Back in Icua, the air trembled with tension, the city groaning under the weight of elemental chaos. Amidst the shattered remnants of stone and steel, Magnus Yaer and his opponent—Einar the Warlord—remained locked in an unyielding storm of steel and myst.
The battle between them had raged like a force of nature, two titans of war dancing within a fixed radius carved out by instinct and strategy. Both warriors were masters of their craft. Their blades spoke for them—every slash, every parry, every timed dodge a language only seasoned killers could understand.
Magnus met each of Einar's ruthless, hammering strikes with fluid parries, counters laced in wind myst, and swift footwork that kept their deadly exchange confined to a controlled battlefield. He couldn't let the fight stray. Not until the civilians reached safety. Not until the underground shelters were sealed, and the last innocent soul was far from this inferno.
But therein lay the issue—he couldn't know. Magnus couldn't confirm if everyone was out. Couldn't risk assuming. The very idea of dragging Einar around the city to scout while trading attacks was madness—he'd risk putting innocents directly in their path. That blood would stain his hands. And no title—no victory—was worth that.
So, he stayed where he was, circling, dueling, adapting—his blade never allowing Einar past a set boundary, keeping the fight tightly contained to a war-scarred zone.
Now, Magnus crouched upon the last jagged remains of a building's pillar, perched like a predator biding time. His sword hung loose in one hand, both elbows resting casually on his knees. His breaths came quick, sharp—but measured. He was far from finished, despite the shallow cut along his cheek and the slashes torn into his uniform.
Strands of dark hair clung to his forehead, others dancing freely in the breeze, while his eyes—cold and calculating—never left the figure standing several meters away.
The warlord's dark armor, once pristine, now bore webbed cracks across its surface, glowing faintly from the embedded myst scars Magnus had left behind. He stood atop a raised root-formed platform that jutted from the broken earth like a miniature cliff. Wind and dust swept past him, causing his long black hair to whip to the side. His sword rested effortlessly in his grasp, angled downward, but ready.
His glowing green eyes locked with Magnus's.
"I must say, Weapon Master," Einar called out at last, voice laced with casual amusement that barely veiled the bite beneath. "You do live up to your reputation. Yet I can't help but notice—you're holding back. No matter how brutal my blows, you've yet to meet them with your true strength."
A silence stretched between them.
Einar's smile faltered, replaced by something more still. "Do you not see me as worthy of it? Or..." his tone dropped, sharpened, "...are you afraid? Afraid that unleashing your full might would crush the very lives you're so desperate to protect?"
He took a step forward, the root platform shifting beneath him.
"Your restraint speaks volumes, Magnus Yaer. You place those fragile ants above a warrior like me. Do you have any idea how insulting that is?" His tone edged on venom. "To be denied a true duel—not by weakness, but by pity."
Another pause. The wind whispered through the rubble.
Magnus exhaled softly, dragging one hand back through his tousled hair, brushing it from his eyes.
"You really are a combat junkie, huh?" he muttered, voice heavy with dry exhaustion, like someone who'd had this exact argument with fate a hundred times. "All that warrior code crap you're spewing? Keep it. I'm not interested."
He tilted his head slightly, a half-smirk tugging at his lips.
"And yes, I'm holding back. Wanna know why?" His eyes lit with mischief.
Einar cocked his head.
"Because you can't handle me at full strength. Not even close," Magnus said, voice smooth and taunting. "To keep your gloriously inflated ego at its current size, I've been generous, warbaby."
Einar's brow twitched. "You dare mock me? It's Warlord!"
Magnus lazily waved his sword through the air like it was a fan. "Sure. War—ba—by. Got it."
Einar's fists clenched, his aura flaring with quiet fury.
Magnus straightened slightly, twirling his blade in one hand. "But hey, since you're begging, I'll give you what you want. Just try not to cry when you realize I was being nice."
'Tch. This is so damn reckless,' Magnus thought. 'Still don't know if the city's clear. Can't afford to go all out without confirmation…'
But before the thought could finish, a sudden ripple in the air nearby made him tense. A soft warp—barely a flicker—and a silhouette appeared atop a crumbling rooftop just a few meters to his left.
A woman clad in the Royal Corps uniform stood tall, her face partially concealed behind a sleek half-mask. Her stance was composed, yet there was urgency in her myst-flushed aura.
"Sir Yaer," she called firmly. "I bring status update. All civilians have been successfully evacuated from the city. You are clear to proceed at full discretion."
Magnus's eyes widened slightly, breath catching for a heartbeat. "And the knights and mages?"
"All have reached the fallback perimeter, sir. Aside from a few straggler demons, the battlefield is clear. No friendlies remain."
A scoff escaped Magnus's lips, followed by a slow, building grin. "Now that's the best damn news I've heard all day."
He pointed toward her, still crouched, and winked.
"Appreciate it, Lady Mysterious. Now do me a favor and get outta here. Can't have a pretty face like yours getting diced during the grand finale."
The agent stiffened—then flushed beneath her mask. She gave a small, awkward nod, her voice faltering slightly. "Y-Yes, sir!" With a flick of myst, she warped again and vanished into the wind.
Once she was gone, Magnus rose to his full height atop the pillar, wind curling at his heels. His gaze sharpened, focused now like the eye of a storm.
He raised his sword, then let it hang, suspended midair beside him—held aloft by a swirling current of wind myst. Reaching into his pocket, he calmly pulled out a black rubber tie.
"You know, Einar," he began, voice even and deliberate, "you may stand on the wrong side of this war, but your blade speaks truth. You've earned your place as a warrior."
He started tying his hair into a tight bun, fingers working with casual ease.
"And since I haven't properly returned the respect you've been demanding…" He tied the final knot, then grabbed his sword once again, its edge singing with building energy.
Wind howled around him, the broken city groaning as if it sensed what was coming.
The real fight was about to begin.