Aphelia’s gut clenched like a drawn bow. Behind her, two auras flared at once, twin storms breaking loose and racing after her. The hulking nine-headed hydra blinked out of the air, vanishing like mist at sunrise, as if it had never been. The chill that rippled through her was ice down the spine.

That white figure’s shield—no doubt an artifact-tier relic, a moon-bright wall against the world.

Sure, Aphelia guessed her Valkyrie lance was close to artifact-grade, a blade of dawn caged in steel. But she had never wielded a true relic. Shaping one from nothing was like trying to sculpt lightning; it fought the hand.

Of the three Titleholders, Aphelia wasn’t the one built for long runs. The proof was simple—two silhouettes behind her cut the wind like falcons, their shadows gaining with every heartbeat.

“Damn it. They even found two Titleholders faster than me—this isn’t a coincidence.” Her frustration was a hot coal in the chest.

Aphelia stopped fleeing. A giant magic circle bloomed under her feet like frost spreading across glass. She didn’t hide it from the hunters at her back. Her voice rang like a bell across the plain.

“Space Spell—Spatial Detonation!”

This time she didn’t delay it like she had with the siblings. She hurled the spell right at the spot the two Titleholders would cross, a detonation set in their path. No choice—only time bought by thunder.

The Titleholder lurking in the void felt the spell stir like a ripple under still water. Too late. Aphelia’s chant snapped like a whip. The void cracked—whoom—and a figure tumbled out, ragged as a kite in a squall.

The white figure wasn’t versed in space. His sense lagged a beat. He took the blast head-on. The spell wasn’t high-tier, but under Aphelia’s hand it was a hammer of pressure, pushing him back step after step like waves battering a cliff.

At the same breath, the void-born threw a short blade. Its edge glittered with cold starlight, its aura twisted like smoke. It sliced past Aphelia’s cheek, a winter gust that bit deep.

The blade was only forearm-long, yet it hit like a boulder rolling downhill. Midair, Aphelia was flipped by the shock, a leaf tossed by a gale. Her black armor finally failed.

Her visor shattered like dark glass. The curse inside that blade woke—wounds that wouldn’t close, rot under a frozen moon. A thin line marked her pale face, and blood ran like a red thread that wouldn’t stop.

The pair gave her no time to heal. The hidden Titleholder abandoned stealth, sprinting in with another short blade held low, a wolf’s gleam in his eyes. His other hand spun up a magic circle, lines humming like a hive.

Behind him, the white figure drew a pure-white lance. Light gathered on it, a sun distilled into a point. Aphelia knew—if the assassin pinned her, the lance would end her. One strike. No dawn after.

Instinct surged like a hawk diving. She raised her sword, ready to trade wound for wound, to crack the net and slip out. In that heartbeat, the world in her sight slowed, a river of time turning to glass.

“Ancient Martial Flow—”

The short blade was already at her throat, near as breath. The assassin looked flawless, a calm lake without ripples; to counter here seemed like asking stones to fly.

“Thunderclap!!”

The knife hovered less than a fist from her neck. Yet the assassin watched, eyes widening, as her sword thrust for his heart like lightning splitting a storm. His own blade wouldn’t fall. It stuck like iron in freezing rain.

Aphelia’s Titleholder ability had triggered. The true current she had kept hidden behind calm waters.

An immortal standing outside the river of time—she could disturb its flow while the stream never touched her. The effect only wrapped her immediate space, and it faded the instant her technique ended. No cost to spark it—no toll paid at the gate.

At least, none she had felt. That unknown worried her like thunder beyond the hills. If the price was piling up somewhere, waiting to break like a dam, she didn’t want to be there when it burst.

But now, there was no time for fear. Her blade lunged like thunder toward his heart. He had two choices: finish his cut at her neck, or tear away and live to hunt.

He chose shock and fear. When the stretched moment shattered like thin ice, his blade twisted. He split the void behind him with a clean arc, slipped inside like a fish into dark water. Her sword struck empty air.

It was enough. Aphelia killed the thrust, breath steadying on coals. A prepared scroll flared—speed stacked high, a wind at her heels. She had a plan now, bright and sharp—force all three into pure melee, strip away their tricks with fire.

Yes—the Plague of Beasts. Her sense had told her the seal still held, a storm chained in place. That horror hadn’t cracked free.

They likely didn’t know what to do once it came loose. Aphelia’s seal was etched in blood, stamped with her aura like a signature under moonlight. Unless she broke it herself, a forced release would kick like a Titleholder’s strike—Arcane Power bursting wild, a storm that would erase anything below quasi-Titleholder tier.

She turned to leave—and a short blade speared out of the void at her chest, a snake from grass. She spun too late. She met it head-on.

The impact slammed her like a battering ram. Her body lurched, blood geysering from her lips. With her speed spell active, she had practically thrown herself onto the point, a falcon flying into an arrow.

As she dropped from the air, a question burned through the haze. How had he struck from that dead angle, in the space where reflex dies? If he could do that every time, he would’ve killed her at the start.

She saw the blood on that short blade. She remembered his motions. Clarity clicked like a lock.

It wasn’t a fresh stab at kissing range. It was the blade he’d thrown earlier, slid into the void under his control, laid like a trap, waiting for her to ram the spear tip.

That magic circle in his hand wasn’t built to bind her—it was a leash on the blade. His rush had been a screen of dust, a charge meant to hide the fang waiting in the dark.

The ground burst, carving a crater like a fallen meteor. Aphelia lay at its heart, a figure amid shattered stone.

Her armor was wreckage—limbs and frame clung together, the center blown open like a cracked shell. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth, scarlet rain. The pain in her chest hammered, each breath a forge bellows.

She hadn’t forgotten: the Titleholder above held a lance poised like the sun at noon. And in the void lurked a killer, not just a sneak, but a blade-priest of the assassin’s road.

Escape was ash. She felt it; the man in the sky had locked onto her, a hawk’s gaze pinning prey.

Her black armor burst apart, shards flying to the four winds. Arcane Power gathered around her like mist condensing, shaping into a small barrier close as skin. It guarded against blades probing from the void—small, but tied straight to her senses. If a knife poked an inch from that darkness, she’d feel it like a thorn under fingernail.

Aphelia exhaled, sadness a cloud over steel. Her sword melted away, flowing into Bracer Gauntlets along her forearms. Arcane Power pulsed with her breath, tide in and tide out.

She set a bow stance, fists drawn. Her wide black cloak billowed, a raven’s wing over stormlight. In that moment, she wore the air like a crown, a Valkyrie ready for dusk.

The demon-face carved on the gauntlets trembled as if breathing. Its vicious eyes filled, drop by drop, with blood-red, a sunrise in scarlet.

Life and death balanced on a blade’s edge. The white figure’s strike would be the first drumbeat of this duel.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk. Quite the parade you’ve got here.”

A flippant voice came from one side, lazy as summer wind. Aphelia didn’t dare turn her head. She loosened a ribbon of sense, testing the newcomer like a fingertip testing a current.

High above, the white figure hesitated. His charging lance paused for a heartbeat, a falcon hanging on the wind. His lock didn’t waver; he held her in his sights, waiting for a crack in stone.

Through sense, Aphelia traced the newcomer’s shape. A young man in silver-white knight armor, crimson short hair like a flare, a face cut with confidence. His tone dripped with swagger, a cat’s grin at the mice.

“Two against one lady… don’t rush—let me finish.”

He drew breath to scold the white duo. Then he paused, a stone skipping the water. At some point his sword was in his hand, and it came down with casual grace. He clipped a short blade thrusting from the void by his side, hooked it like a fish, and ripped the hidden Titleholder out of the dark.

The young man flung the assassin away, no fuss, no strain. He gave himself the space of a heartbeat, then spoke, voice smooth as oil.

“Where’s your knightly grace? No wonder you’re not even candidates for your lord’s knights… ah, my bad. That slipped out.”

A playful smile hung on his mouth. His eyes flicked toward Aphelia, amusement glinting like foxfire.

The two above twitched at the words, insult a spark on dry tinder. The assassin hurled another short blade, trying the old trick, a shadow’s tooth.

“Care—”

The rest never came. Aphelia’s eyes went wide.

The short blade, about to pierce the void like a swallow into dusk, dropped straight down as if its spirit had been snuffed. It thudded into the dirt.

The young man stamped it under his boot without mercy, heel firm as an iron nail.