Blades clashed, shadows intertwined.

In the depths of the night, two figures collided in an intricate dance, their eerily similar weapons moving with a flawless grace. For a moment, even the torrential downpour seemed incapable of touching their bodies, as if held back by the sheer intensity of their battle.

Yet strangely, the clash bore no sound. To any observer, it might seem like an epic struggle: fierce and evenly matched.

But the more Banshee fought, the more her unease grew.

Fierce? Evenly matched?

Are you kidding me? How could those words describe a fight between a third-tier peak combatant and a late second-tier fighter?

Who wouldn’t laugh their head off if they heard this described like that?

Banshee’s eyes darkened as she took in Moen Campbell’s razor-sharp features. His face, far from showing fear, was gradually overtaken by a savage excitement in the midst of their duel.

What a joke.

By any standard—realm, strength, power—she should be the one dominating.

All that her opponent had going for him was some bizarre technique that allowed his speed to momentarily multiply severalfold.

But the gap between third-tier peak and second-tier remains a chasm too vast to bridge with mere speed. Even if his bursts of speed momentarily gave him the edge, it wasn’t enough to close the gap in their fundamental strength. And yet… that irritating little advantage—the "edge"—had her grinding her teeth in frustration.

Banshee felt like she was fighting a slippery eel.

An eel that seemed able to read her moves completely in advance!

This man, Moen, fought with such infuriating elusiveness. He didn’t linger in combat for even a second longer than necessary. Every time he dodged one of her attacks with uncanny agility, he took the opportunity to carve a few cuts into her body before retreating again.

Why was the battle so silent?

Because their weapons hardly ever clashed!

Yet somehow, just a minute or two into the fight, Banshee’s body was already covered in dozens of shallow wounds. While none of the injuries were deep, the searing pain inflicted by Elizabeth’s unique properties was driving her mad.

Sure, as a dark cultist, her vitality was incredibly resilient. But even she wasn’t immortal. If this dragged on, Moen might end up wearing her down to death bit by bit!

“Why? Why can’t I hit you?!”

Banshee shrieked, her voice sharp with rage. The scimitar in her hand suddenly burst with a chilling blue glow, radiant like moonlight. Moen felt a jolt of alarm in his heart and quickly pulled back.

That cold light tore a massive rift into the ground where he had stood moments before—a force so devastating it could have obliterated him tenfold.

But no matter how powerful an attack, it was rendered entirely meaningless if it didn’t land.

On the other hand, Banshee’s reckless exertion of energy made it harder for her to purge the lingering traces of sacred light inflected upon her. Her open wounds tore further, and she began to resemble a serpentine drenched in blood.

“Looks like Miss Banshee wasn’t that confident as before,” Moen quipped, wiping a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth. He grinned.

“You’ve got mystic eyes?”

“Mystic eyes? Those are far too rare. Of course I don’t.”

“Then… you can see the future?”

“The future is uncertain and ill-defined. A mere duke’s son like me could never hope for such power.”

“Then why? Why can you avoid my attacks?”

Banshee’s earlier relaxed demeanor was now completely gone. Her eyes brimmed with fury and a lethal edge as she snarled: “Not only that, you’re predicting my moves with an eerie accuracy!”

“It’s nothing worth mentioning,” Moen replied casually, flashing a relaxed smile. Meanwhile, his hands gripped a mana crystal, which he quickly crushed, replenishing his almost-depleted pool of mana.

...

How had Moen managed to suppress Banshee, even across such a massive gap in power?

It obviously wasn’t due to any “trivial trick.”

Rather, the key lay within the tenfold time acceleration granted by his artifact, the Clock of Eternity.

With his personal time stretched out, not only did his body move faster, but his thoughts operated at an accelerated rate as well.

This allowed Moen to react more swiftly and analyze his opponent’s movements more thoroughly.

And as luck would have it, Banshee had chosen to fight in a… less-than-conventional manner, opting to expose her bare body during combat, much like some peculiar style from a certain overseas genre.

This left every flex of her muscles and every buildup of power completely exposed to Moen’s enhanced perception, letting him read her moves as if she were an open book.

To Banshee, it looked like Moen was predicting the future, but in truth, she had simply handed him all the cues he needed.

That said, her inadequacies were also partly to blame. Banshee’s experience in direct combat evidently left much to be desired. Otherwise, if she had been a battle-hardened third-tier peak combatant, there was no way Moen’s tricks would have given him this advantage.

Take, for instance, the adventurer recorded in Moen’s Black Book. That individual had also fought unclothed, yet Moen would never have dared predict his moves based solely on his muscle contractions. For a true expert like that, even the smallest bodily cue could have been an intentional feint, meant to lure the enemy into a trap.

...

“I underestimated you, Moen Campbell,” Banshee said suddenly, sucking in a deep breath. Her gaze was still dark, but her expression grew eerily calm.

“Sometimes, I really wonder. Are you truly just a spoiled duke’s son? With such ruthlessness, such combat experience, and such composure… you seem like someone forged in mountains of corpses and seas of blood.”

“Haha, people often ask me that. But I think maybe someone like me is just gifted and born that way.” Moen replied with a lighthearted chuckle, casually brushing off her words.

But inwardly, his nerves were strung taut.

The way Banshee was behaving now…

“Time may have been on my side earlier, but as it stands, it’s clear that I can’t afford to drag this out any longer,” Banshee said, her expression somber. “Otherwise, I’ll just be whittled to death little by little by your absurd tricks.”

She spread her arms wide as her black hair whipped around wildly. Her eyes began to emit an otherworldly glow.

Here it comes!

Moen braced himself, every muscle in his body tightening.

What was next would undoubtedly involve her leveraging her overwhelming advantage as a third-tier peak combatant for a decisive…

“[Prayer],” Banshee intoned softly, her voice calm and melodious.

And with those two words, the world seemed to fall utterly silent. Even the sound of the rain ceased, as if the entire universe were holding its breath, waiting for what was to come.

“[Oh great Lord of the Night, God of Shadows and Silence, Master of all that lies in the realm of darkness and death—]”

“[May you heed the call of your humble servant and bestow upon me your power.]”

It wasn’t a martial technique… It was a prayer?!

In that instant, as Banshee’s luscious lips continued to chant her invocation, Moen gritted his teeth, his mind erupting into a torrent of curses.

Damn it! So she’s just giving up on fair play now?!

Didn’t even bother trying a few combat techniques—just went straight to summoning a dark god for backup?

Where’s the honor in that? What about basic decency?

Seriously? You're a third-tier fighting a second-tier, and you don’t even hesitate to call in outside help? Shameless!

But by now, Moen was powerless to stop Banshee’s prayer.

He could only watch helplessly as she cast him a mocking glance before continuing her invocation, each word crystal clear:

Moen felt it then—the complete loss of any ability to move.

Cold moonlight spilled from the heavens, its otherworldly beauty laden with an unbearable chill. Under its ethereal glow, Moen’s shadow stretched impossibly long.

And then… his shadow began to move on its own.

It slithered like a living thing, morphing into countless inky-black tendrils that coiled around him, dragging him forcibly toward the ground.

His ears buzzed with a cacophony of whispers, like the countless hisses of serpents.

The immense pressure was suffocating, as though he’d been plunged into the crushing silence of the deep sea. His blood felt sluggish, struggling to circulate.

Pinned to the ground under the deluge from above, Moen tilted his head weakly to gaze up at the canopy of night.

There, an otherworldly blue moon stared back, indifferent and cold.

Suddenly, Moen’s lips curved into a defiant grin. Weakly raising his lone movable hand, his middle finger extended in a universal gesture of defiance.

He addressed the high and mighty god with a single word:

“Moron.”