Summoning so many tentacles—did Lamar truly believe he could prove which one was his?
Such arrogance radiated from him, as if confidence alone could compensate for the absence of his own energy.
What gave him that certainty, this so-called "Mr. Immortal," when even his reserves were depleted?
The smile on Sinn's face was easy to picture—cold, sharp, and unyielding.
That expression alone sent a fresh wave of terror through Lamar, intensifying the dread that gnawed at his heart.
Yet, despite his fear of death, Lamar refused to yield.
He forced himself to act, even as the summoned tentacles had long since retreated into the mist, leaving only echoes of their presence behind.
Sinn, ever perceptive, had sensed this shift long before it became apparent.
He abandoned his advantage, knowing victory was inevitable as long as he stalled for time.
Patience was his weapon, and he wielded it with the expertise of a seasoned tactician.
Why risk his life bullying a dying man?
There was nothing to gain in crushing someone already defeated.
Still, verbal barbs were not off the table. Words could wound just as deeply as blades.
Was this psychological torment? Perhaps. After all, Lamar's arrogance had always been his shield—and now, his undoing.
Sinn darted back, weaving effortlessly between the remnants of Lamar's attacks.
His movements were fluid, almost ghostlike, as he dodged every desperate strike.
But soon, he stopped, watching as the last of the tentacles faded away, dissolving into nothingness.
Lamar collapsed onto one knee, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Sweat dripped down his brow, mingling with the blood that stained his tattered robes.
The vibrant green hue that once lit his eyes had vanished, replaced by a hollow darkness. For the first time, he looked up at Sinn with a mixture of unspoken fear, confusion, and simmering hatred.
"How sad—you lost, yet you still blame me?"
Sinn's voice was low, tinged with lingering emotion.
This battle had changed him, granting hard-won experience and a sobering wake-up call. He had sacrificed much—his arm, nearly his life—to claim victory.
But Lamar's pride remained unbroken. He clung to his arrogance, convinced of his superiority simply because he had spent years refining his essence while Sinn had not.
In Lamar's mind, refinement meant more than accepting the dialect's blessing; it was about taking the raw energy, cycling it through his being, and amplifying it until it became uniquely his own.
If he had merely used the energy as it came, he might have recovered over time, regaining his strength with rest.
But by refining it, he transformed the power slowly, making it part of himself—a process that would take years to replenish if lost.
Those who simply borrowed energy could recover with patience, but Lamar's path left him drained, unable to restore what he had given up.
"Blame you?" Lamar let out a bitter, broken laugh.
"You are by far the most talented, but comedically foolish. How could I not blame you?
You tried to take my life—it's within every being to hate their killer."
His voice grew harsher, each word laced with venom.
"What's this about arrogance? How could I not be arrogant?"
"I am a mortal who has lived for a century, bested by a baboon with no shred of emotion!" He spat blood, glaring at Sinn with wild, feverish eyes.
" Did you truly think this was some game of learning, you fool?"
"There's no such thing as learning on the battlefield.
And even if you do learn something, it's only to kill the other faster. You speak of my arrogance?
You're an ignorant fool—just as arrogant as I am."
Veins bulged across Lamar's contorted face, his features twisted in pain and fury.
Even with a gaping hole torn through his lower chest, he forced the words out, refusing to surrender.
Gasping for breath, Lamar's voice dropped to a rasp. "I may be arrogant, but I'll show you—even in death—what it means to finish someone off before they can ignite a single spark…"
His gaze burned with violent intent as he reached for the Book of Haze, clutching it tightly to his chest.
Blood smeared across its cover, mingling with the ancient stains already there.
The air around him seemed to thicken, charged with a final, desperate resolve.
Sinn watched with a slight smile curling on his lips as Lamar prepared to make his last stand.
The battlefield lay shrouded in mist, silence broken only by Lamar's ragged breaths and the distant echo of fading magic.
Shadows danced at the edge of vision, flickering like restless ghosts in the gloom.
In that suspended moment, time seemed to slow.
Every detail—the trembling of Lamar's hands, the wild glint of madness in his eyes, the oppressive weight of loss and regret—etched itself into Sinn's memory.
The struggle between pride and despair, hope and resignation, played out silently in the space between these two battered souls.
As Lamar pressed the Book of Haze to his heart, Sinn braced himself for whatever final gambit his adversary might unleash, knowing that even in defeat, arrogance could drive a man to unimaginable lengths.
Sinn's smile twisted, growing more serious, tinged now with a predatory hunger.
His plan was unfolding perfectly.
How could he not smile? This fool didn't even realize he was not the true target.
How could Sinn ever reason with a man so blind to his own mistakes?
In this life, Sinn's philosophy was ironclad:
Never stop fighting until the enemy is dead.
This was his first rule for survival—a creed forged in blood: kill and keep killing to live, and only when every threat was gone could one finally rest.
So, to Sinn, this charade of teaching Lamar was nothing more than a ploy to let the man drop his guard, to loosen his possessiveness.
If such feigned sincerity could deceive this so-called Mr. Immortal, then perhaps age truly was dulling his senses.
Sinn halted his inner musings and focused on Lamar. The man's body trembled, black lines spreading across his skin like cracks in old stone.
The Book of Haze fluttered in his grasp, desperate to open, but there was no space for its secrets in the gaping wound yawning in Lamar's lower chest.
The green glow that once pulsed from within faded, replaced by thick, oozing pus. His eyes, once bottomless abysses, now shimmered with an eerie green light.
Green pus seeped from his eyes, mouth, and ears, staining his features. The runes etched across his body blazed emerald.
Suddenly, Sinn's own runes flared green as heat surged through his veins.
A sickly energy seeped into his body. He collapsed to the ground, clutching his heart as pain radiated from deep within.
Confusion clouded Sinn's gaze as he looked up at Lamar, whose form began to warp grotesquely—new arms and legs sprouting in unnatural directions.
But just as the transformation threatened to spiral further, Lamar uttered words in his unique, guttural language.
The mutation slowed, limbs retracting, returning him to something almost human.
Runes of unknown origin still crawled across his flesh, his eyes remained a luminous green, and horns curled from his brow. Yet most striking was the wound in his chest, now slowly knitting together.
The Book of Haze sent chains of silver light snaking forth, binding the bleeding edges.
These silver chains writhed around his heart with fierce intensity, some coiling further to wrap around his entire body.
Sinn's gaze shifted to a small, glowing sun hovering beside Lamar—a miniature star radiating quiet power.
He regarded it briefly before locking eyes with his adversary.
The two men smiled at each other—one with the wildness of madness, the other with joy laced with desire.