​Two blades collided amidst the sundered mist.

​CLANG!

​A violent spray of violet, emerald, and crimson sparks erupted in every direction. The ground beneath their feet buckled and cracked, black fissures radiating from the point of impact. Pebbles were thrown into the air, scorched by the heat of the sparks before falling back to the earth, blackened and charred.

​Dayat felt a fierce vibration rattle his arm. His violet-green blade emitted a high-pitched whine that pierced the ears. Orchid felt it too. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing slightly. He had just realized that Dayat’s weapon was not inferior to his own ancestral blade.

​Both men recoiled. One step. Two steps.

​The distance between them was now exactly three meters.

​Orchid struck first.

​His crimson blade streaked from the left. It was fast—not a simple slash, but a deceptive strike. A flick of his wrist caused the red energy to spin like a propeller before reaching its target.

​Dayat raised his sword. CLACK! He parried it.

​But Orchid didn’t stop at one. He immediately transitioned into a second slash from the right, his movements fluid and unbroken.

​Dayat pivoted his blade. CLACK! Another parry.

​A third strike came from above. Orchid raised his sword high, bringing it down with crushing force.

​Dayat held his blade horizontally above his head. CLANG! The impact was heavier this time. Dayat’s knees buckled slightly as he absorbed the sheer pressure of the blow.

​A fourth strike surged from below. Orchid twisted his wrist, redirecting the blade in an upward arc.

​Dayat drove his sword downward, pinning the crimson blade before it could rise. CLACK!

​Four strikes. Four clashes. All in less than a second.

​Dayat did not remain passive. He counterattacked.

​His violet-green blade swung toward Orchid’s neck. It was fast—just as swift as Orchid’s previous barrage. Orchid ducked. The violet edge whistled over his head, narrowly missing the tips of his black hair. He could feel the scorching wind from the energy blade.

​Dayat retracted his sword and lunged toward Orchid’s chest.

​Orchid twisted his body to the right. The violet blade hissed past his left armpit, missing him by a mere centimeter or two. It was dangerously close.

​Dayat didn’t relent. He slashed toward Orchid’s midsection. Orchid propelled himself backward with one foot—a small, controlled leap that allowed him to evade the strike. The violet blade cut through the air inches from his stomach.

​They both came to a halt. The distance was back to three meters.

​Neither Dayat nor Orchid were out of breath, but sweat began to bead on their temples.

​”You are fast,” Orchid said, his voice remaining calm. There was no sign of fatigue.

​”Shut up,” Dayat replied.

​Orchid offered a thin smile—that same piercing, polite smile. “But you still haven’t been able to wound me.”

​Dayat didn’t answer. He simply watched.

​Then, they lunged again.

​CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

​Three consecutive impacts within seconds. Sparks rained down between them, momentarily illuminating the thick mist.

​Dayat slashed left. Orchid parried.

Dayat slashed right. Orchid parried.

Dayat lunged for the chest. Orchid evaded while countering with a slash toward Dayat’s left arm.

​Dayat raised his left arm. A small energy shield materialized on his forearm—hexagonal, transparent, and buzzing softly. It was violet-green, matching his sword and armor.

​CLACK!

​Orchid’s blade struck the shield. It didn’t penetrate. It didn’t even crack.

​Orchid’s brow twitched. “A shield?”

​Dayat took a step forward.

​Orchid slashed at Dayat’s head. Fast. Brutal. Dayat raised the shield. CLANG! Blocked.

​Dayat slashed at Orchid’s waist, the violet blade sweeping horizontally. Orchid evaded by arching his back. The violet edge tore through his black cloak at the waist. The fabric split, revealing the inner lining, but it didn’t touch his skin.

​Orchid retreated half a step. Dayat pressed forward half a step.

​Orchid slashed at Dayat’s legs, his crimson sword sweeping low, grazing the dirt. Dayat drove the shield downward. CLANG! Blocked.

​Dayat lunged for Orchid’s left shoulder. His violet sword shot forward like a bolt of lightning. Orchid spun his body. The blade hissed past the front of his shoulder. Infinitesimally close.

​Orchid slashed at Dayat’s chest, his crimson blade swinging horizontally at chest level. Dayat raised the shield. CLANG! Blocked.

​Dayat swung for Orchid’s neck. The violet blade whipped around with lethal speed. Orchid ducked, the blade passing over his head.

​They both stopped again. The distance remained three meters, but they had swapped positions.

​Orchid’s black cloak was torn in three places: the left sleeve, the waist, and the hem. Yet, he bore no wounds. Not yet.

​Dayat was unscathed. His cerulean-silver armor had a few superficial scratches, but it was intact. His sword continued to hum.

​Orchid stared at Dayat, his gaze moving from the violet sword in his right hand to the shield on his left, then to the armor encasing his body.

​”You are stronger than I thought,” Orchid admitted.

​”You talk too much,” Dayat said coldly. “Dead men shouldn’t be so chatty.”

​Orchid let out a small laugh. It wasn’t cynical; it was the laugh of someone who had truly found something worth his time.

​”Dead?” he mused. “One who walks with the world-destroyer is far more deserving of death.”

​He attacked again. This time, he was faster. Much faster.

​Orchid no longer relied solely on his hands. He used his entire body—the twist of his waist for power, the thrust of his legs for reach, the swing of his shoulders for velocity. Every slash carried more weight; every thrust was more precise.

​CLANG!

​Dayat parried, but his arm vibrated. This time, it wasn’t just the sword’s frequency; it was the raw strength behind Orchid’s strike.

​CLANG!

​He parried again. This time, Dayat was forced back half a step.

​CLANG!

​Parried again. He retreated a full step.

​Orchid kept pressing. His crimson blade swung relentlessly. Left. Right. Up. Down. Left again. Right again.

​Dayat defended with both shield and sword. The hexagonal shield on his left arm intercepted the strikes from the left and above, while the sword in his right hand parried the blows from the right and below.

​But he couldn’t find an opening to counter. Every time he tried to lung, Orchid had already evaded. Every time he tried to slash, Orchid had already retreated half a step.

​”Are you only capable of defending?” Orchid taunted.

​Dayat didn’t answer.

​CLANG!

CLANG!

CLANG!

​Orchid began to show the first signs of fatigue. His breathing was no longer perfectly rhythmic. Sweat trickled down his forehead, matting his black hair. But he didn’t stop.

​He slashed for Dayat’s head. Dayat raised the shield. CLANG!

He slashed for Dayat’s stomach. Dayat lowered the shield. CLANG!

He lunged for Dayat’s chest. Dayat swept his sword aside, parrying. CLANG!

He slashed for Dayat’s neck. Dayat raised the shield to the side. CLANG!

​Then, Dayat saw it. A gap.

​Orchid’s swing was too wide. Just slightly. Perhaps by only two or three centimeters. But it was enough.

​Orchid saw the gap too. His eyes widened. He tried to pull his sword back, but he was a fraction of a second too slow.

​Dayat lunged. His violet-green blade shot straight for Orchid’s right shoulder. Orchid had no time to parry, no time to dodge. His arm was still extended from the last swing, and his body was leaned too far to the left.

​SRAAK!

​The violet blade pierced clean through Orchid’s right shoulder.

​Blood sprayed out—thick and crimson.

​Orchid hissed through gritted teeth. His eyes narrowed, and his face went pale. He retreated—not one step, not two, but three steps in rapid succession, pulling himself out of Dayat’s reach.

​He clutched his right shoulder with his left hand. Blood leaked through his fingers, staining his already tattered cloak. The fabric was now wet, heavy, and clinging to his skin.

​Dayat stood his ground, sword raised, shield humming.

​”You lost,” Dayat said.

​Orchid stared at him. His expression remained flat. There was no pain, no anger, no disappointment.

​”Not yet,” he said.

​But his hand—the right hand holding the sword—was trembling. Blood continued to flow from his shoulder, down his arm, soaking his fingers and the hilt of his blade. His crimson sword was still lit, but its movements would be far slower now.

​Dayat took a step forward. “Die.”

​He didn’t wait for an answer. In an instant, his body blurred. The ground cracked as he lunged, his violet blade raised, aimed directly for Orchid’s throat.

​Orchid didn’t reply. His eyes darted—from the sword, to the shield, to Dayat’s cold face. His hand reached into his cloak just as the shadow of the sword fell upon him.

​A desperate move.

​A small canister was hurled to the ground.

​POP!

​Black smoke erupted. It was thick, oily, and suffocating, instantly blanketing the entire area. This wasn’t ordinary fog; it was darker and colder than the mist of the Mourning Forest.

​Dayat blinked. “Damn it!”

​He slashed through the smoke with his sword, but it was useless. You cannot cut smoke. His blade only met air.

​Inside the castle, Dalgor’s sensors flickered. A small energy surge was detected, but nothing life-threatening—just a disturbance.

​”What was that?” Dalgor whispered.

​Dola, still sitting on the ground behind Dayat, felt a tremor. Her head throbbed, her vision blurring.

​The smoke began to thin. Slowly. Very slowly.

​Orchid was gone.

​Only bloodstains remained on the dirt. Footprints led toward the east. Silence returned.

​Dayat stood in the middle of the receding mist, his violet sword still glowing, his shield still buzzing. He looked toward the east. The tracks were still visible, still fresh. He took a step.

​”Dayat…”

​A voice from behind. Faint. Perhaps just a trick of his mind.

​Dayat stopped. He turned around.

​Dola was falling. Her body slumped to the side, her eyes closed, her face ashen.

​Dayat didn’t think. He spun around and ran to her side.

​”Dola!”

​No response.

​Dayat touched her cheek. It was warm. She was still breathing—shallow, but steady.

​”…Dola,” he called again, softer this time.

​He deactivated his armor. Violet particles scattered from his head, dissolving into the air. He gathered Dola in his arms. Carefully, his cerulean-silver gauntlets cradled her small shoulders.

​”I’m sorry.”

​Dayat lifted Dola, one hand behind her back, the other under her knees. He stood up and walked toward the castle gate. His pace was slow, measured. Behind him, the mist began to close in again. The remnants of the battle—the cracked earth, the fallen trees, the blood—were slowly buried by the fog, as if they had never happened.

​The castle gates opened silently.

​Lunethra stood in the hallway, her hands still guarding the children’s room. Her eyes were red. Tears streamed down her cheeks, soaking her green dress. She ran toward Dayat and threw her arms around him and the unconscious Dola.

​”You’re safe… Thank goodness.”

​”We’re safe,” Dayat said. “Dola just fainted. I’m sure she’ll be okay.”

​Lunethra didn’t let go. Her shoulders shook as she wept silently. Dayat didn’t push her away. He simply stood there, carrying Dola, while Lunethra cried on his shoulder.

​Kancil stood at the end of the hall, watching from a distance. He didn’t approach or ask questions. He just watched.

​Dayat walked to the Medical Room. Dalgor was already waiting there. A metal bed with clean white sheets was ready. Wooden tables were lined with medicine bottles, and a violet light on the ceiling glowed dimly.

​Dayat laid Dola on the bed. Her head sank into the pillow. Dalgor approached, checking her pulse. His trembling fingers searched for a beat.

​”Just exhaustion,” Dalgor said. “But the wounds…”

​Dayat raised his hand. From thin air, he manifested a small tool—shaped like scissors but with rounded tips, made of cerulean-silver metal. Regeneration Shears.

​He cut away Dola’s torn and blood-soaked white cape. The fabric split, revealing the black bodysuit underneath. He cleaned the wounds across her body—there weren’t many, just a few grazes from flying debris when the shield collapsed.

​Dalgor helped bandage the wounds with ordinary gauze. They didn’t need high-tech equipment for this; just bandages and simple salves.

​”She will recover,” Dalgor said. “But it will take time.”

​Dayat nodded. He sat in the chair beside the bed. Silent.

​Lunethra stood at the door, still crying. Kancil, Loy, and Riri stood behind her, silent.

​Outside, the mist moved slowly. The Mourning Forest remained dark.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep