The castle horn echoed again—a deep, haunting bellow that rolled across the battlefield like thunder chasing the end of a storm. Zane stood still, the sound vibrating in his chest. He closed his eyes for just a moment.

  They breached the walls. Kaidan's alone.

  The image of Scarlet Enclave’s flag, still unfallen, burned in his mind. Not just cloth and colors—it was history, legacy, his legacy.

  “The defenses have been breached,” he said aloud, the words bitter on his tongue. Not fear. Not disbelief. Frustration. The flame of pride now stoked by failure.

  Around him, the heat rippled. Dust rose in soft spirals. The very air began to retreat from him, displaced by something more primal than mere fire. His team shifted, suddenly aware that the man before them was no longer just their commander—he was becoming something else.

  “Zane?” a teammate asked cautiously, hand half-extended.

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he drew in a slow breath, and when he exhaled, the earth cracked.

  Beneath his boots, fire erupted—not wildly, but with reverence, as if even the flames bowed to his will. Embers gathered like fireflies around him, orbiting in chaotic reverence. Heat shimmered around his body in a corona of fury and focus.

  He extended one hand to the side, palm open, and flames coalesced into the shape of a spear—only to burn away the next instant, replaced by wings of flame that arced from his back like a phoenix ready to take flight.

  “Ready your teleport stones,” he said without turning. “Reinforce Kaidan. Don’t stop until the gates are secure.”

  “Zane, you can’t take their castle alone.”

  He turned then, his eyes glowing like twin suns. “Watch me.”

  The command was not barked—but it reverberated, a promise etched in fire.

  His teammates hesitated for only a heartbeat, then obeyed. They ran—not out of fear, but because they understood: the battlefield had changed, and Zane Valiant had become more than a warrior. He was a force of nature.

  He turned toward the distant enemy castle. The horizon shimmered.

  “You took the walls?” he whispered to no one. “Then I’ll take the sky.”

  Flames surged from his body, lifting him off the ground. The terrain below blackened in his wake. The grass wilted to cinders. Rocks cracked from the heat. He rose higher, a trail of fire billowing behind him like the tail of a comet.

  His silhouette, framed against the sun, took the shape of a phoenix—wings of fire, core of conviction.

  Far below at Shadowspire's castle, the enemies paused. Their veterans looked to the sky, momentarily stunned watching as what could only be described as a flaming comet rising in the sky.

  In the coliseum, the crowd stood as one.

  “He’s flying,” someone whispered. “Zane’s flying.”

  “That’s not flying,” another said. “That’s ascension.”

  Above it all, Zane’s voice rang out, carried by wind and fire:

  “Let them know—Scarlet Enclave still burns!”

  And with that, he shot forward like a blazing arrow, trailing fire across the sky on a direct path to reclaim the stolen honor.

  The flag room held a strange, brittle stillness. The only movement came from drifting motes of ambient magic that shimmered faintly in the charged air, like dust caught in the wake of something unseen.

  Kaidan didn’t speak.

  He stood still—completely still. Not in defiance, not in arrogance, but in something colder. Calmer. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of his sheathed katana, the blade angled just so. His eyes were half-lidded, not out of fatigue, but focus so intense it felt inhuman.

  Oran narrowed his gaze. “You planning to swing that thing old man, or just stare at us until we get bored?”

  His team shifted behind him. They weren’t laughing. Not anymore.

  The energy in the room had changed. Subtle currents tugged at the edges of their cloaks. The temperature dropped—not like the chill of winter, but like standing in the shadow of a mountain that might fall at any moment.

  One of Oran’s fighters—Drael, the heavyset brute with a spiked hammer—took a step forward. “He’s just posturing. Let’s crush him before he—”

  Then he froze.

  Not because Kaidan had moved. But because the light in the room bent.

  Shadows stretched where there were no new sources. The hum of defensive wards deepened to a low, ominous growl. The entire room seemed to inhale—and hold it.

  Oran’s eyes darted across the chamber. “What the hell is this?”

  And then Kaidan spoke.

  “Azure Dragon—”

  His voice was a whisper, yet it seemed to echo.

  “—Flash.”

  The air cracked.

  And Kaidan vanished.

  For a heartbeat, there was only silence.

  Then—sound returned all at once.

  The air cracked with a thunderous boom, like the snap of a mountain splitting open. A pressure wave surged outward from the center of the room, ruffling cloaks, extinguishing magical torches, and lifting dust in spiraling arcs.

  Kaidan stood at the center of it all—his blade sheathed, his back to the enemy, motionless as a statue carved by a god’s hand. His posture hadn’t changed since the moment he vanished.

  But the room had.

  Lines. Dozens of them. Then—hundreds. Thin glowing lines crisscrossed the chamber in impossible angles, tracing walls, floor, even hanging mid-air like brushstrokes left behind by invisible calligraphy.

  And then came the second wave.

  Clink.

  One of Oran’s fighters dropped his sword.

  Thud. Another collapsed to one knee, clutching a shoulder that now bore a perfect line of torn armor—and beneath it, a thin line of blood.

  Shff. A cloak fell apart in strips from a third, revealing unbloodied cuts in flesh so fine they hadn’t yet begun to bleed.

  Across every member of Oran’s team, wounds appeared all at once—shallow but disabling, placed with chilling precision. All precise, surgical cuts.

  Oran turned his head slightly, blinking. His axe was still in his hand… until it wasn’t. The shaft slipped from his grasp, cleaved cleanly through. He looked down at his gauntlet—and saw the split in the metal, barely deep enough to scratch skin, but exactly where his grip had relied on.

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  “What…” he muttered. “When did he—”

  A glowing sigil beneath his feet flared.

  And then they began to disappear.

  One by one, his team vanished in pulses of blue teleportation light, their forms whisked away by the arena’s fail-safe system. Weapons clattered to the floor in their absence.

  Oran was the last.

  He met Kaidan’s gaze—not with anger, but something more fragile.

  Respect.

  Then he vanished too.

  Kaidan exhaled slowly, not with triumph—but with finality.

  The glowing cuts in the room continued to flicker. They slowly faded away, leaving nothing but the whisper of wind.

  For a full five seconds, the coliseum was utterly silent.

  Not a whisper. Not a cheer. Not even breath.

  Thousands upon thousands sat frozen in their seats, eyes locked on the viewing sphere that displayed the aftermath. A shattered room that bore the marks of Kaidan’s precise fury. The walls and floor were covered in countless slashes, each cut sharp and deliberate, radiating an almost artistic chaos. Yet, amidst the devastation, the flag stood in pristine condition, untouched and resolute, as if shielded by Kaidan’s unparalleled control.

  Even the announcers had gone quiet.

  Then, softly—barely audible at first—a single voice spoke from the booth:

  “...Azure Dragon Flash.”

  The name rippled through the stadium like magic, a whisper that grew in volume as it passed from mouth to mouth. Then came the first clap—hesitant, as if unsure the moment was real.

  And then the coliseum erupted.

  The applause was deafening. Waves of sound crashed through the arena like a storm. People stood, hands above their heads, some with mouths open in disbelief. Others wept—not out of sorrow, but from the sheer emotional weight of witnessing something timeless.

  Scarlet Enclave banners lit up with enchanted flame, swirling phoenix patterns trailing in the air. Across the stands, even members of rival guilds stood, some shaking their heads, others nodding with reluctant admiration.

  “Did he even draw his blade?” someone muttered.

  “Was that magic spell?” another asked.

  A third person shook their head. “No. That was Anima, it’s the very essence of your mind, body, and soul manifested as pure energy outside of your body.”

  In Emberlight’s seats, Grant exhaled a slow breath. “I don’t know whether I should be inspired… or terrified.”

  Nel blinked, genuinely stunned. “How do you counter that?”

  Leona just smiled faintly. “You don’t.”

  Ash leaned forward, gaze focused not on the destruction, but on Kaidan himself—still unmoved. Still calm.

  “So that is what mastery looks like.” he said quietly.

  And still Kaidan did not speak. He didn’t gesture. His sword remained in its sheath. The man remained in place.

  Because victory did not require celebration, it merely required one's presence.

  Back in the canyon, Tharn Ironbrow stood at the heart of the battlefield, shield braced, boots rooted deep into cracked and burning stone. His armor was scorched and dented, the blue crest of Scarlet Enclave stained with soot and blood. Yet his stance did not waver.

  Around him, his fighters formed a ring of steel and resolve—shoulder to shoulder, shields overlapping, eyes fixed ahead.

  Elyas Ravenheart’s reconnaissance squad swirled around them like wolves circling a cornered stag. Fast, fluid, and merciless. Arrows wreathed in shadow struck from above, while streaks of elemental magic arced across the air like shooting stars. Ice exploded along the rock walls, forcing Tharn’s warriors to duck behind their shields. Fire blossomed from trap glyphs etched into the canyon floor, turning stone to glass.

  “Don’t break!” Tharn barked. His voice, gravel and thunder, cut through the chaos. “They want you to flinch. Don’t give it to them!”

  From a ledge above, Elyas observed the battlefield with cold precision. He pulled back his longbow, shadows coiling around the string, and loosed another arrow aimed directly for Tharn.

  The shot struck with the force of a ballista. Tharn stumbled back half a step as the blast erupted across his shield—dust flaring in a crescent around him.

  But when it cleared, he was still there. Knees bent. Muscles locked. Staring straight at Elyas.

  “Come down and try that yourself,” Tharn growled.

  Elyas raised a brow, amused. “You dwarves always did mistake defiance for strength.”

  He signaled. His flankers—rogues and spell-dancers—moved in for the kill. They weaved through the narrow rocks with impossible speed, aiming to pierce through the shield line’s vulnerable edges.

  But Tharn had seen it coming.

  “Brace!” he roared. “Shield curve left!”

  In perfect synchronization, the formation pivoted, locking shields into a crescent. The flanking attackers slammed into reinforced steel, their momentum broken by the sudden wall. Spears shot out from behind the shields, and two of Elyas’s operatives vanished in blinks of teleportation light as they were incapacitated by precise thrusts.

  “Pull their tempo apart!” Tharn bellowed. “Break the rhythm!”

  From the rear ranks, his war-mages activated pulsing rune plates embedded in their enchanted boots. The runes amplified their strikes with seismic force. Every shield slam now sent shockwaves through the ground—disrupting footing, shaking loose the ledges above.

  Elyas’s expression tightened. He whistled sharply and repositioned to higher ground, firing a barrage of arrows in rapid succession, each tip glowing with volatile arcane sigils. They struck like meteors—detonating shields, sending two defenders flying back.

  Tharn’s shield buckled. His left pauldron shattered.

  But still, he stood.

  “We are the line!” he shouted, blood streaming down his brow. “We are the wall they cannot pass!”

  With a unified cry, his warriors surged. They didn’t charge recklessly. They advanced—measured, coordinated, every step echoing like the march of a living fortress.

  The fight became a brutal crawl. Magic and steel clashed with pulsing rhythm. Elyas’s team fought with elegance and speed, but Tharn’s team fought with inevitability.

  Every strike from the reconnaissance squad was parried. Every illusion was countered with a ward pulse. Every attempt to scatter the formation was denied.

  One by one, Elyas’s fighters fell. Some teleported away midair, mid-motion, as their injuries triggered the arena’s safeguards. Others were overwhelmed by the crushing discipline of the shield wall.

  Only Elyas remained.

  From his perch, he stared down at Tharn—bloodied, panting, but somehow still standing tall.

  “This wasn’t supposed to happen,” he muttered. “You were the anvil—not the sword.”

  Tharn raised his spear and pointed it directly at him. “And you forgot what happens when an anvil gets tired of being hit.”

  Elyas fired one last arrow.

  Tharn caught it on the edge of his shield—and hurled his spear.

  The weapon slammed into the ledge, exploding with kinetic force and shattering the perch beneath Elyas’s feet. The archer tumbled, twisted midair, and vanished in a shimmer of blue light before he could hit the ground.

  And just like that, the battlefield fell quiet.

  Ash coated the canyon walls. Magic sparks drifted like fireflies. The last echoes of combat faded into silence.

  Tharn exhaled, shoulders sagging. He planted his shield into the ground with a thud, leaning on it like a cane.

  “Report status,” he said hoarsely.

  His second-in-command limped forward. “Three wounded, one critical. But… we held.”

  Tharn nodded, wiping blood from his brow. “Reform. Tighten ranks. We don’t know what’s next.”

  Above them, the viewing sphere zoomed out to capture the aftermath. A battered shield wall. A broken canyon. And one dwarf, still standing.

  In the coliseum, a stunned hush fell before the applause broke loose like thunder. Even spectators loyal to Shadowspire rose to their feet.

  Scarlet Enclave's flag room was still.

  The faint hum of protective wards echoed softly off the stone, their light flickering in gentle pulses across the floor. In the center stood Kaidan, unmoving, his katana sheathed, hands resting calmly atop its hilt. He had not shifted since the moment Oran and his team had vanished. Only the soft sound of his breath disturbed the silence.

  A beam of blue light crackled in the corner.

  Then another.

  And another.

  Zane’s squad rematerialized one by one in flashes of magic, the teleportation stones delivering them to the chamber in staggered intervals. Their armor was scorched, their faces drawn, still flushed with adrenaline from the battle outside. The tension in their limbs had not faded—until they saw him.

  “Where is he?” one of them asked, scanning the chamber.

  They turned—and froze.

  Kaidan stood alone. The flag remained behind him, untouched. Unbent. Unbowed.

  The chamber bore the evidence of a storm—a beautiful, controlled chaos. Shallow slashes cut through stone, energy marks still glowing faintly where his blade had passed. The floor was cracked in places, the walls laced with symmetrical damage that radiated out like ripples. Anima residue drifted like mist through the air, shimmering in patterns only the most skilled swordmasters could interpret.

  Their eyes followed the destruction—and slowly fell upon the unmoving form of their commander.

  Kaidan’s eyes opened slowly, as if waking from a meditation rather than a battle.

  “It’s done,” he said simply. “Shadow Spire’s assault has failed.”

  None spoke for a long moment. The quiet was reverent, not awkward—a silence carved out by awe.

  One of the younger fighters, his voice trembling, whispered, “Did… you do all this?”

  Kaidan’s gaze didn’t shift. “They challenged the Enclave,” he said at last. “I answered them.”

  A ripple of realization moved through the squad. The same man who stood unmoved before them had felled Oran and his elite without unsheathing his blade more than once. Without fanfare. Without a sound.

  Another fighter stepped forward, breath catching. “We were too late…”

  Kaidan finally turned toward them, the motion fluid, his presence still and composed. “You arrived when you were meant to. This flag was never theirs to take.”

  The team lowered their weapons.

  Not in exhaustion.

  But in reverence.

  And far above, the coliseum crowd erupted in cheer—not just for the phoenix blazing across the sky, or the dwarf undaunted by a trickster, but also for the sword master who stood alone—because no one had been able to reach him.