A silver blade, now coated in red frost, cut through another of the hooded attackers, carving a brutal gash across his chest. From the wound, ice spiderwebbed outward in a chilling spread, crackling as it froze flesh and fabric alike. The figure collapsed and didn't rise again. The others, who had been focused on Roman, shifted—feet adjusting, postures angling—now turning their attention to Sylvia and him.
Seems like she has enough mana to keep fighting—for now, Riven thought, his teeth still clenched tight, jaw rigid with strain.
He glanced down at the short sword he'd picked up, gauging its weight and edge. Only ten left... and they weren't pushovers. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening as he looked back up at the five advancing on his position. At the same time, he checked his mana levels—thirty percent remaining of the amber and forty for the pink.
Not terrible... but I can't afford to reinforce the blade. Cursing how he couldn't control the output properly enough with his meager mana reserves.
The gleam of the weapon caught his eye—smooth steel with a faint shimmer that suggested higher craftsmanship. He could tell this blade was meant to take more mana than the training versions. Something about its balance, its responsiveness—it felt made for war.
Riven stood still, waiting, calculating. He could blink out at any time, so he wasn't too worried. That was his specialty. Blink had saved him more times than he could count. The problem wasn't escape.
It was offense.
He lacked the firepower to punch through their defense efficiently—and he knew it. A shaky breath escaped his lips, misting slightly in the cold air. Then, twisting his torso with a sudden movement, he hurled the sword toward the two on his right.
The figures froze for a fraction of a second—just enough for their blades to lash out in unison, clanging against the airborne weapon and sending it spiraling away. The sound of metal striking metal echoed across the field.
That was his cue.
Riven blinked.
He reappeared behind them in a flash of distorted space, body already coiled, fist pulled back for a bone-snapping strike to the skull. But just before his punch landed, something pressed hard against his right side—like a battering ram slamming into him out of nowhere.
The next thing he knew, he was airborne.
He hit the ground hard, skidding across the damp grass. The smell of earth and crushed foliage filled his nose, and each roll sent blades of grass scratching against his skin. He tried to blink again, but his vision was smeared with green and blue, sky and land blurring into one.
The moment his body stopped, staring up at the bright sky, he blinked.
In the next instant, he reappeared ten feet in the air, still facing upward. Air rushed past his ears as he twisted violently, flipping his body mid-fall to look down. His stomach lurched with the motion, and adrenaline flooded his system, every nerve firing in high alert.
That's when he saw it.
One of the hooded figures was slowly rising from the spot Riven had just blinked from. Three more were rushing toward it, blades gleaming, slicing the air with deadly intent.
Riven's gaze snapped to the rising one. His brows furrowed.
Did he predict where I'd teleport?
The thought knifed through him. He'd seen his blink get canceled before—jammed, blocked, interrupted—but never predicted. Blink was a short-range teleport, fast and nearly impossible to trace. Yet somehow, this one had seen through it.
As gravity tugged at his body, dragging him back down, his mind raced with tangled thoughts.
How did he know? Can they all predict it?
He thought back to the three he'd taken down earlier—none of them had reacted that way. That ruled out a group ability.
Which means he's the biggest threat.
Riven locked onto him, narrowing his eyes. The man was reaching for his weapon, no doubt expecting him to blink straight at him again.
"Fine," Riven murmured, a grin spreading across his face. "I'll show you."
Before landing, he blinked.
A pulse of pink mana surged through his body, and his reserves dipped below thirty percent as he reappeared beside the group fighting Sylvia. Momentum flung him forward, and he twisted midair, descending on one of the figures from above like a falling axe. His leg came down hard, the heel of his boot angled toward the man's head.
The impact was brutal.
A sickening crunch echoed through the air as bone cracked beneath his strike. The force slowed his momentum just enough to let him land smoothly, crouched over the crumpled body, boots digging into the churned-up earth.
A short, breathy laugh escaped Riven's lips—half from adrenaline, half from satisfaction. He straightened, muscles tensing as he turned his head, eyes locking onto the hooded figure who had intercepted his blink earlier.
"I'll just go after everyone else," he murmured, voice low and mocking.
Then he vanished again.
This time, he reappeared a good distance away—far from both clusters of fighting—giving himself a brief window to breathe. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, and he took it in with a quiet exhale, the thrum of mana still buzzing faintly through his veins. His heart was racing, each beat a dull thud in his ears.
He scanned the battlefield.
Sylvia was holding her ground, her movements fluid and fast. She looked like she was dancing between strikes, and Riven's earlier blink had thrown off the attackers' rhythm just enough to give her an edge. A flicker of pride passed through him.
His gaze shifted.
Roman had taken his fight further off, deeper into the field—probably trying to make sure no stray wind blade accidentally cleaved through them. Smart. The distance blurred the details, but Riven could make out the silhouettes—three forms locked in rapid, chaotic motion.
From what he could tell, they were evenly matched.
We might actually make it out of this, he thought, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.
Then movement caught his eye.
Four figures were breaking off from the main fight, shadows weaving through the haze of kicked-up dust and churned grass. They were heading straight toward him.
Riven was about to blink when the ground trembled. At first, it was a faint vibration, little more than a whisper beneath his boots. Then, without warning, the earth erupted into violence. The grass split apart like torn parchment, and the cobblestone walkway burst upward, bricks hurtling through the air like shrapnel. To his left, the ground cracked open with a sound like snapping bone, and from the fissure, soil rained down in a gritty shower.
Then—something moved.
Riven's breath caught as a massive, serpentine form surged from the rupture, its body uncoiling in an endless, sinuous wave. A Quakefang? Here? His pulse hammered in his throat. The creature was monstrous—six feet wide, its length stretching at least ten meters, maybe more. Its scales gleamed like polished river stones, gray-brown and ridged, catching the sunlight as if carved from the very cliffs of a mountain pass. The beast kept coming, an unbroken tide of muscle and scale, its bulk coiling around the ruined garden with terrifying ease.
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating—until another tremor shattered it.
The second serpent exploded from the earth in a spray of shattered stone, smaller than the first but no less horrifying. Its scales burned red-yellow, like embers in a dying fire, and a line of molten heat traced its spine from skull to tail. A Scorchcoil. Riven's mouth went dry. The fight he'd been locked in moments ago was forgotten, drowned beneath the primal dread coiling in his gut.
Both creatures rose to their full, towering heights, their wedge-shaped heads swiveling with eerie precision. Forked tongues flicked out, tasting the air—tasting the blood.
Then, as one, they turned toward the corpses littering the ground, their bodies wreathed in that sickly purple mist where blood boiled and ice melted into poison. The sight didn't deter them.
They struck.
The Quakefang lunged left, the Scorchcoil right, jaws unhinging like sprung traps. Dirt, bodies, shattered blades—everything vanished into those gaping maws. Riven watched, transfixed, as the lumps of their meals slid down their throats in grotesque, undulating bulges.
Still, no one moved. No one dared.
The air itself felt heavy, thick with the weight of their presence. Riven's magic-sense was weak, but even he could feel it—the oppressive, predatory aura radiating from both beasts. Stronger than the noble's green hawk. Stronger than anything here.
And they were hungry.