The knight in gleaming white armor tried to smother the clinging black flames with Arcane Power, only to realize in despair that the more he channeled, the fiercer they burned.

Helpless, he shed most of his armor before the black fire ate his flesh, leaving only a brutal frame behind. In that moment, the figure inside was revealed, and Fenrir, hovering midair, nodded as if confirming a thought.

“So that’s it… you serve those two brothers. Beast of Shadow—Andrew, if I’m not mistaken.”

The black flame raged savagely against the knight’s armor, unreasonable as a wildfire. Yet in Fenrir’s hands, it gentled like lambs, a stream circling her as if it knew its master.

“Hmph… so what. Your Dark Dragon Clan never knew reason. You ravage and seize all, but never let a single coin slip to your servants.”

Braced by the frame, Andrew’s laugh cut sharp and hollow. He pushed himself up and flipped Fenrir the middle finger. The massive, sacred knight’s lance in his grip clashed with his twisted body, a cruel contrast.

His body had shrunk. Look close, and you’d see the remaining frame wasn’t worn at all—it had been fixed onto him by some vicious method, forced into his flesh like a cage.

Mana Crystal rods, thick as knuckles, thrust out from the frame and punched through every joint. Beneath his skin, bulging patches marked their path. Arcane Fatigue showed plain on his pallid flesh, like frostbite under dead light.

Yet those Mana Crystal rods pinned down the invading Arcane Power, then siphoned the chaos, feeding the frame and Andrew within. Even as the body beneath had deformed and withered.

Call them supports if you like; they looked far more like instruments of torture.

What sickened Fenrir most wasn’t the blood-spattered frame, but Andrew’s face—warped, sprouting partial traits of a Dark Dragon.

“How vile… for power, what did those idiot brothers do to you…”

She muttered, then launched at Andrew without hesitation. The black flame in her hand stretched into a greatsword, and her sweeping strikes drove the lance-wielding Andrew step by step backward.

“What did they do? Heh… hahahahahaha!”

Fenrir’s murmur seemed to light a fuse. Andrew surged, his heavy thrust made Fenrir give ground by one step. In that heartbeat, he pulled the ring-trigger on his lance; under his pale skin, streams of Arcane Power were ripped out by the Mana Crystal rods. His face twisted in raw pain, but his grip didn’t waver. A deep-blue sigil snapped into being at the lance tip.

“Water Art—”

Frost formed on air at his call. Under that crushing pressure, Fenrir roared on instinct, eyes feral with rage as black flame erupted like a bursting spring.

“Bane-Sundering Ice Lance!”

From the deep-blue sigil, a giant sacred lance, pure as sculpture in primal ice, howled straight for Fenrir. Even her savage black flames couldn’t blunt that extremity.

The colossal ice lance drove Fenrir out of the sky and nailed her to the earth. Storm-born cold washed everything; even the city walls etched with defensive sigils filmed over in winter-white.

Andrew wasn’t spared. Frost wrapped him too, but the frame snarled hot, its Mana Crystal rods shedding heat that melted the kill-cold. Andrew’s eyes rolled white; veins knotted and bulged.

It was a holy lance forged of the purest ice, not a hint of impurity, clear to the core. Its purity was terrifying, and its power had broken past a Titleholder’s limit.

One strike spent, Andrew’s knight’s lance turned to a powerless trinket, frost-eaten into scrap. He let go with a bitter chuckle.

“Not the real thing. Couldn’t even fully release this one strike before it died.”

Twisted as he looked, he was obviously satisfied. This was the blow he trusted most to kill Fenrir. He gulped air like a drowning man; Arcane Fatigue slammed him in a wave. The Mana Crystal rods that were absorbing for him began to crack.

Under his pale skin, blue veins had been dyed deep navy by Arcane Power, eerie as midnight. He coughed hard, the kind of cough that threatened to shake his withered frame apart.

After a time, he looked at the stuff in his palm and smiled helplessly. On that warped face, a smile looked worse than a sob.

Crystallized impurities from chaotic Arcane Power—junk Mana Crystals sprouting inside him. Without that frame, Arcane Fatigue would have killed him long ago.

He turned toward the place pierced by the giant ice lance. Layered ice crystals covered everything; a thin cold drifted like mist. He felt uneasy, wanted to approach, but his balance failed. He fell.

Trip on something? Impossible with the frame’s support—unless a Titleholder-tier object blocked him. Then what—

He tried to push up. His hands met the ground, and he found the answer. Below his knees, there was nothing at all. Empty space.

He turned to where he had stood. His calves had been frozen into solid ice. The Mana Crystal rods at his knee joints had powdered away.

“Damn it, am I at the limit? No… I can’t die. I can’t—”

His roar stopped at his throat, cut short by a pitch-black greatsword that severed his neck. Fury and refusal were still in his eyes. His face froze into a final snarl.

The sword’s owner was Fenrir, breath steaming cold.

She looked ragged. Her regal clothes hung in tatters. One arm lay sheathed in ice; if not for the flame burning beneath, it would have looked lifeless.

Black dragon scales covered her whole body. Curved horns unfurled fully. Her hands blurred toward claws. Black wings folded behind her, keeping frost off her back. Searing flame, not feral black fire, took over, melting ice inch by inch.

Fenrir flicked her hand. What sprayed out wasn’t blood, but bluish-black arcane residue.

“Arcane Fatigue bad enough to breed junk Mana Crystals… and you still launched a strike like that. I have to respect it.”

She met Andrew’s last desperate gaze and sighed without meaning to. She pulled her blade free. Searing flame snapped from her fingertip and took the rest of Andrew’s body.

Then she sagged to the ground, as if the power had left her. Pain made her clutch her abdomen; sure enough, a deep red stain spread from a vicious wound.

Black flame crawled from her finger, not to burn an enemy this time, but to flow like Arcane Power over the wound. The instant it touched, she clenched her teeth, red eyes widening against the pain.

As the flame sank in, shards of deep-blue crystal came out like splinters, drawn by the black fire. Even Fenrir’s eyes glazed with a misted sheen.

“Hurts like hell. Every time, just like this.”

Fenrir sucked air in rough, ragged pulls, trying to ride the pain, not much better than Andrew had been. The savage wound in her belly knit slowly, and with every blue shard removed, her breath eased.

“Demigod-class magic… even a sudden Dark Dragon body can’t just tank it. Nero, Nero, I covered you again. You owe me… pay—back…”

She mumbled, eyes drifting shut. As she fell into sleep, black flames gathered of their own will around her, weaving a ward to guard her.

Outside the city, Fenrir’s battle was done. Inside, the fight was far from over.

Zhe and Jasmine held against the sweeping shadow again and again. The massive darkness weighed on them like a mountain. Jasmine’s iron fan rang with each block; her palms tingled numb. Without Zhe easing the strikes, she doubted how many she could still take.

“Nero, up! Get Christine out—now!”

Zhe drew a deep breath. His wide black robe rippled though no wind blew. He planted himself before Nero, who held Christine, and faced the serpentine shadow tail. He threw a punch without hesitation.

“Ancient Martial Flow, Revised—Rush Punch!”

Impact against impact, a blast of air tore across the street. Zhe’s fist landed first, smashing the serpent tail aside and knocking the shadow off balance. But Zhe’s face turned paper-white. The arm that met the tail hung limp and useless.