The fireball launched straight towards Yvonne, It moved at a crazy speed faster than any mundane projectile.
Yvonne's eyes widened—she didn't have enough time to fully react.
She raised both of her arms in a protective manner trying to block it, but the fireball was strong enough to break her defense, as it slammed into her with explosive force.
Pain exploded through her body.
She crashed into a ventilation unit with behind her letting out a mettalic thud.
The air filled with the smell of scorched embers flickering around her.
Varak's grin returning wider than ever, his staff still humming with fire magic.
"That's all you got?" he sneered as he walk closer at her. "Pathetic Low-S Rank."
Suddenly the laughter died in their throats.
From the smoke and debris, Yvonne stirred.
She pushed slowly herself up, with her palms
Her silver hair was singed at the ends, her face smudged with soot and blood.
She spat a blood onto the ground, wiping her lip with the back of her hand.
The burns on her side throbbed, but she ignored them, her Low-S Rank endurance kicking in—years of training turning pain into fuel.
"I'm not done yet..." she rasped, her voice steady despite the rasp, standing once more.
She wasn't giving up; if anything, the hit had sharpened her focus, adrenaline surging through her veins.
Varak's eyes narrowed, confusion flickering across his face.
"How the hell are you still standing? That should've killed you!"
Yvonne's lips curled into a smirk.
She raised her dagger slightly, and that's when they noticed it—the faint white threads.
The threads are hard to see with the sunlight, it crisscrossed the rooftop like a spider's web.
Yvonne been setting them up the whole time, from the moment the fight began.
"I've set an trap. Each parry, each dodge, had been a ploy to weave my trap."
They formed a intricate net, encircling the cultists without their knowledge, waiting for the perfect moment.
"None of you will be getting out here alive." She declares, pointing her dagger at Varak.
The demon cult members froze, their enhanced senses finally picking up the subtle hum of the threads.
One reached out tentatively, his finger brushing a strand— it sliced through his glove like paper, drawing blood.
"What the—?" another hissed, trying to back away the threads tightening around their perimeter.
Varak's face twisted in realization, rage giving way to panic. "You sneaky little—!"
Yvonne's smirk widened into a cold grin. "You were too busy talking to notice."
With a flick of her wrist, the threads activated, contracting like a noose.
The web were pulled tautly, slicing through robes, and flesh mercilessly.
Cultists screamed as their limbs were severed, bodies bisected in clean, precise cuts.
One tried to blast through with dark mana but, the threads cut through his body.
Varak, at the center, swung his staff wildly, but a thread looped around his neck, tightening like a garrote.
His eyes bulged as the shadow-thread tightened around his neck.
Panic surged through him, his corrupted mana reserves dwindling but has not depleted yet.
With a desperate snarl, he channeled the last dregs of his power into his staff, the tip glowing with a sickly purple flame.
"Not... yet!" he gasped, slamming the staff downward.
The flames erupted in a burst, burning the threads encircling him.
The enchanted strands sizzled and snapped, burning away like paper in a fire, releasing their hold just enough for him to wrench free.
Gasping for air, his throat raw and bruised, Varak didn't hesitate.
He lunged toward the rooftop's edge, vaulting over the low parapet and plummeting into the alleyway below.
The drop was two stories, but he twisted mid-air, landing in a crouch that cracked the pavement under his boots.
Pain shot through his legs from the impact, but adrenaline numbed it.
He glanced up once—Yvonne's silhouette framed against the twilight sky, her dagger still raised—before bolting into the shadows of the narrow passage.
The alley was a labyrinth of dumpsters, fire escapes, and overflowing trash bins, the air thick with the stench of rotting garbage and damp stone.
Varak's robes were torn and singed, his bald head glistening with sweat and blood from his broken nose.
His demonic tattoos pulsed faintly, a remnant of his fading mana, but he pushed forward, heart pounding like a war drum. "That bitch... she'll pay."
He darted left at the alley's end, emerging onto a bustling side street lined with cafés and boutiques, the evening crowd thickening as office workers headed home.
Sirens wailed in the distance—police, drawn by reports of rooftop disturbances or perhaps the cultists' earlier chase.
Varak cursed under his breath, pulling his hood lower to hide his distinctive tattoos.
He shoved through pedestrians, eliciting shouts of "Hey!" and "Watch it!" A mother yanked her child out of his path, glaring as he barreled past.
He needed to blend, but his ragged appearance and frantic pace made him stand out like a wolf among sheep.
Behind him, the whine of sirens grew louder.
Two police motorcycles peeled around the corner, blue lights flashing, engines revving as officers spotted the fleeing figure.
"Arrêtez! Police!" one shouted through a megaphone, accelerating in pursuit.
Varak broke into a full sprint, his enhanced legs carrying him faster than any normal human.
He vaulted over a parked scooter, knocking it over with a clatter, and cut into another alley, hoping to lose them in the maze.
The chase spilled onto Rue de Rivoli, traffic honking as Varak weaved between cars.
A police van joined the pursuit, tires screeching as it swerved to block his path.
Officers piled out, batons drawn, forming a loose cordon.
"Hands up! You're under arrest!" But Varak wasn't done—he hurled a weak bolt of dark mana from his staff, shattering a shop window in a diversionary explosion of glass.
Shards rained down, scattering the crowd and forcing the cops to duck for cover.
He dashed across the street, narrowly avoiding a braking taxi, and plunged into the Tuileries Garden.
The green expanse offered temporary cover—hedges and statues to dodge behind—but the police were relentless.
Foot patrols converged from multiple directions, radios crackling with updates: "Suspect heading north through the gardens—armed and dangerous! All units converge!"
A helicopter thrummed overhead, its spotlight sweeping the paths like a predator's eye.
Varak's breaths came in ragged gasps now, his mana nearly spent, burns from Yvonne's trap throbbing with each step.
He leaped over a fountain, water splashing, and hid briefly behind a marble statue of a mythological figure—ironic, given his demonic affiliations. But the net was closing.
Police flooded the garden exits, K-9 units barking in the distance.
He tried one last burst of speed, aiming for the Seine's banks to perhaps swim or steal a boat.
But as he burst from the trees onto Quai des Tuileries, he skidded to a halt.
Police barricades blocked the road ahead, squad cars forming a wall with lights flashing in a blinding array.
Officers stood ready, guns drawn and shields up, a SWAT team already in position.
"End of the line! Drop the staff and get on the ground!" the lead officer bellowed, megaphone amplifying his command.
Varak spun, staff raised for a final spell, but more cops closed in from behind, encircling him completely.
He was cornered—trapped between the river and the unyielding line of law enforcement, his escape routes sealed.
Panting, bloodied, and mana-depleted, he raised his hands slowly, the cursed staff clattering to the pavement.
"This is not over yet! Mark my words!" He shouted, his voice filled with intense anger.
The police advanced cautiously, cuffs ready, as the city lights reflected off the Seine like mocking witnesses to his fall.