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.
