As Zigmo's mind snapped back to the present, the sting of Syla's blade still burned on his skin.
He spun into a sudden head kick—
SNAP!
Another finger snap, and in an instant, Rynor appeared behind him.
But Zigmo was ready.
He drove an arrow clean through Rynor's leg, then unleashed a barrage—chops to the neck, an arrow stabbed deep into his collar, tearing flesh—before slamming a brutal punch toward his heart.
"Dark Ball of the Ancient Curse!" Zigmo roared.
A swirling sphere of black magic erupted from his palm.
Syla's eyes narrowed—another snap—and instead of swapping places, Rynor was teleported to the far corner of the temple, safely out of harm's reach.
Damn it. I'm just wasting mana if he keeps doing that.
Josen darted in, twin daggers flashing, striking at Syla in a storm of steel.
Syla parried effortlessly, the rhythm of his blocks almost lazy, before retaliating with his own dark orb.
Josen braced himself, every muscle straining, as the toxic magic pushed toward him like a tidal wave. The weight of it wasn't just physical—it clawed at his soul.
Where are you, Gramps? Didn't you say you'd always be here? Come on… help me!
His bag pulsed with a dim ocean-blue glow. One of the orbs shimmered, and the poisonous mass was suddenly drawn upward, suspended.
Josen fumbled into the bag and snatched the orb.
What am I supposed to—
"Heyy there, Joey."
Gramps?!
"Yup, it's me."
Where the hell were you? Why'd you just leave like that?
"Lost connection. No biggie. But looks like you're in a pickle. That attack might kill ya."
Obviously! But I think this orb can help, right?
"Yup. Quick lesson:
Blue orbs explode.
Green orbs seal and steal.
Red orbs heal—for reals."
God, that's such a terrible pun… Got it.
"Oh, and Josen?"
Yeah?
"When you're done, I'll teach you something very important."
Mysterious…
The voice faded, and the blast came crashing down again. Josen rolled clear and hurled the green orb. The spell sealed instantly, its energy vanishing into the orb's glow.
Syla's calm expression cracked. He blurred forward, fists slamming toward Josen.
They traded blows—an uppercut from Josen, a hook from Syla—before Syla blinked behind him.
Josen spun, blocking with a blade, then drove a kick that sent Syla smashing into the roof.
Hovering there, Syla began to chant, his voice low but growing louder, drawing every speck of mana from the air. The heat in the temple vanished.
"Fire to fire, skin to rod, consume all who oppose me—let their souls burn and rot!" His scream tore through the air.
"Elfen Fire of Darkness… FALL!"
Oh no… No, no, no. Even the green orb might not contain that. And reflecting it? Not happening.
"…Screw it. Let's do some science."
He grabbed a green orb and a blue orb, smashing them together. Space itself twisted, the collision forming a raw, unstable point of energy—then—
KRA-BOOOOM!
The explosion ripped the temple apart. All four fighters were thrown to the ground.
Josen lay covered in deep cuts, his once-snow-white hair—now down to his shoulders—soaked crimson with his own blood.
Zigmo's body lay still, twitching faintly, as if caught between life and death.
Syla staggered to his feet, eyes darting around—then froze. His brother was impaled, the jagged remains of a pillar jutting through his side.
"Rynor!"
Syla rushed to him, cradling his head as the cold mask he always wore melted into raw, desperate grief.
"Sy…Syla—" Rynor's voice was shaky, wet with blood. "I'm sorry… I failed to… keep my promise…"
Syla's forehead pressed to his brother's. His hands trembled as he held him tighter. A scream ripped from his throat—one of pain, not rage.
Rynor gripped his arm weakly. "Do it. It's the last thing we'll do."
"No… what if you don't come back? I can do this without you. You—" his voice cracked, "you promised to be by my side."
"And I will be. One mind… one heart… two souls."
"Promise… you'll still be there?" Syla's voice was barely a whisper.
"Yes."
Syla nodded. Light burst from their bodies, so brilliant it scorched the eyes. Two became one.
A single being stood where they had been—four arms, a dagger in two hands, a staff in one, a clenched fist in the last. White robes gleamed like divine silk, its face serene yet terrible.
Before Josen could even process what he was seeing, the system message appeared before him:
Name: Vaelith, Angel of Brotherhood
Class: Worshipper
Rank: S
Level: 83
Skill: Teleportation
Passive Skill: Poisoned Existence