The wind pressure finally eased, just enough for Riven to pry open his eyes. What he saw made his breath hitch.
The bar—no, the entire building—was in ruins. The floor had been torn apart as if clawed open by some vengeful god, splintered wood and cracked stone jutting upward at odd angles. Above him, the roof was all but gone, a gaping hole spanning nearly the full width of the bar, revealing slivers of a smoky sky beyond. One whole side of the structure had been carved clean off, as though sliced by a giant, invisible blade. With slow, agonizing creaks and metallic groans, the severed segment leaned forward, the supports giving way as it began to collapse toward the ground.
The air was thick with the scent of ash, damp earth, and scorched wood. Dust floated like a thin fog, stinging Riven's nose and clinging to his tongue with a chalky bitterness.
Surely the city guard would have noticed this... or would they just turn a blind eye, considering this was one of the lowest priority districts in the entire city?
Riven didn't know.
And right now, he didn't care.
His focus was singular. With eyes narrowed, he scanned the wreckage, searching—pleading—for any sign of either combatant or the beast. But there was nothing. No red glow. No noble aura. Not even a trail.
Only destruction.
Where the attacks had collided, the floor was buried beneath a mound of shattered wood, jagged tiles, and broken glass. Chunks of roof and wall formed a chaotic mountain of debris. Tangled among the rubble were remnants of the bar itself—splintered furniture, a half-melted chandelier, and even what looked like a snapped tap still leaking ale into the dust.
As the wild wind currents finally relented, escaping through the shattered remains of the building into the open air, Riven's body began to slide toward the ground. His boots scraped against broken tiles and loose rubble until he landed on shaky legs. He staggered slightly, then straightened, brushing dust off his clothes with a grunt.
The moment sensation fully returned, he winced. Dozens of small cuts stung across his arms and face—shallow, but angry. His mana had shielded him from the worst of it, but the sheer fallout from the attack had overwhelmed even that.
He hissed through clenched teeth and pressed a hand to his side, blood sticky against his fingertips.
"Fantastic," he muttered, glancing around.
Carefully, Riven picked his way toward the center of the wreckage. Splintered wood and jagged shards of glass crunched beneath his boots, each step a negotiation with unstable ground. He kept one eye trained upward—the roof hung above him like the jaw of a beast, fractured and waiting to collapse. Well… what little of it remained.
He'd only made it a few paces when the mound of debris at the center erupted in a violent swirl of green and red energy.
Riven instinctively dove behind an overturned table, peeking out just in time to see the noble's beast rise from the wreckage in a burst of emerald light. The noble clung to the creature's leg, lifted into the air as the beast carried him away in a jagged arc across the room.
A heartbeat later, Roman's body exploded from the same wreckage—still cloaked in that burning red aura, though it had dimmed considerably. Each flicker seemed weaker than the last, as though it pulsed from a failing heart.
Roman rocketed forward, sword drawn, aimed straight at the airborne noble.
Riven narrowed his eyes, spotting the wound now stretched across the noble's chest—deep and ugly, leaking a steady stream of blood that dripped like paint from his torn robes. The beast should have been able to dodge that. Considering its agility earlier… it must have sustained heavy damage, too.
Before the sword could strike, the beast ignited with green mana, the winds around it whipping into a frenzy. In a split second, it twisted in mid-air, its wings flaring wide as it launched the nobleman downward like a stone from a sling.
Roman's greatsword collided with the spiraling vortex of wind. A flash of light burst at the impact point—brief and blinding—and the next moment, both combatants were hurled in opposite directions.
They struck the walls with bone-cracking force, smashing through plaster and timber, disappearing into the ruined structure beyond.
Riven blinked, stunned. How are they still standing…?
But there was no time to ponder. Both Roman and the beast rose once more, bodies battered, movements sluggish but unrelenting.
Roman jumped back into the ruined building first, his aura now gone, exposing the raw exhaustion etched across his face. Every step looked like it hurt. His greatsword, no longer glowing, had returned to its dull steel-gray—but he held it firmly, blade angled low and ready.
Across from him, the beast landed with a crash. Its wings were mangled, one hanging limply while the other sizzled with burnt edges still smoldering.
Yet even like this, they faced each other again—war-torn, bloodied, but not backing down.
"Not bad, Roman. I'll give you that one," the noble said, brushing dust from his tattered clothes while keeping a blood-slicked hand pressed tightly to his chest. A crooked smile crept onto his face. "But what are you going to do about the second one?"
Those words slid down Riven's spine like ice water. He hoped—desperately hoped—that the noble didn't mean what he thought he did.
A moment later, his fears took shape.
A sharp beam of light burst from Roman's body, searing the air as it coalesced into a writhing, unstable mass. Riven narrowed his eyes, squinting past the glow as limbs began to form one after another—thick, muscular, and heavy. Then, like a final brushstroke on a cursed painting, a vast mane of shimmering hair spilled forth.
Riven's heart stuttered in his chest.
No… it can't be.
The light evaporated, unveiling a towering lion-like creature cloaked in a coat of green and grey fur. Its mane flowed like wind-tossed fire, wild and untamed.
A Fanglion, Riven thought, cold sweat trickling down his temple.
It wasn't necessarily larger than the eagle-like beast from earlier, but there was something more primal in this one—something more terrifying. The weight of its presence crushed the air itself, and even from a distance, Riven could feel its unnatural heat pulsing against his skin.
Still, there was one small mercy: the creature didn't radiate the same overwhelming aura. The mana signature wasn't fully saturated—maybe it hadn't ranked up completely yet.
Riven's knuckles tightened until they cracked.
Fight or flight? His instincts screamed run, to flee into the shadows and vanish. But he didn't move. Couldn't. Van Helsing wouldn't have run. His father wouldn't have run. And Roman… Roman might've been a colossal pain, but he was Riven's temporary master. And in just a few hours, the man had taught him more than most did in weeks. The kind of brutal, unforgiving tutelage he was oddly grateful for.
The Fanglion's muscles tensed, its paws digging into the debris-strewn ground, ready to spring.
Riven inhaled deeply and shut his eyes, checking his mana reserves. Sixty percent. It'll have to be enough.
He grabbed a rusted metal pipe nearby, cold and gritty in his grip. With a pulse of amber mana, he tried to sharpen the end, willing it into a point—more suggestion than perfection. Then he let his power surge.
The pipe cracked, splintered, and reshaped. Mana surged through it like molten resin, hardening into an orange, crystalized spear laced with glinting metal fragments. The weapon hummed faintly in his hand, the mana vibrating against his palm.
Channeling every last drop of his pink mana into his body, Riven launched forward. The world blurred as he blinked, his feet barely brushing the floor. He angled the spear, guessing where the creature would strike, and lunged.
His timing was perfect.
Riven collided with the beast mid-pounce. The force drove the spear deep into its side, and the two of them crashed violently to the floor in a tangled heap of fur and grit. The Fanglion roared in fury, the sound a guttural, bone-rattling bellow that rang in his ears.
Riven scrambled to his feet, trying to wrench the weapon free—but it was stuck, embedded too deep.
A shriek of rage tore through the chaos.
"How dare you? Who do you think you are, vermin?!" the noble snarled, his voice raw and cracked with fury. He extended his right palm, green winds beginning to swirl and gather once more.
The declaration froze Riven mid-movement. His breath caught in his throat as realization slammed into him. He'd disobeyed Roman. He'd interfered in a battle between high-ranking nobles.
His blood turned to ice.
But something tugged at the edge of his focus. A shift in the air.
The noble's wind magic—wild as ever—lacked its usual edge. His breathing was ragged, and the paleness beneath his skin deepened. Riven could see it now—the signs. The man was nearing his limit too.
Before the dread could root itself fully in Riven's chest, a roar broke across the battlefield.
"No, you don't!"
Roman.
He charged toward the noble like a battering ram, every step shaking the already unstable floor.
The noble's face twisted into a snarl as he spun around, the orb of wind in his hand growing denser and more volatile by the second.