No one talked. No one asked.
They moved with dangerous familiarity, like soldiers who fought countless battles together.
The legion stepped in first. Shield angled. Spear aligned along its edge. His presence alone reshaped the field, pressing into Zealth's right side, narrowing space until movement itself felt restricted.
Pangil drifted outward, circling rather than engaging, his daggers hanging loose at his sides. His posture looked careless—lazy, even—but his eyes expressed differently. They watched, waited.
Behind them, the druid murmured under his breath, voice low and steady. Pale green threads shimmered around his staff, slipping outward and settling over his allies like quiet currents. Reinforcing. Restraining. Controlling.
And the gunslinger—
Still as stone.
One hand on his revolver, the other relaxed. No tension. No wasted movement. Only patience, sharpened to a blade.
Zealth exhaled, lifting his buckler while tightening his grip on the sheathed sword.
He knew this.
He had fought them before.
More than once.
Annoyingly so.
Yet familiarity did nothing to ease the pressure.
The shield came first.
A heavy, controlled impact. Zealth shifted, letting it scrape across his side rather than meeting it head-on. His scabbard rose—
The spear followed. Fast. Precise.
He deflected it with his buckler, guiding the thrust away from his center.
He looked for an opening.
There was none.
No hesitation.
No misstep.
Only deliberate, synchronized movement.
Pangil slipped in at his flank.
A flicker—
Steel flashed.
Zealth twisted, catching the dagger against his sheath. The impact rattled through his arm, but Pangil didn't linger. He never overcommitted. He slid away as easily as he arrived, resetting like a hunter circling prey.
"Too slow," Pangil said lightly, almost bored.
The ground beneath Zealth shifted.
Then tightened.
Vines erupted, coiling around his leg, binding him in place.
"Got you," the druid murmured, satisfied.
The legion advanced immediately.
Spear thrust forward, aimed cleanly for Zealth's chest.
Zealth reacted.
The scabbard struck the ground, breaking the vines' tension just enough to free his footing. His buckler snapped up, deflecting the spear—but the uneven stance cost him balance.
He staggered.
Just slightly.
Enough.
"Bit ya."
Pangil lunged.
Daggers split—one rising, one falling.
Zealth brought his sheath up—
Deflected—
But not fully.
A blade slipped through the gap, grazing his side. Shallow. Insulting.
Zealth stepped back, breath steady despite the hit.
"Can we talk about this, bro?" he said, voice light, almost joking.
"Focus," Pangil replied, a hint of amusement slipping through. "You're in a fight."
Right. Talking wouldn't fix this.
Zealth steadied himself, stance resetting. His breathing remained controlled, but something beneath it stirred.
Annoyance.
His eyes lifted.
The drone hovered above.
The panel followed.
32
Then—
29
Then—
25
Dropping.
Relentless.
The chat scrolled, alive with a conversation that had nothing to do with him anymore.
"Bro, this is boring, I'm watching The AscensionCircuit instead."
Same, when the tournament starts?"
"Game 1of the playoff just ended earlier. Team Horde wins."
"Break now, Game 2 soon."
"Team Horde takes it."
"No chance for KLD."
"Can't argue more, Team Horde was at their best."
Voices passed through.
Didn't stay. Didn't care.
Zealth's grip tightened.
Damn it…
The legion pressed again.
Spear thrust—
Zealth parried with his sheathed blade.
Think of something.
Shield followed—
He turned with it, redirecting the force.
Say something. Maybe a joke will do.
Pangil cut in—
He blocked with his buckler.
Shook his head
No… won't work. Not again.
The druid cast—
Vines surged—
He broke free.
Damn it.
The gunslinger fired.
A clean shot—aimed for his head.
Zealth tilted just enough to avoid it.
Damn it!
Again.
And again.
And again.
The pattern repeated.
Precise.
Efficient.
Suffocating.
Zealth kept up—barely.
Each strike met. Each angle answered.
But there was no space.
No room to breathe.
No time to think—let alone perform.
Four against one.
He knew their rhythm. Their formation. But knowing changed nothing.
With a sharp swing of his scabbard, he forced a brief opening—just enough.
He looked up at the drone.
"I'm really sorry, Zealthys," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "I'll figure something out. I'll make it up to you."
A flash—
Steel cut in beside his face.
Pangil's dagger.
Zealth dropped his head, the blade slicing a few strands of his hair instead.
"Focus," Pangil said again, irritation slipping through this time. "If you keep playing around, I'll keep hunting you."
Zealth didn't respond.
His eyes shifted to the panel.
Single digits.
Still falling.
The chat—angry now.
"If you want to make up. Deal with those fightmongers."
"Yeah. Deal with those monkeys."
"Deal? This was staged."
"Just bring them down. That's all I want."
But they left anyway.
One by one.
Until—
Two.
Only two remained.
Zealth clenched his jaw.
As if fighting four people at once is easy…
He glanced at Pangil's group.
They waited. Patiently. Amused.
Then his gaze dropped to his sword.
Still sheathed.
He raised it slightly.
"…Fifteen months," he muttered. "I haven't drawn this in fifteen months."
A breath.
"I hate this."
Pangil's eyes lit up instantly, excitement sparking alive.
"Here we go."
Zealth's thumb pressed against the guard.
Slowly—
He unsheathed the blade.
Metal whispered against wood.
His expression darkened, something quieter—and heavier—surfacing beneath it.
Pangil leaned forward—
Then paused.
His grin faltered.
"…That's it?"
The blade was old.
Dull.
Chipped along the edge.
Worn from use long past.
"What a disappointment," Pangil muttered.
The legion snorted. "So the rumors are true. Just a poor knight."
The druid glanced at Pangil. "Should we finish this? I have errands."
Pangil sighed, rolling his shoulders. "Yeah. It's getting boring."
He tilted his head toward the gunslinger.
"Hey, Glen. Let's end it."
The gunslinger's head snapped slightly.
"Don't call me that," he said flatly. "Use my in-game name."
Pangil scoffed. "Not a chance. What kind of idiot names himself 'UwU'?"
A pause.
"…Are you calling me an idiot?" the gunslinger asked.
"Yes."
The answer came without hesitation.
And then—
Zealth moved.
The scabbard left his hand.
He threw it.
It hit the ground—
Boom.
A sudden explosion of force tore through the air.
Dust and wind burst outward, pushing against all four of them.
Pangil's eyes widened—not in alarm—
But in excitement.
"No way…" he breathed. "A ton-weight scabbard?"
The legion adjusted his footing, shield rising instinctively.
"…So he's been holding back," he said.