The duel raged on beneath a sky that seemed to shudder with every clang of sword on sword.
Golden and blue blades met with blinding sparks that danced through the air like fireflies caught in a storm.
Each collision reverberated deep into the earth, sending tremors through the ancient forest.
Anne and Kenta stepped back, their faces etched with a mixture of awe and dread, desperate not to be caught in the fury of their duel.
Steven’s attacks were a blur of lethal precision, his blue sword slicing through the air as if guided by the very tempest of his blood.
Every strike from him left a trail of incandescent sparks that scorched the nearby trees and sent embers scattering like fleeting memories of light.
Asael, though battered and pushed back time and again, fought with a tenacity borne of divine sorrow and relentless resolve.
Every time he faltered, the golden aura of his power flared around him, mending cuts and bruises almost as quickly as they were inflicted, though not before each blow carved deeper lines of pain into his soul.
The forest around them paid tribute to their struggle: branches splintered and trees, once proud and towering, crashed to the ground in a symphony of shattered wood and falling leaves.
The very air hummed with raw energy and the bitter scent of burning foliage mixed with the copper tang of spilled blood.
At one point, as Steven unleashed a particularly furious barrage, a glancing blow found its mark on his side.
A deep gash, streaked with blue blood, marred his otherwise flawless assault.
A momentary pause rippled through his relentless rhythm as he cursed under his breath—a sound almost lost amidst the metallic cacophony.
"Hmm… fine. I think you've proven yourself," he taunted, his voice a mix of cold disappointment and grudging respect, and for an instant, he eased his assault.
But Asael, fueled by a storm of unspoken memories—of lives lost, of screams echoing in the darkness, of a world he had failed to protect—did not relent.
With his vision blurring at the edges from a cocktail of pain and raw emotion, he charged once more, his golden sword raised high in a defiant arc.
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"Shut up!" he had once shouted; now, his words were replaced by the thunder of his heart pounding in his ears.
Steven, sensing the overwhelming surge of rage in Asael, moved to block his incoming attack.
"Hey, I told you—you passed. You can stop now," he said, attempting to temper the torrent of Asael’s assault with a steadying hand.
For a fleeting heartbeat, their blades locked, the brilliant blue of Steven’s aura clashing with the fierce, burning gold of Asael’s.
But Asael was no longer the man he had been mere moments before.
His mind was awash with memories of destruction—the screams of the fallen villagers, the lifeless eyes of those he could not save—and those images fused with a burning desire for retribution.
His movements became erratic, fueled by a primal, uncontrollable fury.
Every parry and thrust was no longer measured, but a desperate, savage act—a plea to undo the grief that had festered within him.
The clash of their swords grew even more violent.
Each strike from Asael, despite the weakness in his injured body, carried the weight of countless sorrows.
His golden aura blazed around him as if trying to burn away the torment, even as his vision swam in a haze of blurred colors and flickering memories.
Steven’s cool, measured assault began to falter beneath the force of Asael’s raw emotion.
The sparks from their blades mingled with the bitter scent of sweat and blood, each collision a silent testament to the pain and hope that warred within both warriors.
In that suspended moment, as the forest seemed to hold its breath and time slowed to a crawl, Asael and Steven stood locked in combat—a dance of light and storm, of divine power and relentless will.
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The duel roared on with a fierce intensity as Asael, fueled by the burning torrent of his emotions, pressed his attack relentlessly.
His sword whirled in a desperate arc, every swing echoing the tumult of his heart.
Amid the clamor of clashing blades, Steven’s calm yet cutting voice rang out, addressing Anne and Kenta, who watched with troubled eyes from a short distance.
"Hey, tell your friend to stop. What happened to him?" Steven demanded, his tone tinged with both concern and a quiet resignation.
Anne exchanged a worried glance with Kenta. "I think his strong emotions have gotten the better of him," she murmured softly.
Steven frowned. "What? Does that happen often?"
"Yes," Anne replied, her voice gentle yet sorrowful. "Heroes sometimes let their emotions overwhelm their reason."
A heavy sigh escaped Steven. "Then there's no other way," he muttered, as if the inevitability of this conflict weighed upon him. "I didn't want to do this."
In that moment, a surge of blue current intensified around Steven’s body.
The air around him seemed to crackle with raw energy, his movements sharpening into a blur of lethal precision.
With that sudden burst, he moved much faster than before—a speed that startled not only Anne and Kenta but even Asael himself.
Asael, still battling the tumult of his own emotions, managed to raise his sword in a final effort to block the incoming assault.
But in the blink of an eye, Steven turned his blade with an effortless twist and hurled Asael’s own sword from his grasp.
The weapon clattered against the stones, discarded like a broken promise.
Without missing a beat, Steven closed the gap.
His fist, charged with the blue energy of his aura, struck Asael in the stomach—a crushing blow that reverberated deep within.
Before Asael could gather his bearings, another brutal punch hammered into his abdomen.
One blow cascaded into the next: a rapid succession of punches and kicks, each delivered with ruthless precision.
The sound of flesh meeting flesh, the hiss of impact, and the grunts of exertion filled the clearing.
Despite his battered form, Asael’s divine power worked silently in the background—his golden aura flaring in moments to heal his wounds, knitting torn flesh and dulling the edge of pain.
But Steven’s assault was unrelenting, each strike punctuating his frustration and cold resolve.
The blue currents around Steven seemed to surge with every blow, each punch and kick a testament to his commitment to end the duel.
For every injury Asael sustained, the divine power fought to mend him, yet his body, overwhelmed by the unyielding barrage, began to falter.
His vision swam with flashes of gold and blue, and his arms grew heavy as his resolve wavered under the weight of each punishing strike.
Finally, amid the relentless tempest of blows, Asael’s strength ebbed away.
His knees buckled down, and his eyes clouded over as consciousness slipped away like sand through his fingers.
The duel ended as abruptly as it had escalated. Steven stood over the fallen hero, blue energy crackling softly in the quiet aftermath, while Anne and Kenta watched in agonized silence.