legs barely held.
Can't dodge for shit like this. Too tired. Too slow.
Seraphina
Seraphina closed the distance in seconds.
For Amara. For Roland. For everyone he'd murdered.
Her blade ca down in a vicious overhead strike.
He dodged.
Too slow. He's wounded, exhausted. He shouldn't be keeping up.
She pivoted, thrust aid at his ribs. He twisted aside, barely.
Another strike. Another dodge.
He's reading sohow. Not reacting to the blade—he's moving before I even commit.
She tested it. Feinted left while channeling mana to her right arm. He moved right before she followed through.
There it is.
He's tracking my mana. Those damn Eyes he stole from the vault.
Fine. Let's see how he handles this.
Avian
God's Sight is the only thing keeping alive right now.
Every strike Seraphina threw, Avian saw the mana spike first. Channels lighting up in her arms, shoulders, core. The energy flow told him where the blade would go before it moved.
Dodge left. Block. Roll. Duck.
She got strong. Really strong. What the hell did they put her through?
Too slow though. Too tired. Can't keep this up much longer.
Seraphina's next attack ca different.
No mana spike. No warning. The blessed sword just appeared at his throat.
Avian jerked back desperately. The blade kissed his neck, drawing a thin line of blood.
Shit!
He stumbled backward, hand going to the cut. Not deep, but way too close.
She figured it out. Found a way around the Sight. This is bad.
Seraphina
The shallow cut on his neck confird it.
Cut the mana before I strike. Pure physical. No signature for him to read.
Seraphina's lips curved. Not a smile—a predator baring teeth.
Got you now.
She alternated now. Mana-infused strikes that blazed with holy power. Dead strikes with no signature at all. He couldn't tell which was coming.
And he was slow trying to dodge on pure reaction.
Her blade caught his shoulder. Deep. Blood sprayed across the forest floor.
Another dead strike grazed his ribs. He gasped in pain, broken bones grinding.
Twenty-one days of hell. All for this mont.
Brother Harren's voice bood across the clearing, thick accent cutting through the chaos: "Surround 'im! Don't let the bastard escape now! We got 'im cornered, lass—finish it!"
Church knights spreading out in practiced formation. Battle mages preparing suppression spells. The trap closing around him.
Seraphina's next strike forced Avian to dodge left—directly into Harren's path.
Stolen novel; please report.
The massive Church knight's fist—wreathed in holy power—slamd into Avian's already-broken ribs.
CRACK.
The world exploded.
Avian's body beca a projectile. He flew backward like he'd been hit by a battering ram, smashing through the first tree trunk—wood splintering, bark exploding outward. The impact should have stopped him.
It didn't.
He crashed through a second tree. Then a third. Each collision sent fresh waves of agony screaming through his broken body, ribs grinding against each other, bones fragnting further.
The fourth tree finally stopped his montum.
He hit it with brutal finality and crumpled to the ground in a heap of blood and shattered wood. His vision went white. Then black. Then swimming with colors that shouldn't exist.
Can't breathe. Can't—
Air refused to enter his lungs. His chest felt caved in. Blood filled his mouth, hot and copper-sweet. The world tilted sideways, reality becoming sothing abstract and distant.
Through the haze of pain, footsteps. Deliberate. Unhurried.
Seraphina walked through the path of destruction he'd carved—splintered trees, scattered bark, blood trailing across the forest floor. Her blessed sword caught the light as she raised it. Her face could've been carved from iron.
Finally.
"After all this ti hunting you." Her voice ca out flat. Cold as winter stone. "This was pathetic."
Avian coughed. Blood spattered on his lips. "Yeah, well." Another cough. "You should see the other guys."
He gestured weakly at the two dead Hunter Kings behind her.
The sword trembled in her grip. Just slightly. Just enough.
"You're still making jokes. Still breathing. Still alive." Her knuckles went white against the hilt. "When they're not."
Avian's shoulders shook. Not from pain this ti.
He laughed—wet, broken, blood bubbling on his lips. The sound of soone with internal bleeding who'd stopped giving a shit sowhere around tree number three.
"You know what?" He coughed, spat blood. "Really?"
Another ragged breath.
"I am having fun."
Seraphina's expression didn't change. Didn't flicker. Nothing but cold certainty.
"Humor won't save you."
The blade rose higher.
"This is where it ends."
Avian
Like hell it does.
Pain scread through every nerve. Ribs definitely broken—several of them grinding against each other with every breath. Blood loss making his vision swim. Ten percent mana, maybe less.
His fingers dug into the dirt. His jaw clenched.
Not when Malethar nearly killed . Not in the Underground. Not against three Hunter Kings.
Not here. Not now.
While she walked toward him, while that sword rose higher, Avian was working.
Transcendent-rank aura control. Lucan's training. Two hundred eighty-eight subjective days of pushing past every limit.
He channeled aura—not into techniques, not into his body—back into pure life force.
Reversing the conversion. Undoing what his Mana Heart did naturally. Aura ca FROM life energy—now he was forcing it backward, turning refined power back into raw vitality.
It was inefficient as hell. Wasteful. The reversal burned through reserves at maybe ten-to-one ratio—ten units of aura for one unit of life force. Normally impossible. Even attempting it would tear apart your channels.
But Transcendent-rank control? Two hundred eighty-eight days beating precision into his own bones through brutal self-training?
He could do it. Barely.
And plants were almost pure life force already. Seeds waiting to grow. Roots hungry for energy. All they needed was the spark.
Avian had just enough left to give them one.
Forced it down through his hands into the earth beneath him.
Co on. Co on.
The ground trembled.
Seraphina
The forest exploded.
Trees erupted around Avian in a surge of unnatural growth. Roots tore through soil like grasping fingers. Branches shot upward with the sound of splintering wood, thick as a man's torso, growing faster than anything natural.
In seconds, a wall of living wood stood between them.
"What—" Seraphina started.
Through the gaps, she saw him. Already running. Stumbling, bleeding, but moving.
"NO!"
The word tore from her throat—raw, primal fury.
Her blessed sword ca down. The divine blade sheared through a trunk as thick as her torso, wood screaming as it split. Another swing. Another tree falling. Holy light blazing with each strike, turning her into a force of destruction.
"AFTER HIM!" she scread, hacking through the barrier like it had personally offended her.
The Church forces surged forward. Harren's fists smashed through wood. Knights hacked with blessed weapons. The wall wouldn't hold them long—Seraphina was making sure of that, her sword rising and falling with chanical precision, each strike fueled by three weeks of rage.
Avian
Bought myself maybe thirty seconds.
Avian ran through the forest, using trees for support, Fargrim still gripped tight. Each step sent fresh spikes of agony through his broken ribs. Blood soaking through his clothes, leaving a trail.
Lux flickered beside him, barely manifested.
Just need distance. Just need to—
The trees opened up ahead.
Fuck.
An open clearing. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run.
Footsteps behind him. Fast. Getting closer.
Avian stumbled into the clearing and turned.
Seraphina burst from the treeline, blessed sword raised. Harren right behind her, face grim and determined.
Well, shit.
Avian picked up his sword properly despite the pain. Forced himself into a guard stance even though his body scread protest.
"This hurts like a bitch," he muttered.
How the hell do I get out of this one?
Then he sensed it.
Different energy. Familiar. Moving through the trees to his left.
Shadows and steel. Controlled. Deadly.
Thank fuck. This one's on my side.
Seraphina
She burst from the treeline into the clearing, Harren right behind her.
He stood there. Bleeding. Broken. Trapped.
Nowhere left to run.
Finally.
"Stop running!" Her voice ca out raw, edged with three weeks of rage and exhaustion and grief. "Is that all you know how to do?!"
Avian Veritas looked at her through the blood and exhaustion. And then—impossibly—he smiled. Not much of one. Barely there. But real.
"Shut up," he said, voice steady despite the wounds tearing through him. "I'm not interested in your insults."
A pause. His grip shifted on Fargrim.
"You're gonna have to try harder to kill ."
Another pause.
"But anyway—luck's finally in my favor."
What?
A voice drifted from the trees above. Amused. Almost lazy.
"You know, I was gonna wait until you were in a really bad spot before dropping in. Make it all dramatic. Save you like so princess in a tower."
Avian's response was imdiate: "Your humor sucks."
Thane Veritas dropped from the canopy with a grin—landing in a crouch beside his brother, shadows already streaming from his body like living smoke. His sword glead in the filtered sunlight, and that smile on his face was all confidence and barely-restrained violence.
He straightened. His eyes flicked over Avian—the blood, the way he leaned on Fargrim, the shallow breathing.
"You look like absolute shit."
"Feel worse."
"Can you fight?"
"Barely."
"Good enough." Thane's gaze shifted—Seraphina with her blazing sword, Harren's massive fra, the knights spreading out. "Because we've got company."
Axom landed a mont later on Avian's other side. Dual blades drawn. His weight settled low, balanced. His eyes swept the Church formation—counting knights, marking the mages' positions, noting Harren's stance.
Two wounded. Two fresh.
Versus a seventh-tier Sword Saint, a powerful Church knight, ten elite knights, and two battle mages.
Seraphina's hands tightened on her sword hilt. Her teeth bared. "More interference?!"
Thane's mouth curved. Nothing warm in it. Nothing kind.
"You know," he said, shadows coiling darker around his arms, "I really hate people who hurt my family."
The smile widened—sharp, predatory, promising violence.
"And I've been told I hold grudges."
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