Seeing no dust drifting in the still air, it clicked—he’d only survived by hiding under that dusty veil like a moth under ash.

Yet now, in this light, he looked so close to death the difference felt like a shadow’s width.

Ban stood there, swaying like a scorched reed, and lifted a half‑charred flute to his lips.

♬—

One single note, stretched thin as wire over an empty canyon.

You couldn’t even name the tune; it was grating, like a saw biting wet wood.

“Hey, little one over there, next up… if you can… kill me…”

He lowered the flute after that lone note and started talking, and the absurdity made Ling freeze mid‑throw with a rock in hand.

“Remember… you must kill me… or I’ll keep… keep… keep fighting until… next Saturday, 12:45:08…”

Ling couldn’t tell what Ban meant, but a small worry pricked her like a thorn in still water.

She worried she’d be wasting time—just a little—but the worry bloomed into reality in a blink.

The scorched ground shuddered like a drum, and the few motes of dust rose and wrapped Ban in a blurred cocoon.

It was like building Lego from the core outward; black dust layered up into armor that sealed Ban in a hard shell.

The shell kept thickening; height and bulk doubled, and crimson light flooded the hollows of his skull.

Those reddened pupils burned like coals.

That doubled frame loomed like a storm cloud.

That gaze was nothing but anger, hot as iron from the forge.

“Berserk, huh…” Ling muttered, voice small as a ripple.

ROAR—!

Just as Ling said.

Ban—

Had gone berserk.

Yeah, it was a cliché: can’t win, then flip the switch, like a monster‑of‑the‑week going supersize on a Saturday morning show.

To be fair, Ban was a Skeleton who’d only just grown a mind; near‑death berserk was probably the last card he knew to play.

His whole body was pitch black, and those crimson pupils locked on Ling like twin sights in the dark.

Some stubborn will must’ve told Ban the little one ahead was the only enemy, so the black giant fixed on Ling at once.

The wit was gone; the fight ran on instinct like a wind‑up toy.

He ran pigeon‑toed, arms flopping back on their own inertia, head dipped at a creepy angle, and tore at Ling like a broken marionette.

Locked as the target, Ling felt nausea roll through her, like a wave of sour heat from a broken stove.

She pushed out with her right palm; short as she was, she could only clamp the big Skeleton’s shin bone.

She sank her weight and swept at his other leg, a clean arc like a scythe through grass.

Ban had just reached her and was starting to crouch to strike when Ling’s sweep hit; one foot kicked wide, balance vanished, and he crashed back hard.

Ling didn’t stop; using the right shin bone as a pivot, she spun in place like a windmill catching a gust.

Ban’s black body got hauled along; his front half scraped the ground, and rough earth kissed black bone into sparking fireflies.

As she sped up, Ban lifted clear, no more scraping, but his joints showed strain like taut ropes fraying, links starting to give.

Krrrk—crack.

It snapped, as it was bound to.

At full spin, Ling still didn’t let go, fingers locked on the shin, but the joint couldn’t take it; it tore free, and Ban flew.

He carved a dark afterimage through the air and slammed into the wall, stone booming like a drum.

The pull in Ling’s hand vanished, and she slowed, puzzled, then saw the big black bone in her grip and Ban embedded in the far wall.

She looked from the giant Skeleton sunk into stone to the black shin in her hand that matched his missing piece like two halves of a shell.

She tilted her head, a bird curious at a shiny thing.

—Why does he feel weaker after going berserk?

He’d gone blow for blow with Edmund before; now, one exchange, and I took a leg off him…

—Is he really this weak?

She scratched the back of her head, then tossed the pilfered shin bone to the ground like a stick into leaves.

The giant Skeleton in the wall blinked back to himself and dragged free, only to drop because he was missing a leg.

He braced on both hands; bones creaked like old branches as Ban heaved his big frame upright.

Watching him, Ling felt a little guilty, like she was bullying a child on a rainy day.

Ban didn’t try to balance on one leg; after a beat of hesitation, he flipped into a handstand.

He swapped hands for feet, head down, and walked again; maybe because he was a Skeleton, he was steady as a pillar, not a tremor in sight.

Great—now it felt less like bullying a kid and more like ruining a circus act.

Ling didn’t think walking on his hands gave the big guy any edge; that weird runner’s posture was weak enough, and hand‑walking wouldn’t fix that.

She rushed to the big Skeleton’s side; with his head down now, she could reach it clean.

She hopped lightly and rose to skull level, breath calm as a pond at dawn.

Her gaze met Ban’s crimson eyes; in them, she saw her own shape, her right foot already whipping toward his skull like a striking comet.