Sparks erupted in bursts of light as Harriet’s unseen hands intercepted the relentless strikes of Adrek’s montante swords. But Adrek was no ordinary swordsman—his four arms moved with terrifying precision, his technique honed to perfection. He was a whirlwind of steel, every motion fluid and efficient, every attack designed to force Harriet into a corner.

Harriet’s spectral hands blurred around him, blocking and parrying, but Adrek’s coordination was monstrous. He wielded his montantes with an uncanny balance, each set of arms controlling a separate blade in perfect harmony. His upper right arm led one sword in wide, sweeping arcs, dictating the flow of battle like a spear, while his upper left guided precise thrusts and quick slashes to keep Harriet pressured. Meanwhile, his lower arms worked independently—one reinforcing strikes with sudden bursts of power, the other redirecting his momentum, making his attacks seamless and unpredictable.

Harriet gritted his teeth. Two hands alone would have made Adrek a nightmare. Four made him something else entirely.

“You’re good,” Adrek admitted, his voice eerily calm despite the ferocity of his strikes. “But against me, being good alone won’t be enough.”

One of his montantes curved inward with unnatural force, its sheer reach and momentum threatening to split Harriet in two. Harriet barely twisted away, his unseen hands catching the blade mid-swing—a shockwave rippled outward, cracking the stone beneath their feet. But Adrek was already following up.

His upper left arm drove a thrust forward, forcing Harriet to evade, while his lower right swung a follow-up slash in a brutal arc, cutting off his escape route. His upper right sword came down like an executioner’s blade, while his lower left arm flipped his grip, turning his montante into a defensive wall against counters. Every motion was efficient, every sword worked independently yet in sync, forming a relentless storm of steel.

Each strike was calculated, each movement dictating the battle. Adrek’s montantes weren’t just weapons—they were extensions of his will, carving space, commanding distance, and driving Harriet exactly where he wanted him.

Harriet’s golden eyes glowed with focus. He unleashed a barrage of punches, his spectral hands hammering into Adrek’s chest and shoulders, sending shockwaves through the cavern.

The air trembled. Cracks ran along the stone walls. Dust rained down from the ceiling. But Adrek didn’t stagger—his muscles absorbed the force, his grip never loosening on his weapons.

Not enough.

Harriet surged forward, attempting to wrap his unseen hands around Adrek’s throat and choke the air from his lungs. But the moment his grip closed, Adrek’s lower arms shot up and tore Harriet’s spectral hands apart.

Harriet’s breath hitched.

Adrek smirked. "You can’t hold me down, boy."

Then he twisted his body, bringing both montante blades down in a devastating arc. Harriet barely managed to deflect one, but the sheer force of the impact sent him skidding backward. Adrek wasted no time—he lunged forward again, his four arms working in terrifying harmony.

Adrek's montante blades tore through the air like twin storms, and this time, Harriet’s unseen hands weren’t fast enough to deflect them completely. The razor-sharp steel sliced clean through his long sleeves, fabric fluttering in the air like dying embers.

For a moment, Adrek’s smirk widened in satisfaction. He had landed a decisive blow—surely the brat's arms had been severed.

But then, nothing.

No blood. No scream. No recoil of pain.

Just Harriet, standing there, his posture completely unfazed.

Adrek's eyes flicked downward. His blades had cut clean through the sleeves, but there was nothing underneath. No wounds. No flesh.

No arms.

The realization hit him like a delayed strike, and his expression twisted in confusion. "What—"

Harriet tilted his head, his golden eyes flashing with quiet amusement. "Did you think you got me?"

Adrek’s grip on his montantes tightened as he took a step back, reevaluating the situation. "Tch. So that’s how it is." His sharp gaze flickered between Harriet’s shoulders, the way his clothes had always hidden the truth. "You were never fighting with your arms to begin with."

Harriet’s spectral hands—the true weapons of his body—flared to life around him. Unseen to normal eyes, but undeniably present, their presence distorted the air like heat waves rising from a sunbaked road.

"Yeah," Harriet admitted, stepping forward, the ground cracking slightly beneath his feet. "And you know what that means?"

A ghostly force crushed into Adrek’s chest before he could react, sending him hurtling backward like a cannonball. His four arms barely managed to cross over his body to absorb the brunt of the blow, but the sheer force of it slammed him against a crumbling stone pillar. Dust and rubble exploded outward.

Harriet exhaled, rolling his neck. "It means you never stood a chance of disarming me in the first place."

Adrek pulled himself from the wreckage, his expression no longer amused. His four arms flexed, tightening around his blades. "Interesting," he muttered, his smirk returning, though this time, there was a glint of something darker in his eyes.

Adrek let out a low chuckle, rolling his shoulders as he steadied his stance. The tension in the air was palpable, crackling like a storm about to break. His four arms flexed around the hilts of his montante blades, the edges gleaming under the dim, flickering light of the ruins.

"So that's how it is..." His grin widened, his deep-set eyes gleaming with something between exhilaration and bloodlust. "A clash between Singularität.”

Adrek’s grin did not falter, but there was a shift in his stance—a decision made in an instant. His four arms loosened their grip, his montante blades lowering just slightly as if the thrill of combat had begun to lose its luster. Then, with an almost disappointed sigh, he spoke.

"Unfortunately," he said, his voice laced with amusement, "our fun must end here."

Before Harriet could react, the underground trembled. A blinding explosion of color erupted from the depths of the ruins, casting brilliant hues across the stone walls—red, blue, gold, and green bleeding into one another as if the very air had become the canvas of some long-forgotten artist. The tunnels, once dim and foreboding, were suddenly bathed in ethereal light, shifting and warping like a painter’s brush had swept across reality itself.

Harriet shielded his eyes from the radiance, his unseen hands tensing as he tried to make sense of the sudden shift in atmosphere.

Adrek, however, did not hesitate. The moment the colors spread, he moved, dashing backward and then—through the rock wall behind him, shattering the stone as if it were nothing but brittle parchment. The rumble of his departure echoed through the ruins like rolling thunder.

Far from their battlefield, another war still raged.

Jelle and Hauke’s duel against Barbel had torn apart their surroundings—jagged cracks split across the floor, debris scattered in the air like floating embers, and each clash of steel against steel sent shockwaves through the underground. All three combatants felt the shift—the unnatural glow that spread across the ruins.

Jelle’s sharp eyes flicked toward the source of the disturbance. Her instincts screamed at her before her mind fully caught up. She saw Adrek escaping.

"Hauke!" Jelle called without a moment’s hesitation.

Hauke reacted instantly, pivoting on his heel and preparing to break into a pursuit. But Barbel would not allow it.

With a single, almost lazy wave of her hand, the air swelled—a sudden, violent expansion that tore through the battlefield. A massive detonation erupted just before Hauke, the force of the explosion threatening to engulf him whole.

But Hauke was faster.

His body moved like a whisper in the wind, weaving through the shockwaves, slipping past the explosion as if he had known the blast was coming before Barbel had even willed it into existence. He never stopped, never hesitated—his focus locked onto Adrek’s trail.

Barbel narrowed her eyes, irritation flashing across her face. He had slipped past her.

"Forgot someone is still here?" Jelle’s voice cut through the air, steady and commanding.

Barbel barely had a moment to react before Jelle was upon her.

The wooden sword in Jelle’s grasp struck like a hammer, meeting Barbel’s montante blade with a force that sent sparks flying. The impact rattled through the chamber, and though Jelle’s weapon was mere wood against steel, it did not break.

Barbel clicked her tongue, forced a step back, and prepared to reposition. But Jelle did not let up.

Like an unrelenting storm, she pressed forward, her every movement precise, controlled, overwhelming. She cut off every possible escape, her wooden blade moving like an extension of herself—parrying, striking, redirecting.

She would not let Barbel go anywhere.

Jelle’s wooden sword moved with a rhythm as effortless as a tree swaying in a gentle spring breeze—fluid, natural, and untethered by hesitation. It weaved through the air with an unpredictable grace, her movements appearing almost carefree, as though she were dancing rather than engaging in battle. But beneath that ease lay a profound mastery, a quiet control that turned every swing into something far more dangerous than it appeared.

Barbel, in contrast, wielded her montante with sheer force, each strike carrying the weight of raw aggression. She refused to be led by Jelle’s flow, choosing instead to shatter it outright. Her every swing was accompanied by a deafening boom—her power warping the air itself, causing violent bursts of expanding pressure that detonated with each clash of their weapons. The underground trembled under the sheer force of her ability, shockwaves rippling outward as walls cracked and loose stones shattered into dust.

Yet, despite the overwhelming nature of Barbel’s explosive strikes, Jelle did not falter.

She moved like a whisper in the storm, letting Barbel’s power flow past her rather than resisting it head-on. Whenever a shockwave threatened to knock her off balance, she simply adjusted—leaning, stepping, turning—using the force against itself to reposition fluidly. Her wooden sword danced between the explosive gaps, slipping through openings like a leaf carried by the wind.

And though Barbel raged with relentless power, Jelle kept up effortlessly.

A little while ago, when Hauke had been by her side, the balance of battle had been no different. Even with his added presence, the rhythm of their fight had remained the same. It was never about overwhelming Barbel—it was about matching her, understanding her, and making sure she never gained full control of the battlefield.

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Now, alone, Jelle continued as if nothing had changed.

Her wooden blade and Barbel’s steel clashed again, sending another shockwave rippling through the underground ruins. Dust swirled in the air, the colorful glow from the tunnels casting strange shadows across the battlefield.

And for now, they seemed perfectly matched.

As their battle raged on, Jelle and Barbel’s fight became a blur of motion, both darting across the walls of the underground ruins with breathtaking speed. Their blades clashed mid-air, sending sparks flying as shockwaves rippled through the tunnels. Neither one slowed, their footwork precise as they defied gravity, using the crumbling stone surfaces as launching points to keep up their relentless assault.

Between the echoes of their weapons, Jelle spoke, her voice carrying an almost casual confidence despite the chaos around them.

"I have eyes on everyone in here. Why don’t you back down and make this easier?"

Her wooden blade twisted through the air, aiming for Barbel’s side.

In response, Barbel didn’t speak—she answered with destruction.

A sudden boom erupted in front of Jelle’s face, the air violently expanding in an explosion designed to knock her off course. But Jelle was already moving. With a subtle shift of her stance, she twisted mid-air, letting the shockwave pass her by as she landed lightly on another section of the broken wall.

She exhaled through her nose, unfazed.

"A Singularität from one of my members lets me see things that you can’t. You cannot hide your goal."

Barbel’s expression remained unreadable as she continued her assault, steel clashing against wood, the underground battlefield shaking with every explosive burst.

Then, at last, Barbel spoke.

"Do you despise moving forward?"

Jelle’s brow furrowed for a brief moment.

It wasn’t the response she had expected.

For the first time in their fight, the rhythm between them faltered—not in movement, not in power.

Another explosion erupted, the air itself expanding in a violent burst. Jelle dodged, flipping midair, but Barbel was already there to meet her, blade swinging, eyes sharp.

"You talk like you see everything," Barbel said, her voice steady despite the chaos around them. "Like you understand."

Jelle deflected another strike, but Barbel didn’t let up. She never let up.

"Some people stop when they hit a wall," Barbel continued, her sword carving through the air. Another burst—another eruption, the heat licking at Jelle’s skin. "They hesitate. They wonder if the road is too broken to walk."

Jelle saw it now, in the way Barbel fought—not just the sheer force of her attacks, but the way she never stayed in one place, never lingered in a single movement for too long.

"And you?" Jelle asked, voice even.

Barbel’s lips curled into something between a smirk and a grimace, but she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she sent another explosion hurtling toward Jelle’s face. Jelle narrowly evaded, feeling the heat rush past her cheek.

Barbel’s grip on her sword tightened. "The ground beneath your feet doesn’t matter as long as you keep moving."

Jelle blocked another attack.

As they clashed once more, Jelle’s wooden sword met Barbel’s montante in a sharp, ringing impact. The force sent both warriors skidding across the tunnel walls, feet barely touching the stone before launching forward again. Jelle’s eyes never wavered from Barbel’s form, studying every movement, every shift in stance.

"So this is where you ended up," Jelle said, her tone neither mocking nor sympathetic, just steady. "The Clock Hand… I don’t know which hour you serve, but I do know one thing—something must have gone terribly wrong for you to end up with them."

Barbel didn’t hesitate. With a fierce twist of her blade, she sent another blast of rapidly expanding air roaring toward Jelle, the sheer force cracking the walls behind her. Jelle dodged, landing gracefully before spinning back into a counterattack.

Barbel smiled—not a smirk, not arrogance, but something deeper. Something with weight. "The Hour of Obsession."

Her words carried pride, but beneath it, something unshakable, something immovable. Her sword struck out with unwavering conviction, her explosions bursting with the kind of force only someone who had long abandoned hesitation could wield.

Jelle could hear it in her voice—this was not a woman bound by chains. This was someone who had willingly thrown herself into the fire, because standing still had never been an option.

Jelle barely had time to shift her weight before Barbel was on her again, her montante a streak of silver slicing through the air. Another explosion detonated just inches from Jelle’s face, the shockwave distorting the space between them like heat rising off the pavement. She twisted away, flipping midair, her wooden sword blurring as it met steel in a deafening clash.

Barbel’s relentless attacks didn’t stop. Her blade carved through the battlefield like a guillotine that had never known rest. Her every step, every motion, spoke of a person who had already made peace with destruction, with the inevitability of forward motion. She wasn’t just fighting—she was cleaving through everything that stood in her way, past or present.

Jelle’s feet barely touched the tunnel wall before she propelled herself back into the fray, her carefree movements masking the precision of someone who understood exactly when to bend and when to strike. Like a tree in springtime, moving with the wind yet never breaking.

"Obsession, huh?" Jelle exhaled, dodging another burst of air that cracked the ground beneath her. "Sounds exhausting."

Barbel’s laughter rang through the chaos, a sharp and hollow sound. "And yet, I move forward."

Another clash. Another explosion. Sparks rained like falling stars as Jelle ducked low, her wooden sword gliding through the space where Barbel’s ribs should have been. But Barbel was already gone, a shockwave blasting her backward before she countered with a downstroke that could have split the earth in two.

Jelle blocked, but the force behind it sent her sliding back, her boots digging into stone.

Barbel never let up. "Tell me, Jelle—what happens when the path ahead is nothing but ruin?"

Jelle grinned, shaking out her wrist. "I guess I will make my own."

The air between them thickened, the battlefield shrinking as the weight of their convictions filled the space. Barbel’s grip on her sword tightened, and for the first time, something flickered behind her sharp eyes.

"Then let’s see if you can hold your ground when there’s nothing left beneath you."

And with that, Barbel swung her montante with all the force of a storm, her power erupting outward in a cataclysmic blast—shattering the very foundations beneath their feet.

The ground trembled as the tunnel walls split apart from the sheer force of Barbel’s explosion, dust and debris filling the air like a choking fog. Yet, amidst the chaos, she moved—no, she walked.

Not in the way a person should.

Her foot sank deep into the stone, digging in like an iron stake. With unnatural grace, she pressed forward, her other leg piercing the wall just as easily, each step deliberate, slow—as if gravity itself had surrendered to her will.

She wasn’t falling. She was simply walking, ignoring the very concept of up and down.

Jelle clicked her tongue. "You’re really pushing the ‘walking forward’ thing, huh?"

Barbel smirked, her foot driving into the stone once more, cracking the surface beneath her like ice under a hammer. Her sword rested easily on her shoulder, the weight of it nothing compared to the force she carried in her presence.

"Do you think I care about walls?" Barbel’s voice was even, unwavering, her tone like someone discussing an inevitability rather than a battle. "Obstacles, barriers, rules—they don’t matter. If the path doesn’t exist, I carve one myself."

She stepped again, the wall groaning under her strength, each footfall a declaration. It was an eerie sight—watching her descend as if she were strolling down an invisible street, her confidence making the impossible look effortless.

Jelle exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders. "That’s one hell of a Singularität, I’ll give you that."

Barbel stopped, tilting her head. "Singularität?" She let out a low chuckle. "No, this isn’t a power."

Her next step drove so deep into the rock that fractures webbed out in every direction. "This is just who I am."

Jelle grinned, tapping her wooden sword against her shoulder. "Then I guess I’ll just have to knock some sense into that twisted head of yours before you carve a path straight to the afterlife."

And with that, she launched herself forward—meeting Barbel’s force head-on.

Barbel’s foot dug deep into the wall as she marched forward, her weight twisting stone like it was soft earth. The force of her movement sent cracks splintering outward, debris crumbling away with each step. Her sword swung in wide, controlled arcs, each strike carrying the weight of a force that refused to be stopped.

Jelle danced around them, her wooden blade moving like drifting leaves, light and effortless. She wasn’t blocking Barbel’s power—she was redirecting it, letting it crash past her like a storm she had already weathered.

Barbel’s grip tightened. She had to keep moving. That was all she had ever done.

A voice from somewhere in the past.

Small. Weak. Familiar.

"Miss Flux?"

Jelle ducked under another swing, barely twisting out of the way before an explosion detonated behind her. The pressure rippled through the air, sending loose rubble flying. Barbel exhaled, steadying herself, but her mind had already slipped back, dragged into the fire of that night.

"Miss Flux! Where are you? It hurts—"

Flames swallowed the wooden beams. The scent of burning cloth filled her nose, thick and suffocating. The orphanage was collapsing, the place she had sworn to protect with her own hands. The place where they had all laughed, shared stolen bread, huddled together in the cold.

It had all burned to nothing.

"I’m right here," she had tried to say, but her voice had been drowned out by the roar of the fire.

Jelle struck. Barbel barely parried in time, the weight of the impact snapping her back to reality. The pressure between their blades forced her a step back, but she dug her foot into the wall again, refusing to be moved.

“You fight like someone with nothing left to lose,” Jelle said, her voice calm but sharp.

Barbel inhaled slowly.

The fire had taken them. The world had taken them. And now, standing here, she could still hear that voice calling for her—still hear their laughter echoing in her mind, fading, fading.

She lifted her sword while something was burning, something was gone beyond her reach. Barbel couldn’t stop.

Barbel’s relentless assaults carried an unshakable weight, as if her very soul refused to let her slow down. Every swing of her montante sword sent explosive bursts rippling through the tunnel, stone and dust scattering with each impact. Jelle flowed like a leaf caught in the wind—dodging, weaving, parrying—but never once faltering.

Their movements were mirrored in the fractured light, two figures locked in a dance between destruction and control. Jelle saw it now—not just the raw power in Barbel’s strikes, but the desperation buried beneath them.

"Can’t outrun the past?" Jelle questioned, her voice steady even as their blades clashed again.

Barbel’s answer came not in words, but in force. A downward swing, backed by an explosion of air, sent a shockwave through the tunnel, threatening to tear apart the surroundings.

The tunnel pulsed with shifting colors, the eerie glow staining the stone like a painter’s feverish brushstrokes. Shadows stretched and warped as two figures moved through the ruins, their presence disturbing the stillness of the underground.

Adrek was not running.

Every motion of his four arms moved with a precision that showed relentless determination. His two montante blades carved through the air, cutting down any obstacle in his way—stone, debris, walls, anything that dared slow his advance.

He was going somewhere. Hauke didn’t know where, but he could feel it.

And he wasn’t about to let him get there. With a quiet inhale, Hauke shifted his stance and closed the distance.

Adrek noticed. Without missing a beat, he twisted his body mid-stride, his two montante swords swinging in a brutal cross-cut—one from the left, one from the right. A perfect killing stroke.

Hauke reacted instantly, his instincts honed from years of experience. He dropped low, just barely slipping beneath the blades. The force of the strike split the tunnel floor apart, sending shards of rock cascading through the air.

Adrek did not stop. His footwork remained steady, fluid. Even as his missed attack shattered the ground, he pivoted effortlessly, his swords already moving into the next strike.

One blade slashed horizontally.

The other came down vertically.

A brutal, relentless combination. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Hauke responded with calm precision. His body moved before his mind did, flowing like wind between the attacks. The whisper of steel passed inches from his skin, but he never faltered. He never panicked.

And yet—

Adrek’s lower left arm shifted.

His fingers found a tunnel support beam.

And he ripped it out.

A deep, shuddering groan echoed through the underground ruins as the structure collapsed.

The tunnel walls screamed as they gave way, an avalanche of stone and debris crashing down between them. The vibrant, shifting lights flickered, momentarily swallowed by the storm of dust.

Hauke skidded to a halt, eyes narrowing. The weight of the collapsing tunnel settled around him, the shifting colors struggling to reclaim their presence.

And beyond the wreckage—

Adrek was gone.

Hauke exhaled slowly. his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword. The dust had barely settled, but his focus remained unshaken. He could still feel it—Adrek’s presence pressing forward through the tunnels, relentless in his pursuit of whatever lay ahead.

With a quiet certainty, Hauke raised his blade and whispered,

"Awaken from your slumber, Wispy."

A sudden gust of wind spiraled around the sword, wrapping it in a fierce, unseen current. The air hummed with power, the pressure shifting as if the very atmosphere had bent to his will.

Then, Hauke surged forward.

Faster. More precise. More relentless than when fighting with Barbel.