After battle of Old Lark we saw the battlefield fell silent. Then our gaze reached towards the Rath.

He did not speak. He did not look. He simply walked, sword dragging behind him across the stone. Sparks leapt in his wake.

His opponent stood at the far end of the field. A giant of a man, twice Rath's height, with arms like hanging slabs of meat. Bronze chains wrapped around his shoulders and thighs. His face was hidden beneath a square iron helm, rusted and split. From his back rose a rack of bones tied with black cords.

Another servant. Another Vestige.

It raised a club the size of a tree trunk, wrapped in spikes.

Then it charged.

The earth cracked beneath its feet.

Rath didn't move. Not until the last second.

He stepped once. Just one.

The Vestige's club missed by inches.

Rath's blade was already in motion.

A clean diagonal slash. No sound.

The Vestige kept moving, then skidded to a halt.

A second passed.

Its right arm slid off. Then its leg. Then its head.

All in silence.

Then the pieces hit the ground.

It tried to rebuild. The chains around its body lit up, pulling in broken metal from the field. The bones on its back burst with smoke, reattaching its parts in midair.

Rath didn't wait.

He stepped again.

This time, six slashes cut through the fog. Every strike followed the last with perfect precision.

The bones shattered.

The chains split.

The head exploded.

The Vestige dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.

It reached for something. A glyph. A last defense.

Rath kicked it back down.

Then he placed his sword flat against its neck.

A single breath.

A final cut.

Straight down.

The ground split open beneath them.

When the dust cleared, the Vestige was gone. Nothing left but a small crater.

Rath sheathed his sword.

Still no words.

Just silence carried his aura. His presence.

The wind still felt heavy. Before Rath moved a new opponent appeared from the winds. Suddenly he appeared. Rath didn't understood from where and how he appeared. But he knew that now the actual battle for him was begun. His opponent was...

Orun. Blade of the Forgotten God.

His opponent stood ahead. Shirtless. Skin pale and covered in fresh blood. Orun carved another rune into his chest with a jagged nail. The flesh sizzled. His eyes glowed faint gold.

Then he ran.

Orun's footsteps cracked the ground with each stride. As he moved, more runes appeared across his body, lighting up one after another. Strength poured into his limbs. His muscles swelled. Bones twisted. By the time he reached Rath, he was nearly unrecognizable. A monster of flesh and sacred pain.

He swung.

Rath turned his shoulder, the strike missing by a hair.

His sword moved.

A single cut along Orun's ribs.

Blood sprayed.

Orun grinned and twisted his body. He grabbed Rath's blade with both hands, runes igniting across his palms. Heat surged. Rath's sword steamed.

Rath let go.

He stepped behind Orun.

Caught the hilt as it flipped in the air.

Then slashed upward.

Orun's back split open. Muscle tore. Runes bled light.

Orun roared and slammed both fists into the ground. A shockwave blasted outward. Spikes of bone and blood burst from the earth in all directions.

Rath vanished into motion.

Each step was exact. Each cut precise.

He danced between spikes. Slashed one down. Dodged another.

He appeared behind Orun again.

This time, he drove his blade straight through the man's spine. His blade was made up of mana this time. He had ability to make a sword from the mana.

Orun grabbed Rath's arm and headbutted him. Runes exploded across his forehead. Rath staggered.

Orun swung a fist.

It struck Rath's shoulder.

The armor cracked.

Rath slid back, feet digging into the stone.

He raised his sword again.

Orun laughed and tore the skin from his own chest. Runes beneath the flesh burned like fire. He screamed. His body twisted. Grew. Bones snapped and reshaped. Wings of bone unfurled behind him. His fists dripped with molten energy.

He charged one last time.

The world slowed.

Rath stepped once. Twice. A blur.

His blade struck.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Twelve cuts in a blink.

Orun's wings shattered.

His arms split apart.

Rath ended behind him, sword pointed down.

He stabbed through the back of Orun's neck.

All the way through.

The runes flickered.

Then went dark.

Orun dropped to his knees.

Rath pulled the blade free.

No words.

Only the sound of Orun's body falling forward, cracking the stone beneath. Orun was dead.

Rath walked away towards the Frein to protect him from the unknown and surprising attacks.

★★★

Then we again moved towards the new battle...

Dust rolled over the dead valley. Shattered mountains jutted from the broken ground like snapped teeth.

Nahrel stood at the center. Silent. Hood drawn. Her bare feet touched the stone.

Across from her, the Vestige formed.

It crawled out of the earth like a corpse dug too deep. A thin body of cracked clay and black gravel, held together by glowing seams. Its face was a crude mask, carved with jagged lines. Four arms, each tipped with blades of obsidian.

It shrieked.

Nahrel raised one hand.

The ground rippled.

A wall of stone surged up in front of her just as the Vestige leapt.

The creature's first strike shattered the wall. The second one pierced through.

But Nahrel was already gone.

She stood behind the Vestige now. Fingers pressed to the ground.

The stone under the Vestige's feet collapsed.

A pit opened, dragging it down. Spikes formed along the walls, stabbing in as it fell.

The Vestige screeched and slammed its claws into the sides. It stopped its fall halfway, then launched itself upward, bursting through the pit like a missile.

Nahrel didn't flinch.

She tapped the ground again.

Pillars rose.

A maze of sharp stone towers surged up around the Vestige mid-air, skewering its limbs as it twisted to dodge.

One arm flew off. Then a leg.

The creature landed lopsided, limbs reattaching from scattered rubble.

It ran. Fast. Too fast.

Nahrel stepped back.

And the cliffs responded.

A chunk of mountain broke off and slammed into the Vestige like a giant fist.

The Vestige tumbled. But still moved. It screamed, blades spinning from its arms, slicing through rock, carving a path forward.

It lunged again.

Nahrel clenched her hand.

A golem of pure granite erupted from the side.

It punched the Vestige in the chest, sending it flying into a mountain.

Then the mountain stones closed around it.

Stone crushing in. No escape.

The Vestige stabbed through, carving tunnels, pulling itself free again.

Nahrel exhaled once.

Then she raised both arms.

The valley shook.

Dozens of stone arms rose from the earth, grabbing the Vestige from every side.

They didn't crush it.

They pulled it apart.

Limb by limb.

Head. Spine. Core.

Torn.

Then buried.

The arms sank back into the ground, dragging every piece with them.

Only silence remained.

Nahrel lowered her arms. The earth stilled. She whispered once more.

And the stone listened.

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