The mage's shield, brimming with magical power, revolved slowly around Punk, while Kane's bright vindictive aura cast a small radius of light into the darkness. For a brief moment, it seemed as if this eerie silence might stretch into eternity…
Then—
"Ding!!"
A slender, razor-sharp short blade shot out from the distant shadows, its tip dyed black by shadow energy. It struck Punk's shield with a crisp, resonating chime. The runes swirling across the barrier flickered faintly, but the attack was effortlessly repelled—bouncing harmlessly off the mage's shield.
Punk's mind sharpened with focus.
Even as the last echoes of the impact faded, he had already completed his next spell. Within a mere fraction of a second, Secondary Shock Cut was unleashed.
Outside his barrier, ten razor-thin etheric energy blades, vibrating at a high frequency, materialized in midair. With a single thought, they shot forward into the darkness, slashing in a wide forty-five-degree arc. The ground was shredded apart, the blades' vibrations turning solid rock into dust, sending shattered debris flying.
But—
Nothing.
The attack struck empty space, wasted magic lost in the void. Though the enemy had momentarily revealed their location, neither Punk nor Kane dared to pursue them. Another, more dangerous stalker was still lurking in the night, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
Punk felt the dwindling reserves of his mana—his powerful shield wouldn't last much longer.
Just then, Kane—still glowing like a walking beacon—suddenly turned to Punk. A wide, unsettling grin spread across his face, his voice carrying a mocking lilt.
"I heard that cowards—when pushed to the brink—can sometimes unleash incredible strength in a moment of desperation."
His grin widened.
"At least… that's what knight novels say."
Punk didn't bother to glance at him. Kane's thoughts mirrored his own, but he found nothing remarkable about it. This wasn't some clever strategy worth boasting over—it was simply the only choice left.
Gripping his fractured staff lightly, Punk's expression remained cold, his eyes devoid of anything but endless depth and chilling detachment.
"Then let's put those knightly stories to the test, shall we?"
Kane's laughter turned manic.
Without hesitation, he spun on his heel and, in a single merciless motion, drove his gleaming lance straight into Putt's lower abdomen.
The tip of the weapon tore through flesh, carving open a grotesque wound. Blood splashed across the grass beneath them, staining the earth in deep crimson.
Putt barely had time to react.
There was no scream.
No curse.
Only the wide, disbelieving eyes of someone betrayed.
His face, drained of color, wordlessly screamed the question his lips couldn't form:
Why?
Kane, still grinning, tilted his head and twisted the lance slightly, forcing even more pain through Putt's broken body. And then—just for good measure—he flooded the dying man's system with a surge of battle energy.
Not to save him.
But to artificially prolong his suffering.
The violent aura temporarily kept Putt conscious, ensuring he wouldn't black out from blood loss too soon.
Kane wrenched his weapon free.
More blood spattered onto his armor, dribbling down the steel in gleaming red streaks. The droplets falling from the lance shimmered beneath the night sky, casting eerie reflections against the golden glow of his fighting aura.
Punk glanced at Putt, his expression unreadable.
Kane had executed the move flawlessly.
The attack had been just precise enough to immobilize Putt, leaving him helpless. The surge of fighting energy ensured he would remain awake—just long enough to be useful.
And when that energy eventually ran out, the wounds would drain the rest of his life away in mere moments.
The enemy, skilled as they were, lacked a healer.
By the time they reached Putt—
He would already be a corpse.
Kane slung his lance over his shoulder and tilted his head toward Punk, as if to say:
Your turn.
Punk still didn't look at him.
His gaze remained fixed on Putt—but not out of pity.
There was nothing to pity.
His indifference was absolute.
No guilt.
No sadness.
Not even the cruel amusement Kane seemed to enjoy.
Just a simple thought:
Ah. Another living thing has ceased to be.
With an almost lazy shrug, he muttered a spell, layering Putt's broken body with magical protection.
Not to save him.
No—the barriers would only ensure that Putt could withstand a few extra attacks, delaying the enemy long enough for Punk and Kane to make their escape.
All of this happened in mere seconds.
And in the next instant, the two men dropped their barriers, unleashing their full strength. The power they had been hoarding burst forth in an instant, fueling an all-out sprint toward the distant lights of Konola City.
Neither spared a second glance at the dying man left behind.
Putt curled in on himself, body wracked with agony, his moans swallowed by the night.
The enemy would have no choice now.
They couldn't afford to chase Punk and Kane recklessly while leaving Putt behind—because doing so would mean exposing their backs to an unknown variable.
No one could be certain that the trembling, pathetic figure on the ground wasn't faking his weakness, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
No one could know whether Punk and Kane had deliberately staged this betrayal as a trap.
If they ignored Putt and pursued their targets, they risked being blindsided by a hidden ace.
No.
They would have to stop and finish Putt off first.
And by the time they did—
Punk and Kane would already be far beyond their reach.
"This world is cruel," Punk thought as the wind howled past his ears.
"Unless you stand above it, everyone is nothing but prey."
The force field surrounding him reduced wind resistance to nothing. The scenery, once crisp and clear beneath the moonlight, blurred into streaks of silver and black as his speed intensified.
Grass and flowers bent beneath the pressure of his passage, their stems snapping, their petals crushed beneath his magic-fueled momentum.
Putt, of course, was no protagonist.
Despite the protection spells clinging to his body, he lacked the will to resist. His mind, paralyzed by betrayal, offered no fight.
It took only four or five swift slashes before the stalkers finished him off.
His final thoughts?
"Why?"
He never received an answer.
The last sound that echoed through the night was a sharp, sickening crack.
And then—
Once again,
Silence.
The moon shone down upon the wasteland, undisturbed.
Tranquil.
Indifferent.
Just like the world itself.