Branches scrape against my arms. Leaves fall straight into my face, stick to my lips. I don't move. I'm afraid to make a sound. The earth under my knee is damp. Cold, too—but I keep myself low. Low enough not to be seen. Breathing through my mouth, shallowly, so I don't give myself away.
Ahead, between the trunks, I see two figures.
A vile man stands ensnared in water. Tendrils coil around his legs, squeezing. The liquid quivers, fine streams running through it. Every twitch he makes only tightens the grip.
Roxy holds her staff. Her steps are slow, heavy, as if her legs are filled with lead. Sweat glistens at her temple; her hair sticks to her face.
I clench my hands.
I need to… do something. Yell? Distract him? A spell?
But my mind's blank. Every thought drowns in the thunder of impacts. I don't know what I can do.
The clone tightens its hold, and I hear something crack. I can't tell if it's bone—or the water itself. The bastard says something, his lips moving sluggishly. She answers back. Muffled words, fragments torn away by the wind.
And then it hits me:
She's holding him.
If she's holding him—it means she's already won. It's under control. She doesn't need me.
She's managing. On her own.
I won't have to crawl out. Won't have to dive under a blade, under those jets sharp enough to carve wood. Won't have to think what to say or what to do. It's already done. For me.
I'll stay in the shadows. In safety.
The thought makes it a little easier to breathe.
But my heart's still pounding.
I almost believe it. Almost let go. I even let myself imagine she'll squeeze once more, and that bastard will just drop to his knees. She'll win. And we'll go home. Together. Safe.
And in that same moment—a sharp, tearing sound. It shatters my thoughts like a house of cards.
The water around him explodes into thin streams, like hundreds of blades. The jets shift, strike chaotically—shoulders, neck, flanks. But the water falters, loses shape—and I see him move, shift a foot.
Relief rips out of me, torn from my chest.
Why the fuck won't he just die?!
He's moving forward.
A dash, a twist—and he's gone from where he was a heartbeat ago. I don't even catch the motion. In an instant he's somewhere else. Why is he so fast?
Roxy breaks her staff. Ice-blue light bursts into the air. The explosion scatters shards. One needle whistles past me, slicing moss from a root, nearly grazing my shoulder. The cold bites deep, as if I've been thrown naked into snow.
If I don't do something—she'll die.
Thoughts scatter, scrambling. I run through everything I know. Spells. But what? Creation? Creation… that's all that comes.
A rock the size of a fist—good for breaking a window. Useless. Water for drinking—useless. Fire for a camp—useless. None of it's a weapon. Even as distraction—nothing. What good's a chunk of stone or a puddle in front of him? He'll trip and die?
Dueling spells? Pointless.
A projectile against him is like throwing a pebble at a tank. From this distance, I can't even hit a tree trunk every time. And if I did, it wouldn't knock his sword away—it wouldn't even sting.
Bang.
The sound tore through the forest, cutting through the wind. Roxy was thrown against a rock. The hit landed on her back; cracks raced across the surface. Stone fragments rained down, some burying into her shoulder. She slumped against it, head bowed. Her staff lay broken in her hand.
He was already standing before her.
A single step between them.
Breathe. I need to breathe. There's no air—my chest is locked. Thoughts splinter, tangle, tear apart. My fingers go numb. I see him raise the blade.
Everything stops.
A picture flashes in my mind—morning field, smell of grass, Roxy standing opposite. Her voice, calm and firm:
"Don't rush. Feel it."
The spell we practiced together, step by step.
Wind Scythe.
The spell that almost killed me.
The memory surfaces—an attic, a grimoire in my hands, words spilling out by themselves. A burst of pain. Skin torn open, tendons and flesh mixed, bone shards jutting beneath. A scream, the smell of blood, darkness.
I spent months learning to control the mana flow that moved on its own inside me.
Roxy taught me—but I always refused to use it. If I did, I could kill someone. If I failed, I'd kill myself. But if I don't now—she'll die. Yet then I'll be a murderer. Me? Kill a man? But…
NO!
No time for doubt.
The runes formed in my mind on their own. Clear lines, familiar order. My fingers already knew the pattern. My lips moved without command:
"Air, become a blade."
Mana surged instantly inside me. I held it, stopping it from spilling loose. My back muscles tensed; my fingers cramped; my shoulders pulled tight.
"Cleave. Air. Flesh."
The mana swelled. I held it at the limit, forcing it into shape. Each motion demanded effort—stretch, compress, twist the flow. My chest burned; my hands shook; my fingers trembled. But I guided it to where the runes would form.
"Wind Scythe!"
The air by my hand shivered. Thin strands rose, curling around my fingers and wrist. I poured more mana in, letting the inner flow surge free. Now it streamed in a steady wave, feeding the spell's shape. The scythe grew; some threads grazed my arm, slicing deep. I didn't feel it. My eyes were locked on the enemy.
A heartbeat—and I released it.
The spell flew forward, merging with the roar of the wind.
The vortex struck him, dragged him across the ground, gouging a deep trench. It ripped down his side, splitting into hundreds of sharp streams. The blade in his hand wavered, his stance broke. In the next instant he slashed, tearing the spell apart with his aura.
NO! He's not dead!
Panic slammed into me. My body trembled uncontrollably.
His gaze snapped to me. But before he could raise his weapon—Roxy's palm touched his chest.
Explosion.
The world filled with a piercing ring.
His body flew aside.
Inhale. Exhale.
Blood slid slowly down my hand. My ears rang—from fear or the blast, I couldn't tell. Pain throbbed like fine needles driven into my palm, burning, stabbing at once.
My fingers clenched and uncurled on their own; my body was taut, muscles refusing to obey.
Roxy turned. That brought me back.
I bolted, running to her, caught her before she hit the ground.
***
Her skin was a patchwork of bruises and cuts, blood soaked into cloth and mud. Her clothes hung in tatters, clinging to open wounds. Hair tangled, full of leaves and moss. One eye drowned in blood and half-shut, the other cloudy but still locking onto mine. Her shoulder twisted wrong, a deep gash down her side spilling fresh warmth.
"Rudy…" her voice rasped, barely sound. "...I told you to run…"
"I came to help!" I said, trying to keep her steady.
She exhaled, the corner of her mouth twitching in a weary half-smile.
"Good job…" she murmured. "...without you, I'd have died alone… now there'll be three corpses instead."
Her weight sank heavier into my arms. She lifted her gaze upward.
Above us, no sky remained.
The vortex had swallowed it all. Air pulled toward the center; a low hum droned in my ears. Wind tore leaves and branches to shreds, hurled earth and pebbles upward. Crowns bent; slender trunks cracked. Dust and debris lashed at my face, stinging eyes and lips. Every gust shoved at my back, trying to knock me down.
Beside us came a wet, bubbling sound. I turned without thinking.
A man lay on the ground.
His chest was torn open. Skin, flesh, bone—all mixed together. Through the gap, a dark lung fluttered and sank. The wound's edges gleamed wet, hung with shredded meat. Blood streamed down his side, soaking the soil. The stench was thick—it punched nausea straight up my throat. Fuck. That's… that's…
His right hand lifted, reached out weakly. Fingers trembled, grasped at air. The motion froze for a second. Then dropped. Hit the ground.
The bubbling breath stopped.
I stared at him, unblinking. Hollow inside. My hands cramped; my shoulders locked.
He was a corpse. Dead. Truly dead. A body. A corpse. Dead!
It was the first time I'd seen a dead man this close.
Everything inside wanted to look away—but I couldn't. My eyes held him, as if I needed proof he wouldn't move.
I wanted to breathe deeper, but my lungs wouldn't listen. My body shook on its own.
He was human. A moment ago he'd moved. Now he was gone. Dead. Because of me? Did I kill him?
And then something inside me cracked.
Too much stress, too much panic, too much in one day. Everything that had held me together till now had been stretched thin as thread. Now it snapped with a dull twang.
"Don't look at him…"
Roxy swayed beside me, and I caught her shoulder.
She was hot and slick with blood. Her breathing hitched, every inhale a faint whistle. Her skin felt paper-thin, muscles twitching beneath. The wound on her side reopened, fresh blood seeping through her robe.
"We need… kh—"
She doubled over, coughing between words. Her lips were pale, chin trembling. Even holding her head up took effort.
We couldn't stay here.
Rain began to fall—mixed with hail. Big drops and frozen pellets struck our faces, our wounds, slid down our necks.
"Could've used this fucking rain earlier…" she muttered, wincing at the sting. Her voice was hoarse, empty of strength, full only of irritation.
We moved forward, step by step, keeping away from that place.