The circular chamber was now an empty battleground—nothing but solid, unyielding ground beneath our feet.
I barely had time to process what happened before I heard it—the deep, mechanical hum of shifting metal.
Uzhgar's throne sank into the floor, disappearing beneath the arena's surface with a hiss of machinery I couldn't begin to understand.
Now, there was nothing.
No obstacles. No cover.
Just us and him.
I glanced up—Uzhgar remained, the lone spectator, standing on the edge of the arena. His golden eyes flickered with calm curiosity, arms crossed, as if this fight were already decided.
Astrid exhaled sharply.
"Alright."
She rolled her shoulders, adjusting her stance, keeping her eyes locked on Rhazan.
"I'll take him head-on."
She turned her head just slightly, not taking her gaze off the giant warrior.
"You back me up when you can."
It wasn't a question.
Just a fact.
I nodded. "Understood."
Then, I shut out everything else.
Focused inward.
Calmed my breath.
Because this is it.
Rhazan stood just ahead of us, a monster in the shape of a warrior.
Stronger. Faster. More experienced.
But it didn't matter.
This was what I had to go through.
This was the only way forward.
To get the King's ring.
To be powerful.
To be invincible.
And I would do whatever it took.
Astrid moved first.
Fast.
Her boots barely touched the ground before she was already upon him, swinging with bare fists.
Rhazan didn't dodge.
Didn't step back.
He met her head-on.
Her first strike connected—a brutal right hook to his ribs.
Rhazan barely reacted.
Astrid followed up with a rising knee to his gut, then an elbow aimed straight for his jaw.
He blocked it effortlessly.
His counterattack was immediate.
A heavy backhand sent Astrid staggering, but she gritted her teeth and came back swinging.
A furious exchange erupted—fists, knees, and brutal strikes traded between them.
Astrid fought like a berserker, relentless and wild.
Rhazan fought like a storm, unshaken, immovable.
And from where I stood—I could see it.
The fight was already decided.
I saw it in the distortion of time, the slight shifts before they happened.
Astrid was losing.
Her punches, her kicks—they landed, but Rhazan answered with twice the force.
A crushing punch to her ribs. A sharp kick to her leg.
Another strike—a heavy, punishing elbow to her jaw.
She stumbled, blood dripping from her mouth.
Rhazan hadn't even broken a sweat.
I exhaled, shoving the sight from my mind.
I needed to move.
Needed to even the battlefield.
I focused inward, pulling the memory, the last image I had of Rikard.
His stance. His sword. His presence.
Then—he was there.
Silent. Solid. Unwavering.
My phantom warrior.
Rikard stepped forward, sword in hand.
Astrid had dropped to one knee, spitting blood onto the dirt.
But Rikard didn't hesitate.
Didn't pause.
He moved.
And Rhazan answered.
The glaive swung in a deadly arc, clashing against Rikard's blade.
Sparks exploded from the steel.
Rikard didn't back down.
He pressed forward, his strikes relentless.
And for the first time—
I saw it.
Rhazan, the Unshaken.
The strongest Skarnhaal.
Struggling.
Steel clashed against steel.
Rikard moved like a perfect machine, unyielding and precise. Every strike of his sword came with purpose, with intention.
But Rhazan—
Rhazan was still keeping up.
Even struggling, he could still anticipate every movement Rikard made.
His glaive whipped through the air with terrifying precision, each swing meant to kill, not just wound.
Twice—just twice—I saw it.
If Rikard were still human, he'd be dead.
The first time—Rhazan's glaive cleaved straight through his chest.
The second—a horizontal sweep that should've split him in half.
But Rikard was not human anymore.
He was a phantom warrior.
The moment Rhazan's blade tore through him, Rikard simply reformed—solid again, undeterred, still attacking.
I didn't let this chance go to waste.
I stepped forward, eyes locked onto Rhazan's movements, searching.
There.
Rikard's blade forced Rhazan to pivot his stance—just slightly.
A small shift. An opening.
I struck.
My sword slashed across Rhazan's chest.
A solid impact.
But not enough.
His iron-like skin absorbed most of the force.
No wound. No blood.
Just a deep, dark bruise spreading across his chest.
He grunted, his ember eyes flashing with something new.
Recognition.
And then—
He swung for me.
If Astrid hadn't blocked that swing, I'd be dead.
The glaive came at me like a guillotine, its deadly arc blurring through the air.
Then—steel met steel.
Astrid's axe caught the glaive mid-swing.
The impact was so powerful that it knocked her sideways, sent her skidding across the ground.
But she had given me enough time to move.
Enough time to avoid the worst.
And most importantly—
She had given Rikard the opening he needed.
The phantom warrior moved without hesitation, his sword a flash of silver against the darkened arena.
Rhazan, still recovering from his last attack, had no time to counter.
Rikard's blade sliced diagonally—
From his shoulder to his hip.
A clean, vicious cut.
This time, it didn't just bruise him.
This time, Rhazan bled.
Dark blood splattered onto the stone.
He let out a guttural grunt, his ember eyes flashing as he stumbled back, forced to retreat.
For the first time—
Rhazan felt pain.
For a moment, the arena fell still.
Each of us assessed our own condition.
Astrid, shaken but standing.
Rikard, silent and unmoving, blade still stained with Rhazan's blood.
And me—heart pounding, breath steady, eyes locked on my opponent.
Rhazan bled.
Not much. Not enough to weaken him.
But enough that he knew.
We could hurt him.
His ember eyes flicked between me and Rikard, studying, calculating.
Then—
His grip on the glaive tightened.
His stance lowered.
And then, he spoke.
"Very well."
And in the next breath—
The storm unleashed.