The silver tip of the spear didn't just cut the air. It screamed.
A high-pitched, whistling hiss sliced through the frigid night, marking the weapon's trajectory. Vane stood dead center in the villa's private training circle. His breath punched out in short, controlled bursts of white mist that vanished instantly into the dark.
He was deep in the rhythm.
The Argent Horizon.
It was the spear art he had stolen, adopted, and was now forcing to evolve.
Every movement was a study in lethal economy. There was no wasted motion. No flourish. Just the brutal geometry of killing. The silver mana of his Rank 4 core flooded his veins. It coated the shaft of the weapon in a shimmering, ethereal light that flickered with the instability of a dying star.
Vane shifted into the third form.
Falling Star.
He didn't just leap. He launched himself.
