Arthur's chest heaved, blood streaking across his face and arms, but he didn't falter. The mage's fury was dangerous, but manageable—he had survived worse. Yet just as he was about to press the advantage, a shadow split the smoke and fire around them.
From the ridge above, a figure landed silently, like death incarnate. Sleek black armor, daggers gleaming with runes that pulsed faintly with a deadly rhythm. Every soldier nearby instinctively stepped back, sensing the aura of a Master-class assassin.
"You… he's only Adept Level 1?" the assassin hissed, voice cold, almost amused. "How… amusing."
The mage's eyes widened in relief and surprise, realizing the assassin was here to avenge—or perhaps just finish the fight. "Then… help me!" she screamed, hurling another volley of destructive energy toward Arthur.
The assassin moved like liquid shadow, weaving through the flames with terrifying grace. Two attacks came simultaneously—daggers slicing through the air and the mage's fire surging in tandem. Arthur's mind fired on all cylinders.
Pain Conversion, Resonant Memory, Psychic Echo—he unleashed every facet of Guilt Requiem. His body moved with impossible speed, dodging the mage's volleys while blocking and redirecting the assassin's strikes. Sparks erupted as one dagger barely clipped his shoulder; another cut across his leg, sending him staggering but alive. Every injury fueled him. Every pain sharpened him.
The mage shrieked, hurling fireballs in rapid succession, and the assassin lunged, daggers aimed precisely at his joints. Arthur rolled, twisted, and spun between the two attacks, striking back with calculated blows. Blood splattered the ground, mixing with scorched earth, but his strikes weren't just survival—they were lessons learned from every opponent he had faced.
"You're fast… but not fast enough," the assassin snarled, striking again. Arthur blocked with his forearm, the force knocking him back several meters, sending dust and rubble into the air. The mage seized the moment to summon a towering inferno, aiming to engulf him completely.
Arthur gritted his teeth, every muscle screaming, and channeled Harmonic Burst. The pulse of pain-energy erupted outward, disrupting the mage's concentration and forcing her to stagger back. At the same moment, he twisted midair, narrowly avoiding a lethal slash from the assassin's dagger.
Two Masters against one Adept—and yet Arthur refused to yield. He pressed forward, weaving between attacks, turning the battlefield into a deadly dance. Every step, every dodge, every strike counted. The mage was forced to retreat, wards faltering under the relentless precision of Arthur's counterattacks.
The assassin hissed, a mixture of frustration and grudging respect in their eyes. "You… survive too well," they muttered, throwing a whirlwind of daggers aimed at Arthur's chest and limbs. He blocked and deflected, each strike sending shockwaves through the air. Pain Conversion roared, fueling every move, every step, every strike.
Blood ran freely down Arthur's body, yet he advanced, relentless. Every injury became power; every bruise sharpened his reflexes; every pain turned into deadly precision.
The battlefield trembled with their clash—the mage's fire, the assassin's strikes, and Arthur's unstoppable advance. Sparks flew, earth shattered, and screams of both fury and fear echoed across the West.
Arthur's eyes narrowed. He hadn't won yet—not by a long shot. But for the first time, the two Masters realized this Adept wasn't just surviving—he was a force they couldn't predict. And every heartbeat, every pulse of his Guilt Requiem skill, made him deadlier than they could imagine.
The battle raged like a storm—fire, steel, and blood mixing into a hellish symphony. Arthur's arms ached from deflecting dagger strikes, his lungs burned from dodging blasts of mage fire. Every strike he parried, every punch he took, every searing cut on his body fueled Guilt Requiem, but even with its power, the numbers were against him.
The assassin's daggers came faster now, almost too fast to see, slicing through the air with lethal precision. The mage's firestorm roared behind him, forcing him to leap and spin continuously. Sweat and blood mixed on his skin, stinging his eyes, but he couldn't stop—not yet.
Then, in the eye of the chaos, Arthur realized the truth: he could survive, maybe even hurt them—but he could not win. Not like this. Not alone.
He skidded backward, spitting blood, calculating the battlefield in a heartbeat. The terrain was against him; every escape route partially blocked, every path into the woods covered by enemy sight. The mage hissed, sending a pillar of flame toward his retreat. The assassin lunged, daggers aimed for his chest.
Arthur's chest heaved. If I die here… it ends before it begins. He feinted a strike, drawing the assassin slightly off balance, and then bolted toward a gap in the battlefield—a narrow corridor between scorched trees and collapsed debris. Pain shot through his leg, but he didn't stop.
From the corner of his eye, a flash of familiar motion—two figures closing in, weaving through the battlefield with deadly precision. Liana Maxwell and Kael Draven.
"Arthur!" Liana shouted, her tone cutting through the chaos. A fire rune exploded beside her, forcing the mage to step back, staggering her attack. Kael appeared moments later, twin daggers slicing through the assassin's trajectory, forcing them to parry instead of pursuing.
Arthur skidded to a halt behind them, chest heaving, blood streaking his face. Liana glared at him, eyes sharp but relieved. "You don't run from a fight alone, do you?" she snapped, though her hand shot a ward forward to cover their escape path.
Kael's expression was calm, deadly precise. "Then let's get you out. Follow our lead—don't think, just move." He slashed through the nearest cluster of enemy troops, clearing a path.
The assassin's eyes narrowed, fury twisting their face. "You won't escape—he's mine!" they hissed, lunging once more. But Liana's fire erupted in a barrier between Arthur and the assassin, forcing them to redirect. The mage, seething, cast another wave of fire—but Kael leapt high, vaulting over the attack and landing behind the enemy, his blades cutting through the mage's wards.
Arthur stumbled forward, adrenaline roaring in his veins. Every step, every dodge, every backward glance reminded him: he was not yet strong enough to face Masters alone.
Together, the three wove through the chaos—Arthur's Guilt Requiem allowing him to survive near-death blows, Liana controlling the battlefield with fire and wards, and Kael moving with lethal precision, cutting off the deadliest attacks.
The battlefield behind them burned and screamed, but ahead—a narrow ridge, dense trees, and shadows—promised temporary refuge. Arthur's bloodied hand gripped a fallen branch for balance as he whispered hoarsely, "Thanks… I… I didn't think I'd make it."
Liana smirked, her fiery aura reflecting in her eyes. "Don't thank me yet. You live, you fight. But next time? You survive and you fight."
Kael's eyes swept the battlefield, calculating and sharp. "Let's move. This isn't over, but you learn fast: even an Adept can't face Masters alone. Not today."
Arthur swallowed, nodding weakly, letting the two guide him as they disappeared into the shadowed forest—escaping the immediate danger, but leaving the battlefield still alive with flames, death, and the echo of Masters who would not forget his face.