Jacob did not truly know what he was doing or even what outcome he was aiming for, and the splitting ache in his head clouded his thoughts so thoroughly that every attempt to form a strategy dissolved almost immediately, yet when their eyes locked he felt a compulsion, a sudden pressure inside him that told him he could not stand still, that he had to act before the moment passed and was lost.

He surged forward without plan or hesitation, his fist rising, and with all the strength he could muster he drove it towards her.

It seemed, however, that she had been seized by the same impulse, for she too had lunged, her own fist cutting the air between them. Their blows collided with a dull, almost hollow sound, and in the same instant Jacob felt his arm buckle under the impact, the force of her strike overwhelming his own.

was pushed back several paces, his body trembling from the shock, and the bitter realization surfaced in his mind with a clarity that made him wince, she was still stronger than him. Even weakened, even with her power forced down to a level meant to mirror his, the difference remained, slight but undeniable, and in a fight where every margin mattered that difference could very well kill him.

Still, he pressed forward again, refusing to allow hesitation to root itself in his body, his fist drawing back for another strike. She answered not with a simple counter but with a strange movement that made him falter, for instead of aiming the knife she had drawn at him she turned it in her grasp and stabbed the blade into her own arm, blood running freely down her pale skin, and before Jacob could question the act she flicked her wrist and sent the knife hurtling through the air.

He reacted purely on instinct, rolling sharply to the side, and for a moment he believed he had escaped it entirely, but the cold sensation that shot up his back warned him otherwise, and as he scrambled upright he felt the tearing pain along his ribs where the blade had grazed him.

His breath hitched and a low groan forced its way out of his throat as he clutched at the wound, but the knife did not fall inert as he expected; it twisted midair, turning sharply, and then with smooth precision it returned to the woman's waiting hand.

She caught it easily and her lips curved into a smile that was at once mocking and pleased, and with a slow deliberate gesture she lifted the blade and drew her tongue along its edge as though savoring its taste. "I think," she said softly, her voice lilting with amusement, "that I will keep you as a bloodbag."

The words chilled him in a way the wound itself could not, yet he forced his legs to move, forced his body forward again, each step an act of defiance against the fear that pressed against him. He closed the distance and struck out once more, his fist connecting solidly with her chest, the impact enough to stagger her backward. For an instant triumph flared within him, only for it to die as sudden sharp pain erupted through his body.

His eyes widened, his breath caught, and when he looked down he saw them, eight separate blades, slender and glinting, piercing into different parts of him as though they had sprouted from nowhere. And just as quickly as they had entered, they withdrew, sliding free of his body before angling through the air and streaking back toward the woman who had conjured them.

Desperation overtook reason, and Jacob threw out his hand, catching one of the blades mid-flight. His palm tore open as the edge split his skin, but he did not let go, he refused to let go, tightening his grip until the blade shuddered and halted its forward momentum.

Blood seeped between his fingers as he forced his other hand to take hold, shifting it from left to right as he steadied himself, his breathing ragged, his body trembling. He wanted to scream from the pain, from the fire that burned in both his hand and his ribs, yet he swallowed the sound, forcing it down with clenched teeth.

The headache that had plagued him since the ritual now flared violently, so strong it nearly blinded him, and he stumbled a step, his vision blurring, the world around him pulsing with each throb in his skull.

The seven blades that remained hovered in a loose orbit around the woman, glinting faintly as though each was waiting for her command, and she tore away her cloak with a sharp pull, revealing the light armour beneath.

It was not heavy plate but something sleek and fitted, crafted to allow swift movement while still providing protection, and Jacob's stomach sank when he noticed the faint red sheen of the metal and the shifting runes etched into its surface, symbols that glowed faintly and whispered of enchantments meant to harden her against both blade and spell.

Almost reflexively his gaze dropped to the knife clutched in his own hand, as though searching for some hidden sign that it too might carry markings of power, but the plain steel betrayed him with its silence.

Her voice cut across his thoughts, "Looking away in a fight." Jacob's body jerked in response, instinct rather than thought, and he ducked as two of the hovering blades sliced through the air where his head had been only a moment earlier. He let out a shaky, uneven breath and threw himself forward in a sudden sprint, refusing to let himself pause.

He could already sense the danger at his back; the faint whistle in the air warned him, and even before the blades reached him he turned, his movements desperate but not entirely unplanned.

His knife struck one blade aside, the impact jarring his arm, but the second found its mark, driving deep into the flesh of his thigh and nearly toppling him with the pain. He gasped and seized the hilt, tearing it free in a spray of blood, and before she could reclaim control he hurled himself into a roll, narrowly avoiding the sweep of another blade.

When he came up on one knee he raised the weapon high and smashed it against the ground with all his strength. The knife fractured, shards scattering across the stone, and Jacob forced himself upright, blood trickling down his leg, and continued his run forward.

She did not so much as flinch at the loss of a weapon, the faintest smile playing across her lips as the remaining six circled him like vultures, darting inward in sudden bursts that forced him to twist and stumble, each attack driving him back a step or two, slowing his progress, bleeding him of strength with every exchange.

He grunted as one knife darted toward his stomach, swinging his own weapon downward with enough force to deflect it, the clash sending vibrations up his arm. Yet even as he struck, another blade was already on him, sweeping for his back.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

But he had anticipated this rhythm, this pattern of hers, and the moment his swing was finished he threw himself into another roll, twisting sharply in the middle of it.

His bones protested with a painful creak, the joints in his legs straining, but the movement allowed him to snap his hand upward just as the blade streaked past. His fingers closed around the hilt and he slammed it down hard against the ground before the woman could recall it, the metal shrieking as it split apart.

Jacob's breathing was uneven, short bursts of air slipping from between his teeth as he steadied himself, and then, with a sudden lurch of movement, he threw himself to the side just as three knives descended in unison, striking the ground with a ringing clang that echoed against the stone.

For a heartbeat they were lodged in the earth, and with only two blades left to bar his path he seized the opening and ran, legs burning, his knife raised, his mind narrowing until all that existed was the few paces separating him from her. He swung with all his strength, the strike carrying with it every fragment of his will, every ounce of defiance, and in that moment he thought, almost with relief,

'I've got her.'

But that thought, sharp and singular, was his mistake. A warrior's attention should never falter, never collapse into such focus that the rest of the battlefield fades away, and he realized this only too late.

The woman had not stepped back, had not even flinched; instead she raised her hands with deliberate calm, and her nails lengthened in an instant, hardening into blackened claws that gleamed faintly under the dim light. His blade met her neck, the tip biting into flesh and drawing the faintest line of red, and yet before the sound of steel on skin had even registered he froze, his eyes widening as blood filled his mouth.

He coughed, a thick spatter of it drenching her hand, and only then did he glance downward to see her claws buried deep into his chest just below the sternum. They had missed his heart, perhaps by design, but that fact was no comfort, his body trembled, his vision blurred, and his headache roared back with such ferocity it felt as if his skull were splintering from within. His thoughts rang in chaos, a shrill, pounding resonance that drowned reason.

And then, as though the pain were not already enough, the remaining knives plunged into his back one after another, their entry sharp and precise, each fresh wound multiplying the agony until he was choking again on blood that spilled freely past his lips. He swayed, his body screaming in protest, and her voice reached him as though from a distance.

"What's wrong? Done already? Because I'm not." Her tone was light, almost mocking, and she pulled her claws free with agonizing slowness, making sure he felt every moment of their withdrawal, every tearing of flesh. "Because of you I lost so much, you made my rank fall to ten, do you understand that? A hundred years of struggle, wasted because of you."

But Jacob hardly listened, her words sliding past the haze of his collapsing mind. All he could think was how little he understood, how she had claws, how she controlled the knives, how this fight had twisted into something he had never anticipated, how defeat had come so quickly and so brutally.

'I thought… I thought you said I could win,' he muttered in his thoughts, but no answer came, and the silence mocked him more than her voice ever could. He almost laughed, a strangled sound in his throat. 'Pathetic once again. I can't even fight someone at rank ten. Yes, I'm a mage, yes, I can't use my runes, but what does that matter? Who cares about excuses when the result is the same? Pathetic.'

And beneath it all, that same relentless pounding, that headache which gnawed at him as though determined to hollow him out from the inside.

When her claws slid fully clear of him he collapsed, body giving out, blood spreading beneath him, and she leaned down with a satisfied smile, dragging her tongue across the crimson stains on her claws as if savouring his suffering.

He barely noticed. His head lifted once, slowly, as though in defiance, and then he forced it down, slamming his forehead into the ground. The impact barely registered; pain had become background noise, drowned beneath the steady hammering within his skull. And yet, somehow, his eyes flickered with a faint trace of light again, his trembling eased, though the headache, always the headache, refused to leave, an unwelcome weight crushing everything else.

Jacob slammed his forehead against the floor once, twice, and then again, each impact dulling the sharpness of the pain while at the same time sending his mind further into a haze where sound and sight blurred into one indistinct mass, and for a moment the woman only stared at him with something approaching confusion before a slow smile curved her lips and she murmured almost to herself, "ah, so the spell affected you as well," and without warning she drove her foot into his stomach, the blow sending him skidding across the ground.

'I can't think… my head… it's pounding,' he thought, his skull rattling with every shallow breath. He pushed himself up and prepared to slam his head down again, desperate for any relief, but then he paused because the pain had vanished, the headache gone as suddenly as if it had never been, and not only the pain but everything else disappeared with it, his wounds, the weight in his chest, even the dim shapes of the battlefield faded until there was nothing.

And into that silence came a sigh, soft and almost weary, a sound that seemed to exist not outside of him but inside, and then he felt it, that sharp, brittle sensation, like a pane of glass splintering.

He realized with dawning horror that the sound was not in the world around him but within himself, his own mind cracking and coming apart, shattering into fragments as if the core of his being were breaking loose from its frame. He was dying, not in body but in spirit, and that death was infinitely more terrifying.

Panic seized him as he saw pieces of his mind drifting away into a formless void, fragments of memory and thought scattering like ash in the wind. He ran after them in desperation, arms flailing, trying to gather them back, clutching shards to his chest, forcing them together with trembling hands.

He screamed at them, pleaded with them, fought against them, but they refused to stay, slipping through his grip as though mocking him with every escape. His will faltered, his legs threatened to give out, and for an instant he wanted only to collapse, to let the fragments scatter until nothing of him remained.

But then the thought struck him like a blade driven into his heart: 'No. I can't die. My life is not mine to waste.' The voice was his own and not his own, a reminder carved deep into him, and with it came the image of Lucas, his brother, his shadow, his reason.

Everything Jacob was meant to do, every dream he carried, every path he followed, it was not for himself but for the one who could no longer walk it. He was alive in place of Lucas, carrying forward the thread his brother had lost, and to let himself break now would mean abandoning that duty, betraying it, and that was something he could not allow.

With a renewed cry he lunged at the drifting shards again, grasping as many as his hands could hold, pulling them together, forcing them against one another.

'Come back together!' he roared in his mind, and for the first time the fragments obeyed, grinding against one another until their jagged edges fused, until thought and memory and self began to take shape once more. More pieces, drawn by his will, drifted toward him, and slowly, painfully, he began to rebuild himself, pulling order from chaos.

And in the midst of that rebuilding, as the fragments aligned into something stronger than before, an idea took root, dangerous, perhaps suicidal, but irresistible in its clarity. If he forced the pieces together not just as they were but differently, if he reformed himself in a way no mage would dare, then perhaps he could rise beyond what he was, perhaps he could reach the height needed to face her.

The risk was simple: fail, and he would die, or worse, lose himself entirely, become nothing more than a hollow husk. But if he succeeded… if he succeeded, he would stand where he had no right to stand, he would meet her strength, and maybe, just maybe, he would win.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.