From the smoke, a blade lunged—a warped spike, helixed with mixed elements, crashing toward Aphelia’s diving spear.
The spear tip met twin spirals head‑on; Arcane Power and raw elements slammed like colliding storms.
Silence held like a gulped breath; metal grated; then an elemental flood and an arcane maelstrom burst.
It raced outward like wildfire, devouring the plain.
Not flame, but a mixed‑element gale warring with Arcane Power, ripping the flatlands like uprooted reeds.
A normal storm would flare once and die, yet this one broke rule after rule like a rising tide.
Waves kept piling because three figures stood at the eye, striking sparks like whetstone and steel.
Each clash kicked a shockwave; each mad weapon strike hammered the storm like thunder on cliffs.
Aphelia lifted her spear, knocked aside two blades like swatting crows, and flung them wide.
A magic circle blossomed behind her like a moonflower. She sneered, voice cold as frost.
Spatial Spell—Spatial Detonation!
The siblings, leaning on numbers, traded a glance like flitting swallows and raised opposite elemental shields.
The sudden blast bloomed in the void, a whirlpool’s lip from swallowing them whole.
Naive~
Aphelia’s laugh rang thin as a blade, and the siblings’ pupils widened like struck bells.
The outer blast ended, but inside their shields, two Arcane arrows slid in like snakes.
They punched through rib gaps and armor, and sank deep like winter thorns.
Though spells need words, nobody said I had to be loud.
Seizing the opening, Arcane Power pooled at her spear like stormlight, yet she used it as a wand.
Not an Ancient Martial Flow technique—just cold spellcraft.
Water Spell—Ice Arrow!
A modest spell swelled into a battering ram, sped near supersonic, and screamed like a white comet.
It nailed the falling brother, froze him to earth like poured mercury, then burst on impact.
Shards fanned into spikes, knitting a vast cage like hoarfrost vines.
The spikes linked and sealed him as he thrashed, locking him like a glacier’s grip.
With Titleholder‑grade Arcane Power poured in, that Ice Arrow could bloom into Ice Age.
On the other flank, the sister lit flame in her palm, cauterized wounds like solder, and charged.
She rushed Aphelia in midair, blade howling like a north wind.
Elements thickened around her like stormclouds; the edge carried a swarm of aspects with no flourish.
She just cut. That bare strike was harder to dodge, because her speed leapt toward Titleholder.
How?
Aphelia caught the frontal cut like a ringing bell, when a straight second stroke slid from below.
The upper shadow still hung like an afterimage, as if one blade stood in two places.
Speed alone couldn’t explain it; that was past light, edging into concepts like mirage and law.
The lower edge scraped sparks off her black armor with a scream like tearing slate.
Shock pricked Aphelia; since donning this suit, no one had ever left a mark.
The plate came from a near‑Titleholder dragon, hard enough to shrug a Titleholder’s full strike.
Her Arcane layer over it made a defense that bordered on invincible, like jade under ice.
That glaring scratch meant force; her mind tallied it like an abacus.
It’d take roughly a quarter of her Titleholder strength to carve that much.
Another slice cut past as the thought formed, kissing her visor like a moth’s wing.
The flurry pressed her for the first time since becoming a Titleholder, like rain choking breath.
Why? A forbidden art’s price? Power jumping tiers never comes free in this world.
And that thin, slender blade—was it a Titleholder‑grade weapon too? No chips, no wobble.
Impressive. Troubling.
Roar!
She drove Arcane Power and loosed a dragon’s roar, trying to hurl the girl away like a gale.
But from the gust, the cold edge flashed again, angling for her unarmored hand like a viper.
Still counting lines? Keeping reason? She’s got some mind left?
Aphelia stopped dodging. Her spear folded into Bracer Gauntlets with a snap like folding wings.
The weapon called Valkyrie earned its name; the strike left no trace and bounced back.
In that heartbeat, Aphelia shed her armor like a snake skin.
Clinging to disguise now meant death by suppression, like sinking in mud.
Fists drew to her waist; she shot straight at the rebounding girl, arms humming with danger.
Ancient Martial Flow—Thrusting Palm!
A ruinous palm surged out like a falling mountain; only faster, only stronger would cage her.
As her palms grazed the girl, instinct tugged; Aphelia turned her head like a reed.
The dreadful blade only shaved a hair, not her throat, like lightning missing the tree.
Her twin palms landed; the girl bowed like a drawn bow and flew.
The blast shattered her black armor like pottery, leaving pale skin stamped by a vivid palm.
Not the outcome Aphelia wanted; that mark was only skin‑deep, a ripple on water.
She’d expected the Arcane she drove in to snap the cervical spine like dry twigs.
Yet the girl only flew, her frame unchanged, no deep damage, like stone under rain.
A thorn of trouble lodged in Aphelia’s chest.
No expected damage… so the body isn’t the price for that power.
She dropped to the ground and leveled her breath, steady as a bellows.
Her Bracer Gauntlets breathed like living metal, currents flowing like tides over steel.
That armament, the Valkyrie made gauntlet, wasn’t a mundane weapon, but a legend’s apex tool.
Maybe the flaw lies in the weapon. Let’s test it.
Fists again at her waist, a Thrusting Palm’s prelude, yet her feet set for a straight rush.
The earlier strike fell short, so Aphelia shifted tactics like a river finding a new bed.
If speed and strength together can’t cage you…
She sighed and stood like a monolith. She breathed in, breathed out, and waited.
The girl stabbed her blade into earth, carving a ten‑meter scar like a plow, and stopped.
Look close, and a strange figure flickered in her pupils like heat haze, then vanished.
Under pale skin, something other than blood flowed, nauseating enough to eclipse her beauty.
Beneath shattered black plate, the palm mark faded as it flowed; scale‑like things surfaced.
A twisted sigil rose at her brow like a bruise.
She held the blade loose, no stance, no prep, and blurred before Aphelia in a blink.
Murder swam in her eyes; the falling edge didn’t move Aphelia a hair.
If anything, calm settled over her like snow.
She let out a breath; her right fist snapped straight from the waist like a spear.
No flourish—just a plain straight, carrying a forward‑unto‑death momentum. She didn’t dodge the neck‑cut.
Fist and blade crossed paths like crossing stars.
The neck‑bound blade seemed ultimate‑fast, beyond reach, yet it never fell.
The fist looked plain and slow, yet it landed first, thundering into the girl’s body.
