Chapter 7: Second Strike

Raye stirred from the darkness with a jolt — his eyes opened, and he felt it.

A fire. Not just in his chest... but roaring within his soul.

His grip tightened around his sword as golden-red flames surged along its edge — not wild and untamed like before, but fierce, focused, alive. The kind of fire that didn’t beg for control — it commanded it.

The battlefield shifted. A sudden wave of heat rolled across the icy terrain, sharp enough to melt the frost underfoot.

Vaerond turned. He felt it.

He grinned. “It seems you want a rematch, kid,” he called out, voice echoing over snow and steel.

Aurette, still crouched in pain — bleeding, but upright — felt the same blaze wash over her. Her brows furrowed, not just at the intensity of the heat, but at the symbol it carried.

(This fire… even here, in the heart of the Ice Kingdom… it burns like it belongs.)

Raye walked forward, step by step, sword ignited — not flaring uncontrollably, but glowing like molten justice. His fire didn’t rage — it waited. His flames were held back, suppressed by sheer will.

Vaerond stood watching him close the distance. Confident. Calm. But curious.

And then, in a blink — Raye vanished.

The ground cracked beneath him as he dashed forward with searing speed, breaking into Vaerond’s guard. Vaerond anticipated a slash and reacted fast, swinging to counter.

But Raye didn’t attack — not with his sword.

He pivoted mid-move, spun behind Vaerond, grabbed the back of his collar — and with all the fury he had, hurled the duke through the frozen air.

Vaerond’s eyes widened — completely caught off guard.

“What… was that?” he asked himself mid-flight, twisting in the air. He landed hard, sliding, but managing to find his footing.

Not close enough anymore.

Raye turned to Aurette. “Now we’re even.”

Aurette raised an eyebrow despite her wound. “That was reckless… but impressively stupid,” she said, brushing ice from her shoulder. “Very you.”

Raye let out a small breath, then said, serious this time, “I’ll swallow my pride and say this — I need your strength too. If we want to bring that monster down…”

Aurette stood slowly, frost forming at her fingertips as she froze the bleeding along her side. Her eyes never left Vaerond.

“Couldn’t agree more,” she said, voice steady. “I’m not done — and I sure as hell won’t let you finish this without me.”

The battlefield seemed to pause — heat and frost hanging in the air like a coming storm.

Vaerond stood, brushing snow from his cloak, his grin wider than ever.

“So you two are going to team up?” he said, voice rising with amusement. “Good.”

He raised his midnight-purple blade, aura flaring with a haunting glow.

“I couldn’t agree more.”

He slid one foot back, blade angled low. “Come at me.”

The silence cracked like glass.

And then — chaos erupted.

Raye surged forward with flames flaring behind him, his sword blazing in a brilliant arc. Aurette followed in his wake, weaving through snow with silent steps, frost trailing her heels. Their target was clear — but their rhythm was not.

Raye swung first — wild, fast, raw power. His blade struck with enough heat to vaporize the falling snow.

Aurette was already to the side, calculating angles and timing. She summoned a cluster of ice swords in the air, sending them flying like icy spears — but Raye’s wild movements sent shockwaves that disrupted their trajectory.

“Don’t swing like a beast!” Aurette snapped, dodging one of her own icicles that veered off course.

“Then move faster!” Raye barked back, parrying a strike from Vaerond, who was clearly enjoying the mess.

Despite their clashing styles, they fought — separately, yet together. Raye fought on instinct, his body burning with energy and defiance. Aurette fought with precision, every step and spell a calculated dance of control.

Vaerond, calm and unshaken, shifted between them with ease — parrying Raye’s fire, dodging Aurette’s ice, and occasionally slamming the two into each other’s path.

“You call this teamwork?” Vaerond laughed. “No wonder your kingdoms failed to win!”

But then — a shift.

Aurette’s eyes narrowed. She skated backward, trailing frost. Her hands glowed a chilling blue as she chanted under her breath:

“Frost Shatter: Caelrhime’s Spiral Bloom.”

Above her, an array of floating crystal flowers bloomed in midair — beautiful and deadly. With a snap of her fingers, the petals shattered into curved shards, spiraling toward Vaerond from all angles.

Vaerond raised his aura, slashing through some, dodging others — but even he had to step back under the intricate pressure of the blooming frost storm.

“Now!” Aurette yelled.

Raye nodded — no time to argue. He stepped in.

His blade shifted — flames flaring not chaotically, but in patterned pulses.

He whispered:

“FlameBlade — First Form: Ember Fang.”

He dashed forward — a sharp, precise strike. Not wild. Not wasteful. Controlled heat that cut like a searing fang.

Vaerond parried, but stumbled — the change in Raye’s technique caught him off guard.

And Raye wasn’t done.

“Second Form… Wild Tempest!”

This time, instead of a barrage, his movement became a whirlwind — tighter, focused strikes that moved in arcs around Vaerond, forcing him to defend from multiple directions.

Together, the frost spirals and flame tempests crashed around Vaerond — overwhelming, clashing, chaotic.

Yet... effective.

The attacks began to sync — not perfectly, but enough.

Raye shot a glance at Aurette. “Not bad.”

Aurette smirked, breath shallow from exertion. “Still reckless.”

Their blades raised again.

This time, when they charged — it was with a flicker of rhythm.

And Vaerond?

He grinned wider.

“Finally,” he muttered. “A dance worth bleeding for.”

The rhythm they had carved — fragile, shaky, yet real — shattered like brittle glass.

It began with a shift in the air.

Vaerond stopped retreating.

He took a single step forward.

And everything changed.

The wind stopped. The cold stilled. Even the heat from Raye’s flames shrank inward, suffocated. The sky, once blue and wide, dimmed unnaturally as a shadow stretched from Vaerond’s feet — spreading like ink across the battlefield.

A heavy pressure settled in — a force so thick it pressed against lungs and minds alike.

Aurette froze mid-motion.

Raye clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on his blade.

“What… is this?” Aurette whispered.

Vaerond raised his sword slowly, with deliberate grace. Midnight-purple aura flared — deeper, darker than before. It twisted at the edges, flickering like smoke. Like fur.

From behind him, the silhouette of a beast flickered — lupine in form, jaws bared, eyes hollow and glowing.

The Nightslayer.

"You're not the only ones holding back,” Vaerond said, voice smooth yet thunderous.

With a blink — he was gone.

Raye barely reacted in time, blocking a strike aimed for his heart. The force behind it sent him flying, crashing through frozen debris.

Aurette spun, conjuring shields of ice midair — but Vaerond’s blade cut through them like silk, forcing her back, step after step.

He was faster. Sharper. He wasn’t trying anymore — he was hunting.

They regrouped briefly, panting and battered. But the moment they tried another coordinated strike, Vaerond slipped through it — breaking their flow, turning their timing against them.

The darkness spread — not like a veil, but like a living, breathing thing.

Vaerond’s aura reached its crescendo, spilling out in a radius that swallowed sound, wind, light. The battlefield became a void — a suffocating sphere where even breath felt thinner.

Aurette froze, her legs unwilling to move.

Raye stood hunched forward, eyes wide, teeth clenched.

Their bodies trembled.

And still, they summoned their strength.

A blue-white glow shimmered from Aurette’s hand — her ice sword shining like frozen flame, pale and ethereal. Her other hand raised, conjuring a ring of icicles hovering behind her like silent guardians.

Raye’s sword pulsed with molten heat. His flames curled around it in wild, golden-red waves — tighter, condensed, controlled. His foot dug into the frost-covered ground.

They stood — blades drawn, defiance in their eyes.

But their light could not reach the walls of that abyss.

Vaerond's voice echoed — deep, distorted, like it came from the maw of something ancient:

“Eclipse Fang — Severance of Light.”

He moved.

Or rather, he vanished.

In the blink of an eye, he was behind Aurette.

A shadow streak.

A flash of cold steel.

Blood.

Aurette gasped — the breath stolen from her lungs as Vaerond’s blade slashed clean across her side. She tried to counter, raising her sword — but the force had already sent her flying, crashing through a frozen boulder, shattering it into a snowstorm of shards. Her ice barrier failed. Her body trembled — not from fear, but from the sheer impact.

Raye turned instantly — and his instincts screamed.

He didn’t see Vaerond.

He felt him.

A whisper in the darkness.

He twisted just in time as Vaerond reappeared mid-strike, blade aimed directly at his heart.

Steel met steel — a blinding spark. But even with all his will, Raye’s body lagged half a second behind. The tip of Vaerond’s sword pierced through his shoulder, hot blood splattering across the snow.

Raye roared — not in pain, but in fury — wrenching himself off the blade and staggering backward. He held his sword, flames flickering weakly, but his knees buckled.

His body — drained.

His mana — gone.

And yet…

He stayed standing.

Aurette, now on her knees, blood trickling down her torso, gritted her teeth and tried to rise — only to fall again. The cold no longer obeyed her. Her body, numb. Her mind, heavy.

Vaerond stood between them, sword gleaming with that same unholy midnight hue.

Neither Raye nor Aurette could move.

They had given everything.

And it still wasn’t enough.

Vaerond stood tall amidst the darkness he had summoned, his blade dripping with blood not his own.

The weight of his aura still pressed upon the land, blanketing it in despair...

He looked upon Raye and Aurette — defeated.

Blood soaked the snow. Their bodies still.

“…A shame,” he muttered. “Such passion. Such fight. And yet—” he exhaled with a dry chuckle, “—all wasted. It’s always the bright ones who die the hardest.”

And then, the winds howled.

A whisper at first. Then a roar.

The sky twisted with furious flurries. Snow swept the ground with unnatural force. A storm was building — fast. The temperature plummeted in seconds, as if nature itself recoiled from Vaerond’s presence.

But this wasn't nature. He felt it.

Something else.

Something... deliberate.

“Hmph,” Vaerond growled, blade twitching in his hand. “Do you think weather can stop me?”

But before the last word even left his lips, it hit him.

A strike—a blur of aura, wild and clean—landed a brutal blow against his side, sending Vaerond flying backwards. The ground cracked beneath his landing. He skidded, finally catching himself, eyes wide.

A shadow stood there in the storm’s heart.

He couldn’t see their face, couldn’t sense them until it was too late. Cloaked in the whirlwind, wrapped in thick fur and armor lined with frost and steel, this figure radiated power — a pressure equal to his own.

An aura user.

No, something beyond that.

Vaerond’s instincts screamed. But before he could retaliate, they were already gone.

The mysterious figure had vanished, along with two others who rushed forward and lifted the fallen warriors — one taking Raye over the shoulder, the other carefully supporting Aurette.

And just like that — in a flurry of snow and wind — they vanished into the blizzard.

Vaerond stared, stunned for a breath. His hand tightened on the hilt.

“…Who the hell was that?”

He stepped forward, but the wind was too thick, too blinding.

He could feel it in his bones — chasing now would be pointless.

They were gone.

The battlefield was quiet.

The storm was still going on and didn’t seem to quiet down. The battle was over, Ice kingdom didn’t fall however, they lost the battle. Vaerond stood alone near the spot they once lay, snow swirling around his feet. And one of this Knight came in calling.

“Sir, Vaerond!”

“I’m here” he replied. Following that voice the knight reached him.

“We won the battle,” one soldier whispered.

“But not the war yet,” Vaerond muttered to himself.

He turned away from the storm’s trail and walked back toward his army.

“Let them tend to their wounds. Let them rebuild. The next time we meet—”

He turned, cloak flaring in the wind,

“—there will be no storm to save them.”

And so Vaerond and his army pulled back to their camp.