Riven folded his legs beneath him, finally letting his body catch its breath as he slumped into a seated position.
That… was… risky, he whispered between heaving gulps of air.
The sun blazed overhead, its rays cutting through the sky like molten spears. He kept his eyes shut—partly from exhaustion, partly to shield them from the glare. The clash of steel still echoed around him, sharp and chaotic, carried by the wind like a symphony of violence. Nothing about the battle had quieted. Not yet.
With effort, Riven forced his eyes open again. The reddish-brown roof tiles swam into view, their texture rough and sun-warmed beneath his fingers. He blinked rapidly, adjusting to the light before lifting his gaze to take in his surroundings.
From this high vantage point, he could finally see. To the left, a dark treeline stretched along the horizon, like a shadow encroaching on the land. To the far right, beyond a haze of dust and smoke, loomed the city's outer wall—tall, unmoving, distant. A few spires and rooftops poked above it, barely visible.
"Damn it," he muttered under his breath. We're outside the city. No more backup.
The thought didn't shake him, though. If they had still been within the city, Windermere forces might've swarmed their position by now. Their little escape would've been snuffed out—like a candle in a storm. A flicker, then gone.
He braced to rise, but then—pressure. A sudden weight in his soul space. Foreign, insistent.
Alarmed, Riven closed his eyes and dove inward.
His awareness slipped into the realm of his soul. As his astral form drifted closer to the core of his being, unease twisted in his chest. He'd been pushing his mana to the edge for a week straight—there were plenty of things that could've gone wrong.
His arms folded across his chest. His brow creased.
It's not really my fault, he muttered, knowing full well that excuses wouldn't matter—not here.
A soft pink and amber light pulsed around him as his two cores came into view. They glowed brighter than he remembered—fuller, denser—despite him only having broken into Rank 1 the day before.
His expression darkened as realization hit. His face twisted, lips curling in revulsion.
That's from the archers… from killing them.
The memory hit like a hammer. Hands stained red. Lives snuffed out. The screams. The silence that followed.
His astral body trembled, and his gut churned. He hadn't meant to leave, but his mind recoiled—and suddenly he was back in his physical body, hunched over those same sunbaked roof tiles.
His left hand was shaking uncontrollably, like it had been plunged into a snowstorm and left bare to the cold. He tried to steady it. Failed.
His thoughts wandered—back to the times his father had sat him down, eyes gleaming, spinning tales of adventure and glory. Of the hard choices and narrow escapes. They had always inspired him.
But now… now he understood the weight behind those words. The quiet pain buried in them. Losing comrades. Taking lives. Not monsters, not beasts—but other humans. For survival.
Tears gathered at the corners of his eyes—small, stinging reminders of a truth he hadn't been ready to face. His trembling hand slowly curled into a fist.
"Damn it," he growled, slamming it down against the tiles. Pain lanced up his arm, but he welcomed it.
"I know it was either them or me…" he muttered, softer this time, voice edged with a bitter snarl, "but that doesn't make it just."
Riven remained still, silent and immobile for several long minutes. The only thing that tore him from his stupor was a sharp yell from below.
"Riven!"
Blinking away the newly formed tears, he jerked his head left and tilted it down. Sylvia stood beneath him, staring up with her rapier in hand, its blade slick with dark red, frostbitten blood. Dozens of corpses lay at her feet, each covered in varying amounts of frost, their flesh pale and cracked like shattered porcelain. The blood pooling around them had thickened into a gruesome slurry—ice, bone, and viscera blending together into a twisted frozen mosaic.
Behind her loomed the elemental beast. It stood motionless, hands gripping its massive sword like a ceremonial knight. The blade was still plunged into the ground, a totem of violence. Frost steamed gently from the frozen blade, but what seized Riven's gaze was the color—the sword, once bluish-white, now gleamed a vivid, glassy red, as though it had absorbed the blood it spilled and frozen it into a flawless crimson sculpture.
His face tightened. The sight should have brought him comfort—proof that Sylvia was holding her ground—but instead, a dull throb of nausea crawled through his gut. The mounting weight of death, the stink of blood and iron, the sound of distant screams and shattering magic… it all churned inside his skull until the world tilted slightly.
Sylvia didn't speak, didn't move. Just stood there, silently expecting a response. Whether she had noticed his shaken expression or not, she didn't show it. Her mask gave nothing away, and her posture was carved from stone.
Mustering his breath, Riven forced out a reply. "I took care of them!"
Sylvia gave a curt nod and turned, her cloak fluttering behind her as she moved. Riven followed her gaze.
Roman.
The man was locked in a chaotic melee—fighting the beast, the noble, and now at least a dozen hooded figures closing in from every angle. Riven's brows shot up, and his hand curled into a tight fist.
Roman's robe had been torn to shreds. Giant sections were missing, revealing bandage-wrapped flesh beneath. Nearly every strip was stained deep red, wounds reopening, blood soaking through in fresh blooms. He looked like he'd clawed his way out of a battlefield grave.
Riven's expression darkened, and he slammed his fist down, cracking the tile beneath him.
Damn it. He came here without even being fully healed.
The shock of the impact grounded him. He inhaled deeply, tasting the dry, iron-tinged air. No time to hesitate.
His thoughts snapped to his right arm-still as immobile as ever. With a sigh, he turned his focus to his mana. A quick check confirmed it was resting around fifty percent—regenerated partially by the essence he'd absorbed earlier. He hadn't thought it possible to recover mana from humans. Not like that.
He shoved the thought away.
No time.
He gritted his teeth and retightened the ragged sling over his right shoulder. He activated Blink, targeting a patch of unfrozen grass. His body shimmered—then reappeared six feet above the intended spot. He dropped like a stone, tucking into a roll the instant he hit the ground. The grass was damp and icy, cold slapping against his skin as he tumbled.
Gotta save as much mana as possible, he thought, gritting his teeth.
Then he was up and running—each step bringing him closer to Roman.
Getting closer, Riven watched as Sylvia carved through two of the assailants flanking Roman. But something was off. Unlike the others they'd fought before, these two didn't stay down. They staggered back to their feet, retreating just out of range while two more hooded figures took their place, keeping up the relentless, suffocating pressure.
His eyes scanned the battlefield, searching for Sylvia's elemental beast. Nowhere. His chest tightened.
Had she returned it to her soul space? Why? That didn't make sense—unless…
Not good.
Riven clenched his jaw, letting his amber mana surge through his veins. It pulsed beneath his skin like fire in his bloodstream, leaving a faint tingling heat as it circulated. He reserved the pink mana, treating it like loaded ammunition—critical for his Blinks.
Three more assailants broke from the group hounding Roman and veered toward Sylvia—flanking her from the sides while she remained locked in combat at the front. They moved with disturbing coordination, like shadows slipping through fog.
Before they could close in, Riven blinked.
He appeared directly in front of the leftmost figure, already mid-motion. His arm, tense and coiled with mana, snapped forward. His fist slammed into the back of the figure's hooded head with a sickening crack. Bone crumpled beneath the impact, and the attacker's body went limp, cratering into the ground with a dull, wet thud.
No time to think.
He blinked again.
This time he reappeared beside the second attacker—fist already arcing. His blow connected with a harsh smack, knuckles crashing into the man's face in a horizontal sweep. The figure spun from the impact, blood trailing from his mouth as he twisted through the air and collapsed in a heap.
Even as the second attacker crumpled, the third was already moving—clever, fast, and too close. Riven didn't blink this time.
He pivoted on his heel, amber mana coiling through his legs, launching himself forward with explosive speed. The third figure raised a blade, a short, jagged thing that shimmered with a sickly green sheen. Poisoned, maybe. Didn't matter.
Riven ducked low under the swipe, feeling the blade slice through the air inches from his scalp, cool and sharp like the breath of a winter wind.
He twisted into the attack, shoulder slamming into the man's gut with enough force to lift him off his feet. The figure let out a choked grunt, air punched from his lungs as they crashed into the ground.
Riven didn't let up.
He straddled the downed attacker, one knee pinning his chest as he drove a mana-fueled punch into the figure's face. Once. Twice. The third cracked bone, and a sharp spray of blood arced across his knuckles. The hood slipped, revealing wide, dazed eyes just before they rolled back.
Still breathing. For now.
Riven grabbed the man's blade without pause, wiping its edge clean against the dark fabric of his cloak. The liquid smeared, streaking green over the worn cloth.
He rose to his feet, breath ragged, heat pouring off his skin in steady waves. His heart pounded like war drums, each beat syncing with the mana thrumming through his veins—adrenaline and energy twisting together until the world sharpened into jagged clarity.
He turned toward Sylvia. The fight hadn't stopped. Blood still spilled. Steel still clashed.
No time to rest.