The burning blade stopped midair, pinned by the Crimson Fire. Yet Aphelia felt the force inside it thrash like a caged beast, iron will clawing for freedom.

Shock bit cold and hot behind her eyes. Such overwhelming will, such mad power—wasn’t that the very Artifact Spirit she’d only just learned to wield?

The sear of Crimson Fire made the blade shudder harder. Fire and flame were one in it, a natural bane to soul-born foes. The Land of the Dead had proved it plain. To Aphelia, common dead were just dry logs; they only fed the Crimson Fire higher.

The blade glowed red-hot; its intent trembled. One more push, and it would fall to ash.

Just then, a figure burst from the command tent.

Violet and the others fell back at once. The newcomer was ringed by a storm of broken blades that slashed in unison toward Aphelia. They moved so fast the air popped in bursts, a verdict of steel aimed straight at her life.

“Ancient Martial Flow—Shattering Fist!!”

Crimson Bracer Gauntlets flashed onto Aphelia’s forearms. She didn’t know what this was, but she wouldn’t wait to die. Power knotted to a point in her fist, then punched through the sea of Crimson Fire.

Under the Shattering Fist, the fire-sea parted on a gust of fist-wind, storm-tides surging to drown the incoming blades. The figure didn’t retreat. She braced into the onrushing flames, drew the greatsword off her back, and swung hard.

In her hands, the ruined-looking greatsword kicked up a gale. It blew the fire-sea wide, and hidden sword-qi knifed for Aphelia. It flew at a speed no greatsword should, nearly cutting her down.

Aphelia’s instinct yanked her aside. She slipped the slash and drove a punch at the shadow. But the shadow had read her; the greatsword leveled like a giant shield.

The shattered blade couldn’t hold. Crimson Fire ate at it, and the two-man-tall greatsword broke apart. Aphelia moved to swat the fragments and rush in—then instinct stabbed her nerves. The shards held something else inside.

BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM—

The fragments turned into vicious bombs. They blew around her, and scorching fire swallowed her silhouette in a breath. The attacker’s true face came clear.

Black short hair. Brows like blades. A girl with war in her eyes. The blast gust tore back the robe that hid her features. Even with Aphelia wreathed in flame, the girl stayed taut. She unlatched a massive arbalest from her back. A faint ripple of Aether hummed. She aimed straight at Aphelia.

“You really don’t hold back!”

Aphelia’s cold laugh sounded behind the girl. The blaze hadn’t devoured her. The Crimson Fire sea clung to her like armor, drinking the flames. Space split, and she stepped through to the girl’s back.

At the voice, the girl snapped like a sprung trap. She smashed the arbalest at Aphelia and threw herself backward, flying in an arc. Aether fluttered again. Two assault rifles winked into her hands, and she aimed anew.

The rifles were dangerous, but the arbalest carried real threat. Even after she let go, it kept swinging at Aphelia. Its frame held a will—an Artifact Spirit inside. With the greatsword as a lesson, Aphelia didn’t smash it outright. She drew a deep breath.

Crimson Flame surged again, binding the heavy arbalest and keeping it from her. She used the opening. Her body exploded forward, silent as a knife.

Seeing that terrible speed, the girl’s pupils tightened. Her rifles opened up. A storm of metal drowned the air in a heartbeat. The guns defied sense, fire pouring like rain. On a battlefield, that coverage would rival a Vulcan cannon.

Aphelia’s ghostlike form threaded the storm. Her black eyes rimmed crimson. As she closed, she twisted mid-stride and drove her right palm up for the girl’s jaw.

“Ancient Martial Flow—”

Threat flashed point-blank. The girl’s instincts bristled like a cat’s fur. She dropped the rifles. Two thigh-sheathed daggers cleared their scabbards, carving twin cold arcs.

“Piercing Palm!!”

Ting————————

For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that clear chime. The twin daggers caught Aphelia’s wrist, cold light kissing crimson steel. The ring of dagger on Bracer Gauntlets made everyone nearby wince. The sound was a continuous hum; common soldiers clutched their ears. Aphelia and the girl’s gazes crossed.

So, this was Hrok, newly awakened?

The face matched; the air did not. The Hrok she’d met had poise, a touch of the otherworldly. If she had to name it, it was like the sword immortals of the East.

This Hrok carried battle-lust thick as smoke—a berserker to the bone. Her cutting methods lit a thrill in the blood.

Hrok felt Aphelia’s look and smiled. It was the smile of finding an equal, and the madness of challenging the strong.

Her twin daggers, braced against Aphelia’s wrist, broke to glittering shards.

Hrok was fast. Aphelia was faster. Her attacks left no seams. Crimson Fire pushed her body; she snapped back and kicked for Hrok’s chest.

This time Hrok’s sleeve-blades hadn’t even sprung. She threw her arms up, trying to let her arm-guards bleed off the force. Her read was wrong. Spectacularly wrong. Not her fault—if she knew the name of this move, she’d never block with her arms.

Because its name was—Bone Breaker!

At the instant her forearms met Aphelia’s armored shin, Hrok heard bones crack. And it wasn’t over. The heavy force punched through her bracers and blasted her backward. That weight and power were not something two arms could parry.

In that moment, Aphelia felt a flicker of relief.

When she’d learned the Ancient Martial Flow from Mist Bloom, its fists and feet held only three moves: Shattering Fist, Bone Breaker, Piercing Palm. Three simple forms that link seamless in any case, without worry of misapplied strength.

Three moves, yet in a fighter’s hands they change like clouds. They bloom into countless ways to kill. They can rain down like a storm, relentless, or fall like spring rain—silent, fatal.

Facing Hrok, Aphelia used that seamless, shifting onslaught to pin down Hrok’s protean weapon craft. She hadn’t forgotten how Shilwen had named Hrok a Weapon Master.

“Violet, who do you think wins?”

Shilwen watched with interest, sat down, and somehow produced a bag of snacks. She ate with relish.

“Hard to say. Hrok’s weapon skills made even Brynhildr give ground back then. Yet Aphelia now can press her head-on with a wild assault. That really makes me… look forward to it.”

Even Violet’s eyes burned bright. The soldiers and Yi beside them were outright fervent, staring at Aphelia’s valiant form.

When that flurry ended, Aphelia didn’t chase. She wanted to see how fearsome Hrok’s weapon arts truly were, how deep she’d mastered them. Hrok didn’t disappoint. In the next heartbeat, a massive tower shield flew from her side, hammering straight for Aphelia’s face.

“Again? No—”

Aphelia moved to punch the familiar attack. From behind the tower shield, a figure sprang, sleeve-blades flashing at her throat.

Crisis flared, and the sea of Crimson Fire roared. Aphelia’s just-thrown right fist kicked up a pressure wave. She twisted with it, skirting the crossing blade, but a sleeve-blade still split her shoulder. Blood misted the air.

And that wasn’t the end. This round, it was Hrok’s turn to go feral.

Her sleeve-blade snapped. Hrok ripped a spiked mace off her back and brought it down, straight for Aphelia’s ankle.