The morning broke over the scarred clearing, where the felled trees—Steven’s own handiwork during training—stood as silent sentinels beneath a sky streaked with soft pink and amber.

In that open space, where the remnants of past battles mingled with the gentle light of dawn, the four of them gathered.

"Are you ready?" Steven asked, his cool voice echoing slightly among the barren trunks.

His eyes, a clear, unyielding blue, were calm yet carried an undercurrent of challenge.

"Yes," Asael replied, stepping forward with measured resolve despite the weight of his recent failures.

They unsheathed their swords, the metallic whispers slicing through the still air.

Asael assumed his stance—a posture honed by countless battles, muscles tense with anticipation and scars etched into his skin telling silent stories of past struggles.

In contrast, Steven’s demeanor was relaxed, almost effortless, as if he had already accepted the inevitable dance of steel.

"I'll give you the first chance to attack," Steven declared, his tone carrying both invitation and provocation.

"I won’t refuse then," Asael answered, his voice a mixture of determination and lingering doubt, and with that, he lunged forward.

Before Asael’s sword could find its mark, Steven intercepted the blow with a swift, deliberate movement—blocking the strike with his sword.

A resounding impact reverberated as Steven pushed him back, his gesture measured yet commanding.

"Now my chance," Steven said, stepping forward with an almost casual grace as a small spark of blue energy danced along his limbs.

In a burst of speed that blurred the world around him, he dashed forward.

Asael’s eyes widened in surprise; he scrambled to defend himself against the flurry of attacks that came like a sudden tempest.

Steven’s strikes, rapid and relentless, forced Asael to retreat—each swing of the blue sword landing with precision that Asael could scarcely block.

A barrage of blows followed in rapid succession, each one hammering into Asael’s already battered defenses.

At one moment, a sharp punch collided with his face, and then a brutal strike from the hilt of Steven’s sword sent him sprawling onto the ground.

"Is that all? Then that's disappointing," Steven taunted, his voice carrying a mocking edge as he surveyed his fallen opponent with detached superiority.

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"I'm still not done yet!" Asael gasped, rising unsteadily to his feet, his body aching with pain and pride mingled in every labored breath.

Their duel was about to resume when a voice rang out—urgent and pleading.

"Stop! Stop!" Anne’s words sliced through the clamor, drawing their attention.

"What happened?" Steven demanded, his eyes flickering with irritation at the interruption.

"I want to talk to Asael about something," Anne said firmly, stepping between the two fighters with a calm authority that belied the storm of emotions roiling within her.

"Fine, go ahead," Steven replied curtly, though the edge in his tone softened ever so slightly.

Asael approached Anne, his features etched with exhaustion and a hint of sorrow as he listened.

"What happened? Why aren’t you using divine power?" she asked quietly, her concern palpable in the tender tremor of her voice.

For a long moment, Asael’s gaze dropped to the earth, as if searching for answers among the broken twigs.

"For some reason, I'm not able to exert any divine power," he admitted in a low, pained murmur.

Anne’s eyes widened in disbelief.

"What? But you had done that just a few days ago," she whispered, as if questioning a truth too terrible to accept.

"Yeah. But now it’s like I can feel it locked inside me—I can sense its presence, but I can’t control it," Asael said, the frustration and vulnerability in his voice mingling with the steady beat of his weary heart.

"Hmm... damn it. Be more careful!" Anne chided gently, placing a comforting hand on his arm.

"Yes. I'll be," he promised, though uncertainty still flickered behind his eyes.

Steven, standing a short distance away, broke the brief silence with a pointed tone.

"Are you both done now?" he asked, stepping forward as if to resume the contest.

"Yes," they answered in unison, though the sincerity in their voices was tinged with melancholy.

Asael then stepped back into the center of the clearing, his gaze steadying as he squared his shoulders.

He stood in front of Steven once again, the tension of the impending duel crackling in the crisp morning air.

The wind whispered through the broken remains of the trees, carrying the echoes of past failures and the promise of redemption.

They charged at each other once more, their swords colliding with a resounding clang that echoed through the ancient forest.

The sound of metal on metal reverberated between the towering, broken trees, as if the very woods were mourning the clash of their wills.

For a time, the duel seemed unbalanced—a brutal contest where every blow Steven delivered landed with clinical precision, while Asael struggled to muster the strength he once had.

His movements were heavy, as though burdened by invisible chains of grief and regret.

Every swing of his sword was slower, more labored, and it was painfully evident that he was having a hard time matching Steven’s speed.

"I had expected more from the so-called hero," Steven taunted, his voice cool and laced with disappointment.

He circled Asael like a predator, his blue eyes glinting with condescension.

"You wish to save the world with such skills?" he sneered.

But Asael, though wounded and faltering, refused to let the words break him.

"Shut up! You don't know anything," he spat back, gritting his teeth as he swung his blade again and again.

His sword clashed against Steven’s with desperate force, sparks flying from each impact.

"Pathetic. With this level, you won’t be able to save anyone," Steven declared, his tone venomous as he parried Asael’s desperate attacks with ease.

His every movement was fluid and sure, each strike precise enough to chip away at Asael’s dwindling hope.

For a brief moment, as the rhythm of their battle continued in this grim dance, Asael’s mind flashed with images of destruction—the screams of dying people, the chaos wrought by monsters upon a helpless world.

The weight of those memories pressed down on him, stoking a deep, smoldering anger.

Rage, loathing, and hatred surged in his veins until his vision blurred with raw, unfiltered emotion.

Then, as if answering his silent plea, a familiar golden aura began to shimmer in Asael’s eyes.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the aura spread over his battered body.

His torn armor knit itself together like a miracle of old, and his sword reappeared in his grasp—reborn, gleaming with divine light.

The golden radiance enveloped him, dispelling the darkness that had clung to his every movement.

"I guess this is your true power," Steven said calmly, his own body beginning to transform in response.

Blue thunder crackled along his skin as sparks danced over his sword, his aura deepening to a hue that mirrored the storm inside him.

Now, both warriors stood face to face, each a living embodiment of elemental fury—Asael, cloaked in a luminous golden light, and Steven, surrounded by an electric blue tempest.

The air between them vibrated with the promise of renewed combat, the silence before their next exchange as heavy as the burdens they carried.

In that charged moment, every cut, every bruise, every drop of blood told a story of loss and determination.

The forest seemed to hold its breath as they resumed their duel—a battle not only for survival but for the very hope of a shattered world.

Each swing of their blades was a question and a challenge, each parry a desperate plea for redemption.

Their swords rang out again—a duet of thunder and lightning—while their souls, scarred by past failures, fought to reclaim the honor and strength they once believed they had lost.