The three decisive duels

Felix and Kyle had spent the entire night exchanging ideas and hypotheses, and had finally dozed off, leaning against some tree trunks, fatigue having caught up with them without warning.

Yet, around the makeshift camp, something had changed. Dark silhouettes stood motionless in the gloom of the trees. About twenty ghouls, with greenish-gray skin and glassy eyes, surrounded the area... but strangely, none crossed the invisible boundary that held them.

Marx was the first to emerge from his slumber. He stretched, yawned, then absentmindedly scanned the surroundings... without immediately noticing the threat. It wasn't until Kyle opened his eyes and felt this heavy presence... all around him that his gaze instantly sharpened.

"We're being squeezed," he warned, his voice low but firm.

Marx turned to him, surprised.

"This is really strange... normally, they would have attacked us long ago."

This brief exchange was enough to wake Felix, who groaned and rubbed his eyes.

"Couldn't you be a little quieter...?" 

Marx raised his hands, almost apologetic.

"Sorry, but... we have ghouls around us."

Felix raised an eyebrow, looking perfectly calm.

"Don't worry... I set up a protective circle while we were talking last night. Normally, they can't get past it."

Kyle nodded, but stood up immediately.

"In that case..."

He stepped towards the edge of the invisible circle. The ghouls stared at him, their jaws clicking softly, a trickle of black slime dripping from their lips, but none dared to cross the barrier.

Kyle quickly counted about twenty of them. His expression remained impassive.

He raised his hand, and dark energy began to crackle around his fingers.

"Black lightning."

A searing bolt of lightning erupted, striking the creatures with a dark light. In an instant, they were pierced, shredded by the power of the attack, and their bodies collapsed in a cloud of putrid dust.

Felix, who had been watching the scene without a word, smirked.

"Impressive..."

Marx stood up completely, his eyes shining.

"What if... the three of us formed a team?" 

Marx's words hung in the air for a moment, as if suspended. Kyle and Felix exchanged a glance.

Kyle was the first to break the silence.

"While I enjoyed our brief exchange... I prefer working alone."

Felix simply shrugged.

"No, thank you."

Marx, unperturbed, smiled confidently.

"I'm sure we'd make an excellent team together."

Felix was already opening his mouth to reply, but an arrow sliced through the air with a sharp whistle and slammed violently into the trunk behind him. Splinters of bark flew.

Without wasting a moment, the three men headed toward the source of the shot. The gaunt silhouettes of skeleton archers loomed in the haze of miasma. Kyle raised his hand, and a series of black lightning bolts shot out, piercing the targets one by one with surgical precision. The charred bones crumbled before their bows even touched the ground.

Felix crossed his arms, an amused smile on his lips.

"Keep it up... that way I won't even have to bother."

Marx, for his part, watched Kyle's every move with obvious fascination.

"If only I could wield magic like you..."

They moved forward, but as they moved forward, the landscape changed. The trees, once sturdy, became dry and cracked, their bark peeling off in slabs. Dead leaves formed a thick layer on the ground, and the air grew heavy, saturated with a pungent odor.

Felix frowned.

"The miasma is much more concentrated here..."

Soon, the forest opened onto a vast plain. Yet, despite the late hour of the morning, the place was bathed in an eerie gloom. The sun, almost invisible, was nothing more than a veiled disc behind a thick, dark mist.

Marx looked up, perplexed.

"This is... abnormal."

Kyle gritted his teeth.

"Prepare to fight. This time, I won't be able to repel them alone."

No sooner had he finished than the ground seemed to tremble beneath their feet. In a morbid silence, silhouettes emerged from the shadows: staggering zombies, skeletons armed with rusty blades, ghouls with hungry eyes... Their numbers swelled visibly, until they formed a moving tide of a hundred creatures.

 Marx had barely drawn his sword, the blade still brushing its scabbard, when a figure suddenly passed in front of him.

Felix jerked Kyle aside, forcing him back two steps.

"If you want things done right... you have to do them yourself."

His words cracked through the cold air like a whip. A moment later, the ground vibrated beneath their feet, and a vast magic circle unfolded around them. The symbols etched in the light pulsed with a golden glow, rising like liquid flames.

With a breath, chains of light shot out from the circle, snapping through the air like whips, before wrapping themselves around the undead. Their gaunt bodies were frozen with a crunch of bone. Then, a solemn murmur escaped Felix's lips.

"Heavenly judgment."

A shower of luminous arrows immediately fell, whistling through the air like burning comets. Each projectile pierced the corpses, leaving a fiery trail, and the acrid smell of burning flesh spread, mingled with the metallic scent of blood. The guttural screams ceased one by one, replaced by a heavy silence.

Kyle, his eyes wide, blurted out,

"Impressive... but you didn't have to push me."

"You were blocking the way," Felix replied sharply.

"Really?"

The exchange raised a palpable tension, as if the air was growing heavy. Marx, sensing the situation escalating, took a step toward them and raised a calming hand.

 But before he could speak, a new sound insinuated itself into the clearing: a steady, dull, metallic clack-clack. Hooves. Distant at first… then closer and closer.

Then, a deep, hollow voice began to resonate, seeming to slip between the trees and the bones, grating on the nerves of all who heard it.

From the shadows of the forest, a figure on horseback emerged, gradually becoming more distinct from the mist. The flickering glow of the last chains of light revealed a black steed, its hooves covered in obsidian shards, advancing with a heavy, steady stride. The rider… had no head.

Kyle's breath caught.

Felix said something—his voice, distant, vanished like an echo in a dream.

 His eyes fixed on the creature, Kyle murmured to himself, his fascination diluted by a barely contained fever:

"... No doubt about it... An iconic creature... In RPGs, it's one of the most formidable area bosses..."

"What are you talking about?" Felix asked, confused.

Kyle, without looking at him, gave an almost childish smile:

"... A Dullahan."

While Kyle was still trapped by his memories, a massive figure finally emerged from the darkness. The flickering torchlight gradually revealed the horror: a Dullahan, a creature born of nightmares, a headless horseman whose aura alone was enough to freeze the blood and paralyze ordinary mortals.

Fortunately, the three adventurers were anything but ordinary.

The Dullahan's mount advanced slowly, its hooves echoing like hammer blows on a coffin. From its decapitated body escaped a thick, dark mist, wrapping itself around its shoulders like a cloak of death.

At this sight, Kyle's gaze was almost nostalgic. A thin, bitter smile touched his lips.

"It reminds me of... those hours spent farming in Souls-like games..."

An almost comforting memory in an otherwise terrifying moment.

 He was about to leap forward, but a deep, cavernous voice suddenly rang out... out of nowhere.

"Greetings, humans. My name is Damien."

Kyle's heart skipped a beat. This was the first time since arriving in this world that a creature described as a monster had spoken to him with such clarity. The shock was such that no words escaped his lips.

Felix, quicker to react, spoke up.

"Are you... the king?" he asked, his hand already poised to cast his spells.

Damien didn't spare him a glance.

"Are you... the troublemakers?"

Felix gritted his teeth.

"Answer my question first." 

"So be it..."

The Dullahan dismounted, and it dissipated into a cloud of shadows that suddenly condensed, forming a gigantic two-handed sword, its dark metal streaked with glowing veins like trapped magma.

"You're starting to annoy me," Felix snapped, his voice vibrating with impatience.

He raised his hand and summoned a shower of sacred spears that glittered in the air before swooping down on Damien. But a few meters from their target, a mass of black matter, viscous and shifting, emerged like an organic shield, absorbing each projectile with a wet slap.

A muffled laugh echoed in the distance, followed by a deep, ominous voice

"Damien... these humans are not to be underestimated. If they were able to penetrate my miasma barrier, they deserve our full attention." 

The mist around the Dullahan seemed to flutter, as if these words had awakened it to a predatory excitement.

Damien turned slowly toward the distant voice and said, his tone icy but tinged with slight amusement:

"Silas, you didn't need to intervene."

Before anyone could react, a mass of shadow materialized in an inky flash. A figure stood out: a Lich, cloaked in worn, blackened religious vestments, stepped forward with sinister grace. He placed himself at the Dullahan's side, and the wind seemed to still around him, as if the air itself feared his presence.

Silas fixed the three young men with a penetrating gaze. His voice, soft but commanding, rose:

"I know, Damien... but we can't be too reckless."

A low, metallic laugh echoed from the Dullahan's lips.

"You are quite right, my dear friend."

Their silhouettes stood out against the mist of the clearing, the rising sun casting pale rays that danced across their armor and ghostly forms. The light seemed to refuse to fully touch Silas, leaving a dark, almost palpable aura around him, like a veil of death suspended in the air.

Kyle, motionless, felt his breath shorten. His gaze moved from Damien to Silas, observing them like a strategist analyzing his opponents. Every movement, every detail of their appearances—the shimmering of the shadows around their bodies, the way the light bounced off their weapons and macabre ornaments—gave him as much information as an open book.

And yet, despite all his logic and experience, one question swirled in his mind: "Since when do monsters behave so... human-like?"

The silence thickened around the trio, broken only by the slight rustling of dead leaves in the wind and the ominous murmur of the mist. Even the crows perched nearby seemed to be holding their breath, as if aware of the presence of these two supernatural entities.

Kyle felt the tension rise in his muscles, his heart pounding faster, but he remained silent, letting his mind observe, analyze, and prepare his next move.

Felix walked slowly toward Kyle, his serious gaze betraying the worry he was trying to mask.

 "Kyle... things are much more serious than I thought," he murmured, his low voice almost muffled by the morning wind blowing through the clearing.

He then gestured curtly at Silas.

"Look at that Lich... judging by his clothes, he was a bishop when he was still alive."

The dawn light played on the dark folds of Silas's robes, revealing half-burned religious inscriptions, while the cadaverous skin of his face revealed a fixed, sinister smile.

"Humans can become monsters..." Kyle breathed, his breath coming in short bursts of nervous tension.

Felix raised an eyebrow and retorted,

"And where do you think all those undead came from?"

Kyle barely had time to turn back to Marx.

 “We’ll have to…”

His words died in his throat. Marx was gone from his sight in an instant. The wind hadn't even had time to move before the shock of his absence was felt. Kyle felt the ground vibrate with the impact, and in a flash, Marx was face to face with Damien, their blades clashing in a splinter of metal and sparks.

The Dullahan, calm and imposing, stared at Marx with an almost curious expression.

"Very impressive... for such a young man," he commented in a low, metallic voice, before pushing Marx back with phenomenal force.

Marx was thrown several meters, rolling on the dry, stony ground. Small stones flew around him as a hoarse rattle escaped his throat. Blood stained his face, trickling slowly down his jaw, but when he straightened, a wide, sinister smile spread, revealing a mixture of adrenaline and pleasure in the fight.

Felix shook his head, a mixture of disbelief and urgency in his eyes.

"And he's the one who said he wanted to team up..."

Kyle, panting but his eyes blazing with anticipation, replied firmly.

"He's quite right... we can't just sit around and think."

Felix nodded briefly, then raised his hand to Marx.

A green halo emerged from his palm, rippling through the air like liquid mist before spreading around the swordsman.

Light seeped into each gash, sealing flesh and skin in the blink of an eye. The dried blood on his face remained, but all pain seemed to evaporate. 

Without a glance or a word of thanks, Marx leaped toward the two monsters. His boots clattered against the pavement, his quick steps kicking up dust.

But before he reached his target, Silas raised two fingers and traced a circle in the air.

A low rumble rose from the ground, followed by a sharp crack: the earth split open to reveal twenty skeletons with empty eye sockets and gnashing jaws. Their timeworn bones snapped like dry wood, and the acrid smell of ancient dust filled the air.

Marx, far from backing away, grinned almost madly. His eyes shone with a feverish glow. He threw himself into the fray, slicing, breaking, and tearing bones open with a savage frenzy. The whitish shards flew around him like a shower of broken ivory.

 A few meters away, Felix stared at the scene, his brows slightly furrowed.

"Is it me... or is it not the same man as yesterday?" he asked, his voice low but tinged with unease.

Kyle, his eyes fixed on the bloodied figure, replied,

"Maybe... We don't know him well enough to know how he usually is in combat."

Felix nodded slowly.

The sharp sound of breaking bones almost drowned out the rest of the sounds, like a macabre war drum.

It was then that Silas turned his head towards them. His blank, almost apathetic gaze contrasted with the chaos around him. His voice, deep and devoid of the slightest emotion, cut through the air:

"I have no intention of hurting you."

Kyle gave a wry smile.

"But of course..."

Felix, more direct, asked:

"Then why attack the city?"

A heavy silence fell. Then Silas replied, his words flowing like evidence:

"Because we too... are prisoners of a destiny beyond our control."

Felix frowned.

"Why do you say that?"

The priest's breath echoed in the air saturated with the smell of dust and metal, but there was no time for an answer. Splinters of bone tumbled to the ground, and Marx, having finished with the last skeletons, leaped toward the lich, blade raised.

The steel hissed through the air.

The blow was deflected cleanly by an invisible wall, and a sonic, almost metallic shock vibrated in Kyle and Felix's eardrums. Damien, standing nearby, gave a wry smile.

"Silas, stop procrastinating... Do what we're here to do."

His voice echoed like a funeral drum, and without waiting, he lunged at Marx. The Dullahan's heavy weapon slammed down again and again, each impact shaking the cobblestone floor. Marx, his muscles tense, struggled, each shock resonating in his arms. Sparks flew, cutting the darkness with a fleeting flash, while Marx's breathing became more ragged.

Silas sighed, like a weary teacher at a student who isn't listening.

"If only you'd stayed away from this city..."

His hands rose slowly, and an ominous glow formed behind him. A magical circle, woven with purple flashes and shifting lines, widened, etching an oppressive, almost sticky feeling into the air. The ground vibrated slightly beneath the feet of all the combatants, as if something titanic were approaching.

Then, a dull rumble was heard.

From the heart of the circle emerged an enormous maw, its sharp fangs covered in a veil of pale flesh. A dragon, but one whose majesty had been devoured by death. Its scales were missing in places, revealing whitish muscles and tendons stiffened by necromancy. Scraps of purified—almost translucent—flesh floated like sails around its torn wings. Its empty eye sockets glowed with a whitish flame, giving off a cold light that seemed to absorb all surrounding heat.

 An icy breath swept across the battlefield, bringing with it the mingled scent of formaldehyde and damp earth.

Kyle watched the creature with shining eyes, his lips curling in a slight grin.

"Magnificent..."

Beside him, Felix clenched his jaw. A shiver crept up the back of his neck, but he didn't back away.

"Who's going to take care of this?" Kyle asked, almost like a child with a rare toy.

Felix briefly looked away from the dragon to stare at Silas.

"I'll leave him to you... I'll take the Greater Lich."

Their exchange was brief, but fraught with tension.

The battlefield had just divided.

Marx, the swordsman, faced Damien, the Dullahan, whose blows made the air vibrate.

Kyle, the elemental mage, against the zombie dragon whose every step echoed like a death knell.

 And Felix, the priest, against Silas, the High Lich, whose gaze seemed to probe directly into the soul.

The sky suddenly darkened, streaked with whitish lightning that Kyle called to him.

A rumble of thunder vibrated the air as his lightning struck the monstrous carcass, momentarily illuminating the dragon's bare bones and the shreds of rotting flesh still hanging from its wings.

The creature's empty eye sockets turned toward him with terrifying slowness, then a guttural roar, more like bone crunching than an animal cry, rang out.

Without hesitation, Kyle leaped toward the forest, his feet striking the ground with almost unreal speed. His silhouette was covered in white flashes, lightning coursing through his muscles, making the air crackle around him. Each leap was a flash, each hold an explosion of light. He leaped from trunk to trunk, crossing branches as if dancing over an abyss.

But behind him, death advanced. Where the dragon's wings passed, the trees blackened, cracked, and crumbled into dust. The acrid smell of burning flesh and rotting vegetation filled the air, suffocating.

Then the beast stopped.

With a beat of its wings, a dark cloud spread, covering the entire sky. The sound wasn't wind, but a mournful rustling, like thousands of invisible bat wings.

Life evaporated at once: grass, birds, insects, everything disintegrated in a shower of ash.

Kyle felt his stomach clench. The heat of his own lightning burned him from the inside out, but he knew he had no choice.

Planting his feet on the ground, he deployed his force field.

 A dome of white light erupted around him. The cloud struck like an acid storm, biting at the barrier and making it vibrate from every angle. Kyle gritted his teeth, every fiber of his body trembling. The air reeked of ash and burnt metal.

Once the cloud dissipated, he looked up. Everything was gone.

As far as the eye could see, there was nothing but ashes and charred trunks. No hiding place, no refuge.

Alone, facing the beast.

A shiver ran down his spine. But deep in his eyes, the cold glow of determination already shone.

A few hundred meters away, the air vibrated with a completely different tension.

Felix held his hands together, his lips murmuring a prayer as a golden circle widened beneath his feet. The glow of his sacred magic contrasted sharply with the surrounding darkness.

 Opposite, Silas watched calmly, an almost amused smile playing at the corners of his lips.

"Your gestures..." he said in a deep voice. "You're from the Holy Empire, aren't you?"

The word made Felix flinch. His hands trembled for a moment, but he continued his incantation, ignoring the provocation.

Silas inclined his head, his eyes lost in a distant memory.

"The Holy Empire... ah... Probably the best years of my life, even my death."

For a moment, his gaze clouded with melancholy. But before he could finish, the circle beneath Felix burst into a blinding light.

"Purification!"

A white wave rose like a miniature sun, consuming everything in its purifying radiance. The air vibrated with a gentle, almost reassuring warmth, and the ground began to tremble.

 But when the light fell, Silas was still there. Intact. Not even a trace of burn on his pale skin.

Felix's eyes widened, his breath coming out short.

"I-impossible... Holy magic... is unstoppable against the undead!"

Silas burst into a dark laugh.

"True. But you know why, don't you?"

"Because those who reject death oppose the Creator Himself."

Felix clenched his fists. His voice trembled with indignation.

"Then how can you still be indemne?!"

Silas's eyes flashed with a demented gleam.

"You and I already know why not. Because even in death, my faith transcends the flesh. And it's far purer than yours."

The silence that followed was stifling. Felix felt his heart pounding against his ribs like a war drum, his throat tightening with an anger he hadn't felt in a long time. His own beliefs, his former piety, wavered in the face of this monstrous paradox.

A few meters away, Marx struggled to withstand Damien's repeated assaults. Each blow of the dark sword echoed like thunder, and his arms began to tremble from the force of the impacts. A final strike, heavier than the previous ones, sent him spinning through the air like a rag doll.

Suspended for a moment, the wind whipping his face, Marx managed to twist his body to control his fall and landed heavily on his feet. His knees buckled under the shock, but he held on. In front of him, Damien burst out into a low, hoarse laugh.

"You remind me of who I was... when I was still alive. The blood... the fight... Don't you find it terribly exciting?"

His glowing eyes burned with suppressed madness, while a carnivorous smile stretched across his lips.

Marx didn't respond immediately. His breaths were shallow, his chest heaving at a rapid pace. Then, slowly, an ambiguous smile appeared on his face: a smile that spoke more than a thousand words.

He raised his trembling blade. A strange glow ran through it, enveloping it in pure, almost vibrant energy—raw, condensed magical energy.

 "I see... we understand each other," Damien breathed, his eyes shining with excitement.

He, in turn, covered his sword in a veil of dark flames that crackled and danced along the blade, sending black sparks flying.

The duel resumed, even more ferocious. The two weapons clashed at breakneck speed, each clash ringing like a war bell. Sparks rained down in a silvery shower, illuminating their tense faces.

Technically, they were equal, their precision bordering on perfection. But physically, Damien dominated: his imposing stature, his supernatural endurance, and his superior weapon widened the gap. Marx, on the other hand, had only a simple, blunt sword, pale in comparison to his opponent's flaming steel monster.

Then, the inevitable happened. With sweaty hands and exhausted muscles, Marx felt his weapon slip from his fingers. In a flash, Damien brought his sword down with a relentless blow. The impact was brutal: Marx was thrown far away, hitting the ground with a dull, violent thud.

He was no longer moving. His body, covered in blood and dust, lay on the beaten earth.

Damien advanced slowly. His victory, however, did not satisfy him.

"Hmph. How ironic... it wasn't your talent that ruined you, but your pathetic weapon."

Just as he was about to offer a silent tribute, a movement behind him caught his attention. Marx's sword, abandoned earlier, suddenly rose from the ground, vibrating, before swooping down on him as if with a will of its own.

Damien leaped back, narrowly dodging, his eyes wide.

 "Impossible..."

A nervous laugh escaped his throat. For Marx, stained with blood but still standing, had just straightened up. His open hand called for the blade, and the weapon immediately returned to his palm, as if guided by an invisible thread.

Damien burst out laughing.

"Incredible... So the legends were true."

His tone changed, becoming almost admiring, tinged with a hint of greed.

"Three levels of mastery of the art of weapons: beginner, intermediate, advanced... but beyond that, there exists a higher level. That of the master. Perfect control of one's weapon. And you... you, miserable child, you have just proven to me that this level exists."

Marx, panting, stared at his opponent. His fingers gripped the hilt of his returned blade. For a moment, he became aware of this power, this almost organic bond that had just awakened between him and his sword. Then, without a word, he charged Damien again, his eyes shining with a new light.

Damien, this time, was no longer trying to end the fight quickly. He wanted to see. He wanted to taste the extent of this new Marx's abilities.

And the duel resumed, more intense than ever.

The air still vibrated with the sounds of Damien and Marx's combat, their weapons ringing like war bells. But, a few meters away, the clash between Felix and Silas seemed frozen in a strange torpor.

The white flames of the sacred spells were extinguished one by one, leaving behind only dying sparks. Felix panted, his breath short, his fingers trembling, his body dripping with sweat. Yet, on Silas's gray, scarred flesh, there were no burns, no marks. The undead man advanced calmly, each step crushing the dust with a dry crunch.

Reaching a distance where Felix could feel his cold breath, Silas gave a tired smile:

"What if... we took the opportunity to talk a little?"

The raspy voice sounded like a strange, almost mocking invitation. Felix, buckling under exhaustion, murmured through gritted teeth:

"Why... why isn't it working?"

The silence lasted a few seconds, broken only by the metallic echoes of the nearby duel. Then Silas shrugged slightly:

"Your attacks really hit me. But the problem... isn't me. It's you."

The weight of his words fell like an anvil in Felix's chest. His legs buckled. He fell to the ground, his breath caught, his hands clenched around his staff. The cold of the earth crept up his back, contrasting with the stifling heat clinging to his skin.

 "It's... reckless to let your guard down like this," Silas remarked, leaning slightly, his shadow covering Felix.

"If you really wanted to kill me... it would have been done by now," Felix replied with a bitter smile.

A sincere glint flashed in the undead's eyes.

"That's true. So... what do we do now?"

Felix slowly raised his head, searching his gaze.

"You could start... by telling me why you're doing all this."

A silence. Then, as if confessing to an old comrade, Silas said in a low voice,

"I don't know. Ever since Damien and I were reborn... a voice has been whispering within us. It orders us to attack and make the humans suffer as much as possible."

Felix's eyes widened slightly.

"The Monarch's voice... probably. But tell me... before that." What were you?"

A haze passed over Silas's gaze, like a distant memory.

"If I remember correctly... Damien and I fell in a battle against a Dragon King."

Felix felt a chill run down his neck.

"The last conflict against the dragons... was over two hundred years ago."

A bitter sneer twisted Silas's mouth.

"So I've been dead... for that long? I thought I'd been brought back just a few years after my death..."

"No," Felix explained with forced calm. "The Monarch... when he wanted to make his appearance, he awakened the souls around him to make them his vassals. But you... you were too powerful. You retained your consciousness. Your personality."

Silas gave a short laugh, raspy but sincere.

"You're much more learned than you let on." 

"It's necessary," Felix replied, hugging his knees. "To survive in... our institution."

A solemn silence followed. Then Silas, more serious, asked:

"So... tell me. What's wrong with your sacred magic?"

Felix looked away. His fingers tightened nervously on his staff.

"I don't know... Usually, it works."

Silas sighed. His voice grew heavy, almost fatherly:

"Even in my death... I see that I still have to guide the lost."

Felix frowned.

"What do you mean by that?"

The undead man straightened his back and, in a solemn tone, said:

"Before casting a sacred spell... you must pray. But not just recite words. Really pray. Remain firm in your faith." If your opponent believes he's stronger than you... then your attacks become futile."

The words struck Felix harder than any blade. A dull burn awoke in his chest, as if Silas had put his finger on a wound he refused to look at.

In the distance, Kyle faced the zombie dragon, alone in this wasteland of ash and charred trees. The ground had become a field of soot and charred fragments, cracking in the slightest breeze, and the air had a pungent smell of burnt metal and rotting flesh. Even without admitting it, a part of him was choosing this fight: Damien and Silas were too... human. Here, there was only the monster and him, no pretense or social calculations.

The dragon rose into the sky, its body of rotten flesh giving off a dark, burning halo. Its incandescent eyes stared at Kyle as if to measure his worth, and its jaws opened, releasing a volley of dark flames. Each breath crackled in the air like a hellish firework, sending sparks flying and making the surrounding ash tremble. Kyle instantly activated his Void of Nothingness: a shimmering gray veil that billowed around him, distorting light and allowing him to dodge deadly projectiles with supernatural fluidity.

The dragon had an obvious advantage: its size, its reach, its power. But Kyle was undaunted. With a fluid movement, he rose into the air thanks to his ability to fly, feeling the wind whip his face, his hair plastered to his skin damp with exertion and adrenaline. The sky above the charred forest was tinged red and black by the dragon's flames and the suspended ash. The aerial duel began, a deadly dance of lightning and flame.

Kyle increased his speed and explosiveness with the white lightning that coursed through his body like an engine of light. Each wingbeat gave him extra thrust, each black spark of his lightning crashed into the dragon's body, leaving incandescent marks on its zombified flesh. The monster's size was a handicap: Kyle had to anticipate its massive movements, dodging tails, claws, and flames simultaneously. But his precision and speed gave him the advantage, even if each blow only scratched the surface of the dragon's body.

For a moment, just when he thought he had the upper hand, the dragon let out a roar that rattled the ash in the air, a rumble that shook the charred trees. Dozens of skeletal creatures emerged from the mist and shadows around the dragon, grotesque forms that snapped their jaws and brandished bones like weapons. Their appearance shuddered the air and made the ground tremble beneath Kyle. He felt a mixture of fear and excitement rise within him: the battle had changed scale. This was no longer a dogfight against a single opponent, but an aerial war against a legion of the dead.

Kyle clenched his fists, his black lightning crackling more intensely around his arms. He knew every move had to be perfect, every decision quick. Dust and ash swirled around him, stinging his eyes and face, but he didn't falter. His senses were on high alert: the wind against his skin, the acrid scent of the dragon, the rattling of skeleton bones, the roar of the monster... all of it merged into a chaotic symphony that left no room for error.

 Kyle took a deep breath, feeling the heat and threat of his enemies, and in a quiet voice, almost to himself, whispered,

"So, let's see if you can keep up with me..."

And he charged into the fray, each black bolt erupting from his hands to strike the skeletons, while the dragon circled around him, spewing flames as black as the dead of night.