Before long, the two of them heard a scream echoing up from the bottom of the cliff.
The air beca even more saturated with the scent of blood.
The attacker, whose right arm had been injured, looked absolutely livid. His face had gone deathly pale, lips trembling as he stamred, "Impossible! He didn't even cast a spell! There's no way you could've sensed him!"
Alan rolled his eyes, then a thought flashed across his mind—his earlier battle with Ares.
He cracked a smile and tapped his temple, shooting the attacker a look of mocking pity. "You can't just rely on brute strength in a fight. You need to use your head."
"In a terrain this wide open, do you seriously expect to believe you were ambushing alone? Even an idiot would know that's unrealistic."
The attacker froze. His eyes locked with Alan's, and for the first ti, a flicker of fear crept into his gaze.
This kid—so young, and yet not only monstrously strong, but also terrifyingly sharp. The trap he had carefully set up, which should have guaranteed victory, was nothing more than child's play to Alan. A joke.
At last, reality sank in. The attacker slowly raised his hands in surrender and muttered, "I… give up."
But the mont the words left his mouth, Alan didn't hesitate. He stepped forward and drove his wind-elent sword straight through the attacker's chest.
Blood gushed out in a sickening spray as the man collapsed, life extinguished in an instant.
Alan gave his sword a flick, scattering the blood droplets across the rocky ground before dispersing the wind elent entirely.
His gaze fell coldly upon the attacker's corpse. "Inside the ruins," he said in a frosty tone, "there's no such thing as winning or losing… only living… or dying… Hm?!"
Before he could finish, Alan suddenly sensed an overwhelming surge of mana Overpressure bearing down on him from all directions.
And from the far end of the cliff, an intense mana fluctuation surged into his awareness.
Alan nearly collapsed from the pressure. It felt like a mountain had been dropped onto his shoulders. But his stubborn nature kept him standing, refusing to yield.
At that mont, Lun Sancta floated back to Alan's side, doing its best to share the burden of the crushing Overpressure.
Alan gave a bitter chuckle and gripped the sword tightly, whispering, "It's fine. If we take this person down together, we won't have to worry about him threatening ever again."
Instantly, the blade of Lun Sancta burst into radiant light.
Then, from above the cliff, a streak of pale golden light shot through the air like a teor, plunging swiftly into the depths below…
Boom!
Alan landed with a thunderous crash, sending shards of rock flying in all directions. The bottom of the cliff was shrouded in shadow, most of the natural light having been cut off, rendering visibility extrely low.
Thankfully, Lun Sancta glowed with its own brilliance, saving Alan from being completely blinded in the pitch-dark environnt.
"Where are you…? Co out and face !"
Sword in hand, Alan shouted into the shadows, his voice echoing off the stone walls.
But no one answered. No figures erged from the darkness.
"Tch. Coward. You put on that whole show with your mana Overpressure earlier, and now that I've arrived, you're hiding like a scared little mouse? What a joke."
The words had barely left his mouth when Alan caught sight of sothing just ahead—a pair of eyes, hidden in the dark, staring straight at him.
A chill ran down his spine.
Whoever it was had been standing that close, and yet Alan hadn't sensed even the slightest trace of their mana. How was that even possible?
Before he could think further, the figure began slowly walking toward him.
And finally, Alan saw who it was.
The figure was a young woman.
She wasn't particularly beautiful—if anything, her features were a bit harsh, even cold—but that only added to the severity etched into her brow. Even without speaking, there was an unmistakable chill in her presence.
She wore a dark blue robe patterned like a starry sky, and a leather witch's hat adorned her head. From the tip of the hat dangled a moon-shaped charm that swayed gently as she moved.
She stared at Alan, her eyes unblinking and unwavering, and didn't say a single word.
Alan's arrogance from earlier faded instantly. He tightened his grip on his sword and stood warily, his entire body on alert.
He could tell imdiately—this woman was different from the previous two attackers.
Her mana was retracted and dormant, but the sense of danger she gave off was anything but.
Because of her perfectly controlled energy, Alan had no idea how powerful she truly was.
The situation quickly grew tense.
Neither side moved. They simply stood there, watching and waiting for the other to act.
Finally, Alan had enough. With a deep breath, he raised his hand and summoned his strongest spell—Light Sword, fused from wind and fire elents—and slashed it toward the woman.
He was a magus—a being inherently superior to ordinary mages.
And as a magus, he knew that if he allowed fear or hesitation to cloud his mind, elental energies would begin to resist him, and even his Overpressure would waver.
To fight at full power, he had to believe in absolute victory.
That was the essence of a magus.
The Light Sword spell embodied that belief.
When cast, it annihilated everything in its path. No grass would remain, no obstacle would stand. Everything would be burned, cleaved, erased.
Such was the truth of Light Sword.
And as the brilliant blade ford in his hands, he saw the woman flinch ever so slightly.
She bit her lip tightly, and her feet involuntarily stepped back.
In that mont, Alan knew—she had been shaken.
His fiery sword was more than just an elental weapon. It carried an overwhelming pressure that could make even hardened opponents tremble.
But that mont of fear didn't last.
The woman quickly steadied herself, adjusted her stance, and unleashed a surge of mana Overpressure of her own, clashing directly with Alan's.
When the two forces collided, Alan finally got a sense of her true strength.
Tier-platinum.
And not just any tier-platinum, either—like Ares, she wielded so form of rare, special magic.
"Dark Resound: Blizzard."
In an instant, the dark elent pooled at the bottom of the cliff surged into her body like a tide.
Within the dense dark energy, delicate ice crystals began to form and spin.
As they collided, they made crisp, musical chis, like a thousand tiny wind bells in concert.
Suddenly, from behind the woman, a barrage of soundwaves—solid and deadly—shot forward toward Alan.
Laced within each wave was a bone-chilling cold. Not only did it sap the warmth from the air, but it also severely slowed Alan's movents, eliminating any hope of dodging or defending.
"Haah…"
Alan exhaled, and a mist of white vapor left his mouth. His eyebrows and hair were already crusted in thick frost.
But in the next instant—his figure vanished.
Only faint golden streaks remained in the air, blurring forward at speeds no human eye could follow.
Then—
Squelch!
A low, wet sound echoed through the cavern.
Alan reappeared behind the woman, his tal-elent sword buried deep in her back.
A geyser of blood burst out from the wound, painting the ground in crimson.
The ice crystals shattered and scattered, as fragile as glass.
The woman, clad in that starry robe, turned around in a daze. Her hand lifted weakly, finger trembling as she pointed at Alan, eyes wide in disbelief.
"Mana conversion at high velocity… that level of precision… it's impossible for a tier-bronze magus…"
"The intel… was wrong…"
"You're not tier-bronze anymore… you're… ugh!"
Before she could finish, she coughed up a mouthful of blood and collapsed.
Her breath slowed. Her chest barely moved.
Still alive, but only just.
From the look of it… she wouldn't last much longer.
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