In the eastern quarter of the city, Zeva moved like a storm draped in silk. Her blade sang with every motion, each cut flowing seamlessly into the next. Imps were nothing but grass before her—cleaved in half with elegant vertical sweeps, heads flicked from their shoulders by graceful arcs, bodies falling before they even realized they'd been struck. The cherubs tried to slow her with volleys of telekinetic rubble, but her sword spun in a spiraling flourish, knocking debris aside before she pirouetted through their ranks. Each porcelain body cracked beneath her strikes—one shattered with a horizontal slash that curved instantly into an upward spiral, the next split cleanly in two as her momentum carried the blade down.
Drakoraths lumbered forward, but their sheer bulk meant nothing against her technique. Zeva slid beneath a heavy swing, her blade carving a diagonal slash that severed the arm at the elbow. In the same motion she pivoted, spinning low, and drove the point of her sword through its throat before pulling back into a sweeping cut that took its head. Another roared and lunged, but her sword blossomed into a whirl of deceptive feints—what looked like a wide arc snapped into a tight thrust through its chest, ending it instantly.
Even the sharaykthuns, with their cunning feints and slippery maneuvers, faltered before her rhythm. One darted close, blade raised, only for Zeva to let hers whirl loosely between her fingers, catching it mid-air to send a sudden upward slash that disguised the thrust that followed, spearing its heart. Another tried to circle behind her, but she spun in a dancer's pirouette, her blade tracing a glittering curve through the air before cutting it down mid-step. They had no hope of outmatching her—the Blossom style left them not a moment to breathe.
Behind her, Lexy chuckled, arms folded, amused by the display. "Am I even needed here?" she asked, unable to hide her admiration. As an assassin, she had long known Zeva was holding back in the tournament—never cutting for the kill, always restrained. But here, seeing the Blossom style unleashed in full, every flourish a death sentence, was almost breathtaking.
Zeva withdrew her sword from a fallen sharaykthun's chest and exhaled, stepping back a few paces. "Well, I can get tired," she admitted, her tone calm but edged with weariness. "And I feel like I am getting tired, so you can take over and let me rest."
Lexy smirked, rolling her shoulders as her form shifted—arms bulged into the powerful limbs of a bear, her legs lengthening into the striped muscle of a tiger. "Alright~," she purred, before leaping forward into the fray with reckless abandon. She had no need to worry—whatever wounds she took, she could heal. And so, with Zeva finally stepping aside, the eastern side of the city remained secure.
— — —
In the western quarter of the city, Annabel stood with her arm outstretched, a river of fire pouring endlessly from her palm. The torrent roared down the street, sweeping over demons in waves, leaving nothing but scorched stone and smoldering ash in its wake. Imps were incinerated before they could take a step toward her, cherubs burst in midair as their porcelain bodies cracked under the heat, and even drakoraths collapsed in burning heaps, their armor-like hides melting away. She didn't so much fight as she erased anything that stood before her.
"I don't see what the big deal is," Annabel said casually, her tone carrying more irritation than effort. "They're pests, nothing more."
Behind her, Edluar stood ready, blade drawn though it felt almost unnecessary. Still, he held his ground, keeping sharp eyes for anything that might slip through her flames. "The big deal," he countered dryly, "is the Demon Lord that's almost certainly here—not these things."
Annabel tilted her head at that, the steady flow of fire unwavering. "I suppose you're right. But considering this Demon Lord has yet to make their presence known, I'm beginning to wonder if they're as formidable as Even made them out to be."
Then, just as suddenly as the battle had begun, the street fell silent. The last of the demons collapsed in burning pieces, no more rushing forward. Annabel lowered her hand and exhaled. The western side was clear.
"That was… quick," Edluar muttered, sliding his sword back into its sheath.
Annabel turned to him with a faint smirk. "What else did you expect of me?" she asked, as though the outcome had been obvious from the start. She glanced down the street, her expression sharpening. "We should join one of the other groups. Someone else will need the support."
Edluar nodded without hesitation. "Let's head for Calvinel and Bryanard. What their trying to do seems to be the hardest."
Annabel gave a single approving nod, and together they started moving at a fast pace.
And Edluar was right. In the northern quarter of the city, near the barracks, the true battle raged. An organized legion of demons—not a rabble, but a disciplined force—pressed against the defenders in relentless waves. Calvinel and Bryanard fought at the forefront, blade and hammer glistening with demon ichor as they cut and crushed down anything that broke the line, while the city guards rallied desperately around them. At the front, the guard commander's voice thundered above the clash of steel and screams of the dying. "Do not falter! Do not let them break you! For the sake of the people, hold them back!"