Date: April 26, 542 years since the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored.
The white Herald had changed. It was not visible to the eye — its appearance remained the same: three meters tall, white clothing, faceless face, two swords shimmering with cold light. But Ulviya felt it with her skin, with every cell of her exhausted body. The creature had stopped playing. It had become serious.
The pressure of its aura increased several times over. The air around it grew dense, heavy, like water at depth. Ulviya struggled to breathe, and each breath came with pain, as if invisible vices were squeezing her lungs. Her vine, her living hand, shrank, hiding under her sleeve, and even there, she felt its trembling.
Datuk stood a few paces from the Herald, his body screaming with fatigue. The Berserker Spirit, pushed to its limit, demanded fuel, and there was almost none left. The cloak of bearskin, Sobra's gift, was heavy, almost unbearable, and each second in this state cost him strength he no longer had. Blood from the deep wound on his chest — the one the Herald had given him before they retreated — still seeped, soaking his torn shirt, making it sticky and cold.
"A little more," Datuk thought, gripping his axe. His hands trembled, but his grip was dead. "One more strike. The strongest. The last. Either we win, or I fall. And won't get up."
He looked at Rosh. The half-blood stood a few paces away, his fingers trembling, his face pale as the white sand underfoot. His Vector Spirit was almost useless against the Herald — attacks didn't reach their target, support demanded more and more strength. He was on the edge. Like Datuk. Like Ulviya.
"I can't keep the bracelets going anymore," Ulviya said, her voice quiet, almost soundless. "My strength is almost gone. A little more, and I'll lose consciousness."
She spoke the truth. Her left hand, her living vine, barely glowed. The bracelets she had made for Datuk and Rosh were draining the last of her energy, and she felt the world around her begin to blur, lose clarity. A little more, and she would collapse.
"Then we put everything into one strike," Datuk said, and there was no doubt in his voice. "From different sides. Simultaneously."
Rosh was silent. His mismatched eyes — green and brown — watched the Herald, and in their depths, in that cold, calm assessment, was something Ulviya had not seen before. Fear? No. Rather, understanding. Understanding that they might not survive. That this strike might be their last.
"You will have to deliver the final blow," Rosh said, looking at Datuk. "My vectors are almost useless against it. But if you attack... if I can support you... maybe we'll succeed."
"Maybe," Datuk replied. "It's our only chance."
They exchanged glances. In their eyes — tired, exhausted, almost defeated — something like agreement flickered. Two enemies, two Pillars, two warriors who an hour ago had been ready to kill each other, now stood shoulder to shoulder before a common death.
"I'll attack from behind," Ulviya said. Her left hand, her living vine, stretched into a thin, almost invisible whip. At its tip, in a special thickening, pulsed the repellent plant — the "white thorn."
The white Herald stood in the center of the valley, its swords shimmering, ready for battle. It did not attack. Waited. As if it knew they were preparing a final strike. As if it wanted to test what they were capable of.
---
Datuk closed his eyes. His body, wounded, tired, nearly dead, tensed in a final effort. The Berserker Spirit, which had carried him through so many battles, now demanded payment. And he was ready to pay.
"Berserker Spirit: Final Battle," he whispered, and his body blazed with crimson light.
The pain was unbearable. Every cell, every fiber, every muscle burned as if in fire. His heart beat with furious speed, blood boiled in his veins, and he felt his own body begin to break under the onslaught of this power. But with the pain came something else. Clarity. Speed. Strength.
He opened his eyes, and his pupils, green, bright, flooded with blood. The cloak of bearskin, Sobra's gift, flashed silver, and the hood with its burning eyes seemed to come alive. Datuk was no longer just a dwarf. He was a berserker. A warrior ready to die, but to win.
"Your turn," he said to Rosh, and his voice was low, hoarse, almost bestial.
---
Rosh nodded. His trembling, tired hands reached for his belt, where two thin, elegant daggers hung in special sheaths. Artifacts. A gift from his mentor, which he had never used. Until today.
He drew them, and the blades, covered in ancient runes, flashed with silver light. These were not ordinary daggers — they were conduits for his power, his Vector Spirit. With their help, he could do what he could not before. With their help, he could alter reality itself.
"Vector Spirit: Reality Tear," Rosh said, and his fingers, gripping the hilts, began to move, tracing complex, almost indistinguishable patterns in the air.
The daggers glowed brighter. The invisible lines of force he created now became visible — thin, silver threads stretching from the blades in all directions. They did not attack the Herald — they prepared the space for the strike. Created a zone where his vectors would work at full power. Where he could speed up Datuk, slow down the Herald, change the direction of strikes.
"When I throw the daggers," Rosh said, "they will create a distortion zone. Only for a second. One moment. If you don't make it in time..."
"We will," Datuk interrupted.
---
Ulviya raised her left hand. She could not attack head-on — her power was too small. But she could strike from behind. Could distract. Could make the Herald lose its balance for an instant. And that instant might be enough.
"Hold on," she told herself, feeling her strength leave her. "Hold on as long as you can. They need you."
She looked at Datuk. The dwarf stood, gripping his axe, his body wreathed in crimson flame, trembling with strain. His bloodshot eyes looked at the Herald with such hatred, such fury, that Ulviya's breath caught.
She looked at Rosh. The half-blood stood, gripping his daggers, his trembling, tired fingers tracing the final patterns. The silver threads stretching from the blades hung in the air, ready to be thrown.
They were ready.
---
"On the count of three," Datuk said. His voice was hoarse, strained, but steel rang in it. "One..."
He gripped his axe. His hands trembled, but his grip was dead. The crimson flame around him flared brighter, and the air hummed with tension.
"Two..."
Rosh raised his daggers. The silver threads stretching from the blades hung in the air, ready to be thrown. His mismatched eyes — green and brown — narrowed, and he froze, like a predator before a leap.
"Three!"
They lunged forward. All three. From different sides. In one moment.
Datuk leaped first. His axe, wreathed in crimson flame, arced toward the Herald's head. Berserker Spirit: Final Battle made him faster, stronger, more dangerous. Each movement was precise, deadly, and it seemed nothing could stop that strike.
Rosh threw the daggers. They traced silver arcs through the air and plunged into the sand on either side of the Herald, and at that moment, the space around the creature distorted. The silver threads from the blades wove into a complex pattern, and reality in that place became malleable as clay. Vector Spirit: Reality Tear created a zone where the laws of physics ceased to work. Where Datuk's speed doubled. Where the Herald's movements slowed.
Ulviya attacked from behind. Her whip, tipped with the white thorn, shot toward the creature's nape. The repellent plant pulsed, ready to release its power at any moment, throw the Herald back, knock it off balance.
Three strikes. Three different directions. Three deaths woven into a single moment.
Their weapons were a meter from the creature. Datuk saw Rosh's silver threads entangling the Herald, slowing its movements. Ulviya felt her whip slice through the air, approaching its target. Rosh clenched his fists, pouring all his will into maintaining the distortion.
One meter.
Half a meter.
They almost reached it. Almost won. It seemed that this strike would decide everything. That they would win. That they would survive.
But at that moment, when Datuk's axe, Ulviya's whip, and Rosh's daggers were mere centimeters from their target, the white Herald did something unexpected.
It did not dodge. Did not block. It simply... smiled.
Ulviya saw it. Rosh saw it. Datuk saw it. On the creature's faceless face, where its lips should have been, appeared a thin, barely noticeable line. A smile. Cold, predatory, triumphant.
They understood that they had fallen into a trap.
But it was too late.
Time seemed to stop. Their strikes hung in the air, unable to cover the last centimeters. The white light around the Herald flared brighter, and they felt their own power, their own will, begin to fade, melt, disappear.
Then the world exploded in white flame.