The ringing of metal filled the small storage room with stone walls as Arwin struggled against a knight who was far stronger than he was. The knight's blows fell harder and faster than his previous opponent and forced Arwin to block and evade with desperate precision. Crates and shelves lay toppled, revealing mana-infused artifacts and enchanted trinkets spilling on the floor, their lights flickering like dying stars.
Arwin grunted as a particularly nasty blow knocked the sword from his hand and glanced it across the room. The knight scoffed and lifted his sword high; Arwin had no choice but to roll toward a glowing shield mounted on a crate nearby. With a yell, he grabbed it and threw it with all his might at the knight's face. The enchanted shield made contact with a loud CRACK, snapping the knight's head back.
Without wasting a moment, Arwin lunged at the knight. He grabbed the shield again and began hammering repeatedly into the knight's head. Blood sprayed as the knight faltered, but Arwin didn't stop. With one final scream, he forced his mana through the shield and into the knight's chest.
A terrible scream filled the room, but soon Arwin was left alone, with only his ragged breathing.
Panting, bloody, and barely standing, Arwin turned at the astonished workers around him. "Get everything packed into crates. Now," he panted. "Give me the keys to the cages too. Or do you want to be like him?"
The workers jumped into action.
Meanwhile, above Thalanar was fighting his own foe. A knight clad in black armor had leaped from the VIP booth straight to Thalanar's booth, sword flashing in the air. "Who are you?" the knight growled, stepping through the threshold.
Thalanar didn't respond. With expanding pools of magic growing beneath his feet, he twirled the staff as he met the knight's strike, roots immediately slithering around various parts of the knight's legs and torso. But the space was limited, there was little room for magic, and the knight's sword was fast. They exchanged blows in the early moments. Thalanar used his staff like a spear; the backyard focus allowed him to weave in dynamic flourishes of earth and plant magic. Every time their strikes missed, it left minor cracks and etchings in the surrounding stone walls and floor.
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Back in the main hall, Luenor grunted as a blade of wind clipped him. "You fucking witch!" he yelled at his foe as he avoided another slicing wave of air.
The wind mage simply laughed, her wild green hair swaying with each released spell. "Call me anything you want, boy. You're bleeding."
Behind them there was pandemonium. The roots that Thalanar had used to ensnare the guests were dying, and with his focus divided, he was losing control of his own bind. People started breaking away; some fled, while others grabbed weapons and charged Luenor, calling for retribution.
Luenor narrowed his eyes. "So be it."
He sank low, one hand pressed firmly into the blood-streaked marble floor as he inhaled deeply. Surrounding him the very air shimmered. The mana swirled around him, drawing in, like a vortex funneling toward the eye of a storm. The wind mage paused, astonished by the desperate change of pressure.
"You're absorbing?" she muttered. "How?"
Luenor rose, blue light tracing lines up his arms down to the very fingertips and the hilt of his sword. The hilt pulsed with a life of its own and the air became heavier. The attackers charging him suddenly slowed, as if they were now trudging through syrup and the very room resisted their advance.
"I don't need a heart," he said, voice reverberating, "when the world breathes for me."
In an instant, he blurred forward, cleaving the first, and parrying a sword from the second. In the meantime, three had swung, and with all of his might, he ducked and spun around and swept their legs with a spinning kick, releasing them into broken chairs. He hadn't just sprung, but moved like lightning: As a martial artist and now a blood mage, each movement was connected; it flowed, it didn't need to have any thoughts, as if the mana itself was carrying him; there was no pause in the movement, with only slight turns of his torso.
The wind mage had regained her footing, and screamed a battle cry, unleashing a barrage of razor wind blades. Luenor raised his sword, spinning it once. The blades cut and disintegrated upon contact with the edge.
"Oh no," she whispered, "you're not normal."
Luenor gave a cold smile; blood had already begun to flow from his face where the bottom of his mask wiped when he screamed.
Above the chaos, the auctioneer had long vanished, and the other guests fled or lay unconscious. Only the battlefield remained—splintered wood, flickering magical light, corpses, and echoes of fury.
And amidst it all, the boy who carried a dead name, bathed in blood and mana, fought like he had nothing left to lose.