Roxy was dead.
The wind slammed into his face—ragged, whistling, in bursts. It bent the trees nearly to the ground. Leaves flew in sheared streams. Dry and wet. Mixed with ragged scraps of bark.
Explosion!
Roxy's body burst apart. It tore into shreds and at once ran along the ground, gathering into a dense mass of water. In the next instant it lashed at him—punching through legs and torso. Water-tentacles wrapped his thighs and chest. They squeezed until the joints cracked.
He jerked. The grip only tightened.
Each heave dragged harder. Pressed his body into the earth.
A water clone.
The realization hit him all at once.
She hadn't been wrong—this was planned. And he had walked straight into the trap. He turned his head toward the dim blue glimmer of the white staff in the half-light. The one holding him was Roxy herself.
"What… didn't work?" The words came with difficulty; his throat was crushed by the pressure.
She limped forward. Every step cost her. But her eyes held the same stubbornness as at the start of the fight.
"…"
She came on slowly and stopped a few paces away, without loosening her hold.
He couldn't move: every motion met resistance, and any attempt to wrench free only made the water clamp down harder. Streams sharp as thorns bit into him, pinning him in place.
"It took me… some trouble to create and mask it… ha-ha… so you wouldn't notice. Not perfect—the waves still bled through the illusion, but good thing you missed it… You blind imbecile!"
In Edgar's mind flared the moment when the clone had stood right in front of him. He'd decided then the odd distortion was only fatigue and cramping.
She looked him straight in the eyes, unblinking.
"It's been many years, hasn't it?" Her voice was quiet, but each word rang clear. "Since our last fight."
"It has," he answered, dull.
"And all this time you blamed me…"
She stared without blinking. Her face didn't move, but he caught the faint tremor of her fingers on the staff. Her breathing eased, as if she were trying to make it disappear.
"I didn't want to kill you," she said, with no waver in her voice. "But I see you won't let go. You'll just keep chasing…"
"No."
"No? Did I mis—"
"No," he cut in, his eyes sharpening. "You can't kill me."
"You think so?"
She didn't lift a brow. But her pupils flared a fraction.
"You can't do it, can you?" he went on, searching her face for the slightest crack. "Your mana's already at zero. You've only got enough to hold me…"
"Enough to snap your neck," she said flatly.
Her shoulders didn't shift, but her hand on the staff clenched.
"Tell me… how long can you keep this up?"
He spoke slowly, drawing out each word. He watched the tiny twitch at the corner of her mouth. It was enough. He knew he'd struck home.
Her grip tightened, as if to prove she still had strength. But he saw the cords in her neck stand out. Sweat slid down her temple, her breath drew a little deeper.
"How long?" he repeated, eyes locked on hers. "A minute? Two? Or less?"
She was silent. Her gaze stayed steady, but he could read the strain now—the effort of holding up her usual mask.
"You know how this ends if you let go. I raise my sword, and it's quick."
Inside, he already felt the water's pressure slip a shade. Not enough to break free, but enough to know—she was hanging on with her last scraps.
He drew a short breath. Without blinking, he stepped forward by exactly what the hold allowed.
"Feel your mana draining?"
Roxy's lips trembled, and for a moment he thought she'd answer. Instead she only gripped the staff harder. The tentacles cinched.
He smiled—barely, but enough that she understood. He already knew the outcome.
"Awkward spot, isn't it?" His voice dropped, and a taunt crept in. "No strength to finish me. And none to run."
Roxy's fingers whitened on the staff. She tried to stand straight, but her shoulders gave a tiny jerk. The pressure of water around him ebbed for a heartbeat—just enough for him to feel it.
"You understand," he went on, "that this is the end, Roxy."
"An end for both of us." She said it—but he could tell she no longer believed it.
With a final effort Roxy squeezed the water to the limit.
The flow around him condensed, crushing chest and thighs. Joints crackled. The pressure rose as if she meant to pulp him whole. Then the structure changed—the water sheared away, drew out into thin blades and went to cutting flesh.
The blades struck chaotically—shoulders, flanks, neck. Each pass left a ragged track that a fresh jet drove into at once.
But with it the grip slackened. He felt he could twist his torso, set a foot. Freedom came through pain.
His body was already slashed open. From shoulders to hips the flesh hung in ribbons. The aura that had sheathed him in a dense layer was dimming, guttering out.
But his blade was sated.
The runes pulsed. Scarlet light spread along the metal like veins under skin. It drew blood, drank it greedily, and with every heartbeat warmth climbed into his palm.
Veins of light climbed higher, to his wrist and up his forearm. They bit into muscle. With each moment the bond deepened. The blade breathed with him, in the same rhythm.
"No!"
Panic swallowed her whole. Fear twisted her features. Her jaw trembled, her lips barely obeyed. Her fingers went chalk-white on the staff, yet her hands still shook.
She backed away—step by step.
Edgar could already feel the tentacles losing strength. Unraveling. Each of her steps gave him more freedom. He began to bring the blade around, readying the strike.
Roxy reeled back, face contorted with despair. Her movements went uneven, as if her body no longer obeyed.
"Please… don't!"
He shifted his grip on the sword. The red runes flared. Power ran through him, packing his muscles. His faded aura thickened again. Gray was veined with racing crimson, forcing the flow to surge.
His legs filled with strength.
A burst.
He shot forward. The blade was already raised, but the strike never came. A breath before it fell, he swerved hard.
Explosion!
A sphere of icy light opened right along his line of charge.
Even before he moved, Roxy had fractured her staff, releasing the mana she'd banked. The globe of cold tore from her fingers, slammed into the earth, and blew apart into hundreds of ice needles.
The trees along his path folded under their onslaught. Trunks and branches flashed over with ice. A little more—and he would have been dead.
Another burst.
The blade slid sideways. Edgar's knee slammed straight into her gut. Air burst from Roxy's lungs in a ragged moan. Her body folded. Skidded off to the side across the wet ground, plowing a deep furrow. She tried to rise—knees shaking, arms buckling. Fear chased stubbornness in her eyes.
He was already there.
A kick to the ribs lifted her from the ground. Something cracked. Her breath tore into a rasp.
An instant later his fist crashed into her shoulder. Her body snapped back and struck a boulder with a dull crack of stone.
She clutched her side. Pressed her back to the rock, but there was nowhere left to go.
"Another trap. Saving mana for that?" Edgar's voice was even, with a skimming edge of mockery. "Thought I'd buy what you were playing at? Treachery runs in the Migurds' blood."
Roxy pressed her lips together. Looked aside, as if searching for anything to hold to.
She was all mud and blood.
Skin—ripped cuts and bruises. Clothes hung in rags, soaked with blood and earth. Her hair was a mat; leaves were stuck in it. One eye was closed, the other, washed with blood, barely found focus on him.
Collarbone's broken.
The wound from it down—a wound once sealed by a black scab—had opened again; fresh blood poured thickly from beneath.
Even without his blow she likely wouldn't have seen dawn.
"What, disappointed?" Her voice was hoarse, but a thread of mockery ran through it. "I was supposed to fall prettier, wasn't I?"
She still found the strength to lift her mouth a little.
The smile came out crooked, almost pitiful, but it held sarcasm. As if she were laughing not at him, but at herself.
"This is the end."
"And for you, too, idiot… kh—"
Edgar's wounds were deeper and worse than hers. He was standing only thanks to the blade that drank his blood and wouldn't let go. His left arm was gone, as was his left eye. His whole body was crosshatched with ragged cuts, and blood seeped from each, running into the red veins that trailed from the sword. The metal had fused to his arm. The hilt had become an extension of his flesh, merged with skin and bone. He couldn't have let go even if he'd wanted to.
His flesh was drying out, as if the fat had been burned from within, leaving only bones and muscle tight under parched skin.
He said nothing.
His arm rose—slowly, without waste.
The blade lifted with it; the scarlet veins quivered on the metal like living things.
Edgar's gaze stayed cold and empty.
This was the end, and he wasn't going to delay it.
Somewhere to his left the wind struck.
The funnel that had been circling above them had already blotted out the sky. No clouds now—just a solid dark maw plunging down. The vortex swelled until it seemed to fill everything around. Pressure bore in from all sides; the air drew taut, as if someone were pulling it to the center.
Edgar's body shuddered—the whirl was tugging at him too.
The wind tore at his clothes, hissed in his ears. His arm faltered—and in that same instant something slammed into him from the side. What he'd taken a heartbeat before for a gust from the funnel.
His body rocked; a deep groove tore off to the side where the blow carved through. He was already turning, lifting the blade.
But now the motion was defense, not attack.
The vortex dropped, and thousands of wind-borne needles began flensing flesh from bone.
He struck—and the whirl shredded into tatters.
In the distance, through the trembling air, he caught a glimpse of a boy.
And then a light, warm hand settled on his chest.
Roxy.
Blast.
The world filled with a piercing chime.
Darkness fell at once.