Chapter 29:
—Eleventh Floor—
Zandagar rose from his throne, his towering frame looming over the chamber like a living nightmare. The man had noticed his size before, but now that the monster stood before him, the full weight of its monstrous presence settled upon him. The jagged crest atop its head stretched back like a corrupted crown, and the crimson veins beneath its dark, chitinous body pulsed with an eerie rhythm,
The man's heart pounded. He didn't know why. It wasn't fear—not entirely. It was something deeper, something primal. A sense of standing before an existence that defied reason.
Zandagar took a single step forward.
The impact sent a tremor through the ground. Dust burst from the cracks in the floor, and the faint red glow of ancient runes flickered beneath his feet. The chamber groaned as if the walls themselves feared him.
Across from him, the man in the black long coat held his ground. His chest rose and fell slowly. He clenched his dagger tighter, feeling the worn leather of the hilt press against his calloused palm. His breathing was uneven, but controlled. Barely.
He swallowed hard.
Then—
Zandagar moved.
Not like a beast. Not like a man. Something in between.
A blur of motion—too fast for his size. His form twisted through the air like a shadow given life, sharp and sleek. A phantom of slaughter.
The man's instincts screamed.
He ducked low.
Clang!
Steel met obsidian.
Zandagar's elongated fingers, each ending in jagged, black blades, clashed against the dagger. Sparks burst in all directions. The impact was so strong it sent the man sliding backward across the cracked stone floor. His boots dragged lines through dust and rubble. His knees bent. His body leaned to one side as he forced himself to stay upright.
His arms shook. The shock from the blow echoed through his bones. But there was no time to breathe.
Zandagar advanced again—silent, relentless.
The monster's next strike came from above, sharp and clean. An overhead slash meant to cleave him in half.
Boom!
The floor split open as the man rolled to the side, just in time. Chunks of stone exploded upward. Dust clouded the room. A crater had replaced the spot where he'd just stood.
The man gasped, breath catching in his throat. He landed on his side, coat flaring out behind him, then pushed off the ground and rose. His movements were swift, trained, but exhaustion was creeping in.
He gritted his teeth.
This wasn't just another monster. This wasn't something he could outpace or outwit easily.
Zandagar was fast—unnaturally fast. And strong. His strikes weren't wild or clumsy. They were practiced, controlled. Like a knight trained in the art of murder.
The man darted forward, knees bent, keeping his profile low. His black coat fluttered behind him like a shadow of its own. He slashed upward.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
His dagger struck Zandagar's body—again and again.
But it was like cutting stone—no, even harder. The creature's chitinous, thick body didn't even crack.
The man's eyes narrowed. He adjusted his footing, knees soft, ready to shift weight at a moment's notice. He ducked low again, trying to target the joints—the softer parts of the monster's form.
He moved fast, aimed true.
But Zandagar moved faster.
A blur—and suddenly, a huge shadow loomed over him.
He leapt back as Zandagar's arm came crashing down. The claws struck the ground with terrifying force.
Crack!
Stone shards exploded outward. A split in the ground raced toward the walls like lightning.
The man rolled mid-air, landed lightly, but his breath was heavier now. Sweat rolled down his brow, stinging his eyes.
Zandagar didn't slow.
He stood tall, silent, monstrous. Not out of arrogance—but out of certainty. He didn't need to taunt or threaten. His strength said everything.
The man tightened his grip on the dagger. His fingers were numb. His knuckles white. He whispered, voice low:
"You're strong. The strongest monster I've ever faced."
Zandagar said nothing.
And then—
They clashed again.
Steel clashed against obsidian. The sound echoed like thunder. Fast. Too fast. Each step a blur, each swing laced with deadly intent. Blades rang through the air like screaming wind.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Sparks flew with every strike. The walls groaned with each blow. Dust and fragments rained from above. It felt less like a battle and more like a storm. Two forces colliding—one wild, one unrelenting.
The rhythm was relentless. A storm with no calm. And yet, even as the man gave everything he had—every ounce of strength, every drop of will—he knew. He could feel it in the way Zandagar moved, the effortless deflections, the cold calm in his eyes.
He's holding back.
That realization sank deep, sharp and cold, gnawing at the edge of his mind. This wasn't a fight between equals. It was a test. A cruel game.
Time dragged on, every moment pushing his body further past its limit. His legs threatened to buckle. His vision blurred. But he didn't stop.
He couldn't stop.
At last, they broke apart, both stepping back.
Zandagar stood tall. Unmoving.
The man staggered slightly. His knees didn't buckle, but they wanted to. His breath was short now. His chest burned. His stance was still strong, but one hand now hung loose at his side. The other held his dagger in a reverse grip, blade trailing behind.
"I can't win like this," he thought. "His head… it's the only target I haven't tried. But it's high. Too high. If I jump, he'll see it coming…"
He glanced at the throne. At the scattered debris.
Then he dashed forward.
Then he dashed forward.
His boots kicked off the ground with a sharp thud, sending a small puff of dust spiraling behind him. He angled toward Zandagar's left, eyes locked on the creature's bladed hand. A quick feint—a slash from his right side—cut through the air like a whisper, meant only to draw a reaction.
Zandagar lunged, reaching out, claws slicing forward.
And that's when the man moved.
He dropped low for a heartbeat, coiling his legs like springs, then launched himself upward with explosive force. His body twisted into a tight somersault—his knees tucked in, his spine curled, his coat flaring out like a spinning cloak around him. The world spun for a breath, then he extended his limbs at the apex of his flip, straightening mid-air with elegant control.
His chest faced downward now, back arched slightly, legs angled behind him. He twisted his torso just enough to align with his target, his muscles snapping into place like a bowstring pulled taut.
In that moment, time seemed to stretch.
The dim light glinted off the blade in his hand as he drove it forward—an unflinching thrust aimed cleanly at Zandagar's eye, his full weight and momentum behind the strike.
Clang!
Blocked.
The monster's other hand moved with frightening speed, intercepting the attack mid-air.
The man landed softly, rolling back to create distance.
Then it began—
He aimed for the eye, then the neck.
From the left, from the right, from above, from below.
Again.
And again.
Clang! Clang! Clang!
Each strike perfect. But each one stopped.
No matter the angle, no matter the speed—Zandagar blocked it all.
The man stepped back once more. His breathing ragged. His limbs sore. His mind sharp but heavy. Every muscle ached, but he refused to falter.
Zandagar didn't feel pain. Didn't even seem annoyed.
But something changed.
The air shifted.
Then—
His voice.
"Enough, you impudent little worm!"
The words crashed through the room like thunder. The very throne room shook. Cracks spread across the ceiling. Stones fell from above. The sheer weight of his voice sent a shockwave through the air.
The man gritted his teeth, stumbling a step back. It was like being hit by a wall of wind and sound.
And that single second of retreat— Was all Zandagar needed.
He stepped forward, each footstep ringing with power. He loomed larger now. More dangerous. One hand lifted—golden light swirled around his claws. Energy crackled through the air like a brewing storm.
The ground trembled.
The man's eyes locked onto the growing light.
"Damn it," he whispered, voice hoarse. "I can't break through his damn body... I have to do something—now."
But then—
Fatigue.
It slammed into him like a hammer.
A sudden, crushing weight that dropped over his shoulders and coiled through his muscles. His breath hitched. Shallow. Unstable. Every lungful burned like fire. The dagger trembled in his hand, slick with sweat and blood. His knees dipped—just slightly—but enough for Zandagar to notice.
The monster's eyes gleamed.
And then—he smiled.
A slow, cruel smile.
"Weak."
The word echoed across the chamber like a death sentence.
Zandagar's massive arm rose. The golden light dancing between his obsidian claws pulsed, thrumming with lethal energy. It flared brighter with each heartbeat—flickers turned to flames, and flames began to roar.
The man's eyes widened. His battered body refused to move at first—his legs too stiff, his chest too tight. But his instincts screamed.
"Shit—!"
"Inferno Burst!"
The name cracked like thunder in the throne room.
The air split apart.
Then—
A burst of fire exploded outward. It wasn't a simple flame—it was a living wave, a rolling tide of incandescent rage. The floor melted beneath it, black stone bubbling from the heat. Everything in its path was reduced to ash.
The man threw himself into the air, spinning his body sideways mid-leap, coat flaring behind him like torn wings. His boots barely cleared the rising fire.
Even above it, the heat struck like a whip. It kissed his skin through his clothes, licked the tips of his hair, turned the air in his lungs to smoke.
But his eyes—his sharp, crimson eyes—locked downward.
He saw them.
Leon. Mira. Arthur. Elara.
Four bodies, still and pale in the distance. Protected by the barrier, but—
His heart clenched.
"The barrier—" he thought desperately. "It should hold—"
Then—
Crack!
His eyes widened.
A thin fracture ran through the barrier's surface, glowing faintly from the sheer heat pressing against it.
It wouldn't hold.
"No—!"
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(Chapter Ended)