Zealth stood opposite them with the broken sword held low in his hand.
His breathing stayed even, but sharper than before, each inhale carrying a strange warmth into his chest. The old dullness had thinned. His eyes felt clearer, almost wild, yet his mind remained cold enough to count every breath, every twitch, every weakness in front of him.
Looks like I grew stronger.
He looked at the ruined blade. Chipped. Shortened. Ugly. Not the kind of weapon a Knight streamer should show to an audience, especially not when his whole image relied on looking graceful and heroic. He almost laughed at the thought.
Well, I'm Rogue Knight after all. Not a Legion nor Paladin.
Then his gaze lifted past Pangil's group—past Kezo's damaged stance, past Glen's revolver, past Alan's glowing staff—and settled farther down the valley.
Something was there.
Or someone.
His grip tightened.
"I need to deal with this troublemaker first," he muttered.
A whisper unfolded through his body, wordless but familiar.
Song of the Heathens.
Above him, red snowflakes began to fall.
They drifted from the empty sky, soft and slow, touching his shoulders, his hair, his armor. They did not feel cold. Each flake melted into warmth, fierce and restless, spreading beneath his skin like fire trying to become blood. It stormed through him, swelling at the edge of control. His muscles tightened. His armor creaked as his frame seemed to broaden by a fraction, not enough to become monstrous, but enough for every strap and plate to protest.
A crimson aura crawled over him.
Not bright.
Not holy.
Hungry.
Wild.
Kezo pulled the spear from his body with a rough breath, his teeth clenched hard enough for Zealth to hear the grind. The wound did not bleed like flesh would. Black particles leaked from the pierced armor, then faded as the game system tried to stabilize the damage. Kezo looked at the spearhead, then at Zealth, then at Pangil.
"Looks like we poked the bear too hard," Kezo said, his voice dry, bitter, and practical.
Pangil's grin split wider, as if those were the exact words he had been waiting for.
"Then we kill the bear."
Glen coughed from near the boulder, one hand pressed to his chest where Zealth's kick had landed. His revolver remained raised despite the tremor in his wrist. "You say that like the bear agreed to die."
Alan gripped his staff with both hands. The green light at its tip pulsed brighter, but his face had gone pale beneath the hood. His usual calm had cracks in it now, thin but visible. "We have one chance," he said, eyes fixed on Zealth. "If we fail this sequence, we lose."
Pangil rolled his neck once, daggers loose in his hands, grin still burning.
"I know."
He sounded delighted.
That irritated Zealth more than the pressure in his own body.
Pangil lifted both daggers and scratched their edges together. The sound shrieked briefly across the field.
"Forget the formation," Pangil said. "Kill mode."
Kezo nodded once.
Glen spat to the side and adjusted his aim. "Finally. A plan with an honest name."
Alan exhaled, then lowered his staff. "Then don't waste my restraint."
Pangil's eyes stayed on Zealth.
"Wandering Lightning."
Sparks burst from his daggers and raced up his arms, crawling beneath the sleeves of his expensive blue robe. The fabric fluttered violently as electricity wrapped around him, crackling at his shoulders, his wrists, the edges of his grin. He looked less like a man preparing for a kill and more like a child about to throw himself into a thunderstorm for fun.
Kezo shifted beside Alan. "Ready."
Alan's staff struck the ground.
The earth beneath Zealth trembled.
Vines erupted around his feet, thicker than before, layered with green sigils that pulsed like veins. Zealth jumped before they could fully close, but Alan had already predicted that. Stone spears thrust from the ground beneath him, rising fast, jagged, and cruel. One scraped his thigh. Another tore across his side. Shallow wounds, nothing decisive, but enough to trap him midair inside a cage of stone and vines.
Alan's eyes sharpened.
"Now!"
Kezo launched upward.
For one strange second, he rose so high that the late morning sun swallowed his outline. Only the spear remained visible, pointed downward, gleaming at Zealth like judgment from above.
"Brandish!"
Then Kezo fell.
Not like a man.
Like a siege weapon.
His descent tore the air apart, the spear aimed straight for Zealth's chest. At the same moment, Glen steadied his revolver with both hands, his expression flat, almost annoyed by how much effort this required.
"Hit."
The barrel flashed.
"Six Unity Bullets."
The shot did not sound like the earlier ones. It cracked louder, cleaner, heavier. Six luminous rounds spiraled into one visible line, a tracer streak of condensed force, faster than the shots before it and far less forgiving.
One attack from above.
One from the side.
Vines and stone holding him in place.
Alan's restraint was clean. Kezo's timing was brutal. Glen's shot came at the one angle Zealth should not have been able to answer.
For a breath, Zealth hung there.
Then he smiled.
Not for the stream.
Not for the two remaining viewers.
For himself.
"Not bad," he said.
His fingers flexed around the broken sword.
"But not enough."
The warmth inside him turned violent.
"Bloodlust," he muttered.
His crimson aura surged outward.
With one sweep of the broken blade, the stone spears shattered. Fragments burst around him like broken teeth. His buckler snapped toward the incoming bullet line, not blocking it fully—only touching its path, stealing its direction by a hair.
That hair was enough.
The glowing shot bent away from him.
Kezo's eyes widened mid-descent.
"Ah, hell—"
The redirected round struck his shoulder.
His Brandish collapsed before it landed.
Kezo crashed into the ground a few steps away from Zealth, dirt exploding beneath him. His spear skidded loose. His body twitched once, then steadied, armor flickering with warning damage. Black particles started dripping. He was alive. But barely moving.
Zealth landed almost at the same time.
He did not give Glen a second shot.
His hand snapped down, seized Kezo's fallen spear, and threw.
The weapon cut through the field in a straight line.
Glen tried to move.
Too slow.
The spear pierced through his body and pinned him against the boulder with a heavy crack. His revolver fell from his hand, bounced once, then settled in the grass.
Glen looked down at the spear, then up at Zealth.
"…Rude," he muttered, breath thin.
Two down.
Not dead.
Not gone.
But finished for now.
Zealth's shoulders loosened slightly.
Only slightly.
A flash appeared at the edge of his vision.
Pangil.
The dagger came for his neck.
Zealth raised his buckler.
Steel struck metal with a sharp clang. He twisted and swung the broken sword in counterattack, aiming for Pangil's ribs, but Pangil's body folded around the strike with impossible looseness. He slipped under the edge, spun close, and dragged his second dagger across Zealth's arm.
A black line opened across the armor.
Dullness spread there.
Pangil landed lightly and laughed, sparks snapping around his shoulders.
"Too slow."
Zealth turned toward him, expression calm but eyes narrowed.
"You talk a lot for someone who hides behind three teammates."
Pangil looked delighted, as if insult had been a compliment.
"And you hit hard for someone pretending he likes peace." He lifted both daggers, bouncing once on his feet. "Come on, shabby Rogue. Make me regret waking up today."
Alan's voice cut from behind, strained but still working. "Pangil, left side."
Vines shot toward Zealth again.
Zealth stepped to avoid them, then angled his body toward Alan. The druid was the real problem now. Glen and Kezo were pinned down, but Alan could still restrain, disrupt, and force openings. If Zealth removed him, Pangil would have no support left.
He moved.
Pangil intercepted him with a burst of lightning.