Riven miraculously managed to evade as his foot caught on a stone. His body shook violently beyond his control, as he staggered backward, breath ragged and uneven. His hand instinctively touched his neck, feeling the sting that burned across his skin. His fingers came away wet with fresh blood.

He had just come within a hair’s breadth of death.

Dyrtose stared at him in disbelief. The man’s sharp eyes widened, unwilling to accept that the boy before him had slipped free from his strike.

At the same moment, Riven felt something strange in his grip. The sword in his hands pulsed, as if alive. At first he thought it was an illusion—panic clouding his senses—but the glow of runes across the blade told him otherwise. Ancient symbols shimmered faintly, shifting like they were alive, before flaring brighter than ever.

Suddenly, a name welled up in his mind.

Riftmaker.

The sword whispered it—somehow, impossibly—and the name etched itself into his consciousness. The moment he spoke it within his heart, the suffocating dread strangling him eased away. A foreign energy, both alien and soothing, enveloped him.

Riven drew in a deep breath. His body still trembled, yet his gaze now locked firmly on his foe. With the last of his strength, he surged forward, swinging the sword.

Dyrtose snarled, raising his weapon to parry. But his eyes widened in shock. Riftmaker cut straight through his blade as if it were nothing more than an illusion born of exhaustion, but it was real.

Slash!

The sword slashed diagonally across his chest.

Blood sprayed.

For the first time, Riven had inflicted a true wound upon the white-haired knight.

Dyrtose staggered, his face twisted in shock and fury. Yet Riven knew this was far from the end. The wound was not fatal, merely the opening act. He could not relax, not for a heartbeat.

Dyrtose’s awareness returned quickly. A hoarse voice rasped from his throat.

“That sword… my friend’s sword… how…?”

With a furious snarl, he summoned the last of his strength, his body blazing with raw will. Lightning coursed through his weapon once more, faint but deadly. He raised it high, ready to sever Riven’s head.

Riven straightened, gripping Riftmaker with both hands. His body moved on its own, instinct carrying him where thought could not. Their blades collided with a thunderous crash.

Clang!

Sparks flooded the night air. Riven was driven back several steps, electricity ripping through his body, leaving his throat locked in a strangled cry. His knees nearly buckled. Another swing came, cleaving across. Riven ducked, the wind of it slicing strands of his hair. A thrust drove forward; he twisted aside, almost losing balance. A downward strike rained from above. He caught it on Riftmaker, and something impossible happened again.

Riftmaker did not block the electrified blade—it pierced straight through it. Like cutting through a shadow, the weapon seemed to shed its solidity when faced with his enemy’s sword. But the man stepped back at the last possible instant, narrowly avoiding the slash.

Riven refused to give space. He pressed forward again, even as his body screamed with pain. Riftmaker felt lighter now, almost as if it was guiding him.

Dyrtose clenched his teeth and unleashed everything. Lightning blazed brighter, writhing like serpents of blue fire dancing through the air. His entire body glowed, monstrous and terrifying in the form of a man.

Riven gritted his teeth, eyes locked forward.

Dyrtose’s blade tore down in a savage arc, so close it sliced strands of Riven’s hair and split the air beside his skull. In that heartbeat, Riven dropped low and hurled himself forward with desperate resolve. Riftmaker drove through his enemy’s chest, piercing straight into his heart.

Riven shoved the blade to the hilt.

Their eyes met.

In a suffocating silence, time itself seemed to halt. No words passed between them. Only an empty gaze, light fading with every breath.

Dyrtose’s body weakened, his breath ragged. And before he fell, his cracked lips curved faintly. A smile twisted with hatred.

A whisper bled from his throat.

“May you… bear the consequences…”

Riven froze.

At last, Dyrtose’s body collapsed. He crumpled to the earth, blood pooling across the wet ground. The night fell silent once more. Only the wind stirred, as though the world itself turned away from the death of a great knight.

Viscount Elio Dyrtose, one of the strongest knights of the Mordune Kingdom, had fallen to the hand of an unknown pauper youth.

Riven stood frozen, Riftmaker clenched in his grip, its blade drenched in blood. His chest heaved, lungs burning like fire. The battle was over, yet his body continued to tremble.

His legs buckled. He sank to his knees, hands pressed into the damp earth.

His gaze drifted to the corpse beside him. Those lifeless eyes stared up at the night sky, hollow, as though asking a question without an answer. Blood seeped from the gaping wound, spreading into the soil.

He had won.

But no pride came.

Only emptiness.

Riven lowered his gaze to the sword in his hands.

Riftmaker.

The once-throbbing blade now lay still, its light fading to a faint golden shimmer, cold and distant. Somewhere deep within, Riven realized its nature. A sword that could shed its form, passing through the physical, only to turn solid again when striking flesh.

A weapon that should never belong to someone like him.

Yet here it was, his.

After several breaths, he forced himself upright despite the tremors. He dragged Dyrtose’s body, step by step, away from his sister’s sight. The corpse was heavy, but Riven persisted. He left it beneath the trees, then stood over it in silence.

“You made a mistake,” he whispered. “You should have killed me then.”

Silence answered him.

Raindrops slid from the leaves above, the world carrying on without care.

If their places had been reversed, Riven knew he would not have hesitated. He would have struck down anyone who might endanger his plans. Or anyone who might stand in his way, just as he had done now.

The thought caught in his throat. He scrubbed a hand across his face, horrified that such an idea could root itself within him after taking a life.

His eyes turned once more to the corpse. Still, guilt did not come. If anything, a chilling thought whispered—that this man, in truth, might have been better than him.

Piece by piece, his empathy was eroding. He feared if it continued, nothing would remain but madness. His sister’s words echoed in his mind. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps he had to leave all of this behind before it was too late.

With heavy steps, Riven turned back toward his sister. He had to leave this place. Leave this night of blood.

And seek a new life of peace.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep