The leader did not answer.
He lunged.
The movement was sudden—violent in its restraint—his blade flashing forward in a clean, efficient arc aimed not to kill, but to cripple. The strike was precise, calculated to pierce Eryndor's shoulder and sap his strength in a single motion.
The pressure hit first.
The man's mana erupted outward, the unmistakable weight of at least Mortal Lord realm crashing down upon the space around Eryndor. The air thickened, compressing his breath, forcing his muscles to resist as though moving through deep water. Stone groaned faintly beneath his feet.
Eryndor exhaled.
And the world stretched for him.
From his perspective, time slowed—not halted, not shattered, but dragged thin like molten glass. The leader's blade decelerated, its edge crawling toward his flesh with agonizing inevitability.
Not as slow as before, Eryndor noted grimly.
Against Lirien, the effect had been absolute yet against a Mortal Lord or beyond, it resisted him—strained against his will, pushing back.
Still, It was enough.
Eryndor twisted his torso, the blade slicing past his shoulder by the width of a breath. Cloth tore. Heat grazed skin.
In the same motion, he drove forward.
His shoulder slammed into the leader's upper body with bone-jarring force.
The impact broke the man's balance. Boots skidded across stone as the Inquisitor staggered, caught completely off guard. For a fraction of a heartbeat, shock flashed behind the mask.
He had seen and certain his strike land.
He had seen Eryndor there.
And then suddenly—he wasn't.
Eryndor pressed the advantage immediately. He stepped in, muscles screaming as the slowed perception began to wane. His fist arced toward the man's sword arm, intention clear, break it, end the fight or at least caused him to backtrack and waver .
Steel screamed.
Eryndor was forced to divert mid-strike as another attacker surged in from the side.
He pivoted sharply, his gauntlet colliding with the incoming blade in a resounding clang. Sparks erupted as mana met mana, gold and white light bursting outward in a violent spray.
Meanwhile the leader recovered his footing and leapt back, avoiding what would have been a decisive blow. He straightened slowly, eyes narrowing behind the mask, murderous intent bleeding through his disciplined stillness.
For a brief moment, bloodlust cracked his composure.
Then he stilled himself.
The man drew in a slow breath. His chaotic mana settled, folding back into controlled channels as the training of decades reasserted itself. Mission first. Emotion later.
"Man," Eryndor muttered, chest rising and falling, "what a waste."
He regretted the lost opportunity. The leader would not lower his guard again—not after that. Whatever advantage surprise had given him was gone.
Eryndor rolled his shoulders, forcing his breathing to steady. Beneath his clothes, the Ancient Scripture stirred. The sigils etched into his flesh hummed softly, resonating like a living thing. Warmth spread through his limbs, clarity sharpening his thoughts.
He turned his head, checking on Lirien.
She was already deep in motion.
A sword slashed toward her neck—she spun beneath it, cloak flaring. Another attacker lunged from behind—
And suddenly, there were two Liriens.
One dove forward, blades clashing. The other rose from the ground behind the attacker, slicing cleanly through his back. The man screamed, blood spraying across stone.
Eryndor blinked.
Illusion, he realized a second too late.
The attacker had assumed the same—and paid for it.
"Remind me," Eryndor called out, dodging a thrown dagger, "never to make you angry."
"Too late!" Lirien shouted back.
Her sword whirled in the fading sunlight like a silver comet. Each strike cut the air with a sharp whistle. Shadows flickered beneath her feet, and at times she seemed to vanish entirely—reappearing a heartbeat later in another place, switching seamlessly with her own reflection.
It was a flawless marriage of illusion mastery and swordcraft.
She never stopped moving.
Eryndor smiled despite himself.
Then two Inquisitors rushed him at once.
One went straight for his throat.
Eryndor ducked, seized the man's wrist, and twisted hard. Bone cracked audibly. Before the scream could finish, Eryndor drove his fist under the man's ribs, the impact lifting him off his feet.
The second swung a spear wreathed in golden fire.
Eryndor caught it mid-thrust.
His hand burned as scripture flared beneath his skin, golden lines blazing into existence. The spear shuddered—then splintered like dry wood. Fragments scattered across the ground.
The man stumbled back, eyes wide.
Eryndor stepped in and drove a punch into his gut, sending him flying across the Spine.
"Huh," Eryndor muttered. "Guess that's new."
He barely had time to look up before the leader charged again—faster this time with fury barely restrained.
Steel met steel.
The leader's blade slammed against Eryndor's arm guards, sparks flying. The sound rang out like a struck bell. They clashed in a flurry of blows—blade against fist, mana against mana, sand spraying with every movement.
Eryndor parried, pivoted, ducked. His movements were instinctive, reactive, driven by something older than training, while the leader's strikes were relentless—precise, disciplined and efficient. This was a man who had killed countless foes and expected to kill countless more.
As not less than a Mortal Lord, he was anything but weak.
Eryndor was the anomaly.
The Scripture forced his body beyond its limits, rewriting what should have been impossible.
"You don't even know what you carry, Eryndor." the leader growled, suddenly, venom seeping through restraint and He spoke Eryndor's name.
Eryndor grunted as he blocked another strike.
"Dont want to pretend any longer do we?" he chuckled despite the pressure.
The leader answered with steel and the pace shifted.
His sword accelerated—faster.
The blade cut across Eryndor's chest.
Light seared through cloth.
Pain flared—
And then vanished.
Where blood should have spilled, the wound sealed almost instantly. Golden light threaded across his flesh like living stitches, fading as quickly as they appeared.
The leader faltered.
Just for a heartbeat.
Shock rippled through his mana and that moment was all Eryndor needed.
He smirked. "Yeah," he muttered, breathless. "That surely will get a reaction."
Eryndor stepped in close, with condensed mana coiling through his arm, he drove his fist into the leader's chest. The force exploded outward, hurling the man across the rocky path.
The leader crashed into stone, rolling to a stop.
Eryndor stood over the battlefield, chest heaving.
"See?" he said weakly. "Adventurous improvisation."
Lirien landed beside him, blade dripping with fading light.
She didn't answer.
Her eyes were locked on the leader.
The man rose slowly.
This time, discipline shattered.
His bloodlust surged openly, mana erupting in wild, violent waves. The air vibrated. Stones cracked beneath his feet.
"We should run," Lirien said sharply.
"Running isn't heroic," Eryndor replied.
"Neither is dying here," she snapped.
The remaining Inquisitors moved in, formation tightening, cutting off escape.
Eryndor slammed his palm into the ground.
The Scripture across his body flared in full, a storm of gold erupting outward. The earth trembled. Sand and stone burst into the air, spiraling into a blinding vortex.
Wind screamed.
Light swallowed everything.
And then—
Nothing.
When the dust settled, they were gone.
The surviving Inquisitors stared at the empty ground in silence.
The leader approached slowly, gaze fixed on the scorched stone.
"To think," he murmured, "the Sun Bearer was beneath our notice all this time."
He turned his head toward the distant lands of the Dwarves. Moments later he began to walk in silence, followed by his companions as a gust of wind suddenly swept through, and they have vanished from sight.
The forest beyond the dunes was unnervingly quiet.
Too quiet.
Only distant shouts broke the stillness—metal clashing, hounds barking sharply. Whatever hunted nearby was organized. Persistent.
Two figures stumbled into the shade of the trees, breath ragged.