"Ah… headache."

Oren struggled to open his eyes, muttering softly. He felt terribly uncomfortable, like he’d drunk too much last night and was now hungover. But the moment his eyes opened, he saw himself in a dimly lit room.

Ahead, Hilwen the Elvenfolk slowly raised her sword.

"Not this again…"

Cursing inwardly, Oren shut his eyes again. He reached behind his back, trying to untie the ropes binding him. As he worked, he heard the crisp *shink* of Hilwen drawing her blade.

"Once I’m free, I’m joining the anti-Elvenfolk club," he thought. Then he remembered Yamwen and dropped the idea. Hilwen didn’t know his thoughts. Oren clearly heard her slow footsteps approaching, her sword tip scraping the ground with a crackle.

Just then, he freed his hands.

The next second, Hilwen swiftly raised her longsword, the blade slicing the air with a *whoosh*.

*Bang!*

But as she swung down, Oren sprang up from the floor. Startled, Hilwen’s sword slammed into the ground with a *bang*. Oren rolled away, putting distance between them.

"Tch."

Oren heard Hilwen’s annoyed grunt. In the gloom, he spotted his own sword—the Long Edge, ancestral blade of House Rodni.

As he lunged for it, Hilwen charged, swinging a horizontal slash.

"Damn it!"

Oren stepped back as her dazzling blade flashed. Hilwen pressed forward, gripping her sword with both hands. Oren ducked under her strike.

"Hey, hey! We saved your life, didn’t we?" Oren retreated another step, his hand brushing the floor. Hilwen advanced fast.

"I didn’t ask you to save me."

"Are you three years old?" Oren roared. He flung a handful of dust into Hilwen’s eyes.

She cried out, stumbling back, hands over her face. Oren seized his sword.

"Alright, Your Highness." He gripped the Long Edge and swung it sideways. Cyan magical light coiled around the blade like soft moonlight, flooding the room with glow. "I expect a damn good explanation."

Hilwen wiped dust from her eyes, glaring up at him. "No explanation needed, Oren of Nivia. I just didn’t know *you* and Yamwen saved me. If I’d known the Dragon Slayer rescued me? I’d have slit your throat on the spot."

*Ugh, harsh.* Oren shrugged. "Well, whatever. But stop calling me ‘Oren of Nivia.’ Call me Oren Rodni."

"Hm?" Hilwen looked puzzled. Oren sighed lazily.

"A dead man’s name means nothing to me."

"Ah, figured."

Boots scraped the floor. They clashed head-on—Hilwen’s thrust met Oren’s block. In that simple move, Oren felt her sword mastery: fluid, no hesitation.

*Clang!* Sparks exploded. A deafening *clang* shook the room. Sword winds scattered dust like a hurricane. The air seemed to boil from the heat.

In the next instant, they were gone—reappearing in flashes. Blades became streaks of light, clashing in the tight space. Sparks flew like lightning. Gusts scattered dust, then gathered it again. Oren’s moonlit sword swung like a meteor, lighting the gloom.

After another collision, they pulled back. Hilwen raised her longsword one-handed, sidestepped, and thrust.

*Clang!* Oren blocked the gleaming tip. Sparks overlapped in the raspy screech of metal and magic. Against the sparks, Oren charged ruthlessly into her range, sword raised to strike—but Hilwen swept her blade at him.

Their attacks crossed. Oren was a fraction faster. His blade grazed Hilwen’s face. Blood spurted. She lost balance. Her sword veered off, missing Oren by a hair, and slammed into the wall behind him.

Trapped, Hilwen couldn’t pull it free. Oren raised his sword to strike—

But Hilwen twisted her blade sideways. *Snap!* She snapped the longsword, retreated with the broken half, Oren chasing.

Suddenly, she stopped. Straightened. Raised the shard. Charged point-blank.

*Bang!*

Like colliding cavalry, it ended in a flash.

Oren’s glowing sword pointed at Hilwen’s throat. Her broken blade had only nicked his neck—a shallow cut.

"This ends here," Oren murmured, shifting his blade.

Hilwen fluttered her lashes. Released her grip. The shard clattered to the floor.

"Alright, dear Elven prince—or princess." Oren kept his sword steady. "Know this: we’ll help you rescue your brother—Lacres. Trust us. Dysaia, Yamwen, and I mean no harm."

"Ah, I believe you, Lord Oren." Her reply was startlingly blunt. "But that’s the problem."

*Bang!*

Her foot shot up—a vicious kick to Oren’s groin. He hissed, doubling over. Hilwen drew a dagger from her waist and loomed close. The blade gleamed as she whispered:

"I’m not here to save Lacres. I’m here to kill him."