Fuma’s sharp eye swept across the battlefield, taking in the chaos. Swords clashed, blood splattered the ground, and shouts of fury echoed through the grim forest of stakes. Yet amidst the turmoil, Fuma’s gaze locked onto a lone figure—stoic and calm.

Fallow.

The swordsman stood motionless, his hand resting on the hilt of his sharp blade, his unfazed gaze slicing through the battlefield like an invisible blade. Dirt clung to the black t-shirt stretched over his powerful frame, while his military-style pants were stained with sweat and dried blood, weathered face—a face that had seen wars, battles, and countless life and death struggles. His slicked-back muddy brown hair gleamed faintly under the overcast sky, as if untouched by the surrounding destruction. Early forties, calm yet lethal, he exuded the kind of presence that made lesser men falter.

Fuma’s single visible eye narrowed.

He’s the one.

Ivo had already marked Boko Salerno, their leader. It was only fitting that Fuma would take on Fallow—Boko's right hand and the most dangerous man on the field. His heart quickened, but his resolve remained steady. He knew this would be no ordinary fight.

Fuma darted to the edge of the fray, positioning himself a good distance away from Fallow. Despite being only seventeen, he was the brain of the Magnificent Guild. Ivo might have been the body—the brawn that kept them moving forward—but Fuma? Fuma was the strategist. Every maneuver and contingency came from his sharp intellect.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath, a slight smirk tugging at his lips, “let’s see how tough you really are.”

Fuma spread his arms wide, his fingers curling as a surge of Pneuma erupted from his body. The air around him crackled, shimmering as energy coalesced and took form.

Fallow's lips twitched into the faintest smile, his hand resting lightly on the hilt. "You’re smarter than the others, kid," he said, his voice low. "You know when you’ve found something worth being afraid of."

Fuma smirked back, though his chest felt tight. "Not afraid… just aware. There’s a difference."

A roar shook the battlefield—deep and reverberating—as a massive Pneuma Dragon materialized above him. The beast’s serpentine body coiled through the air, its scales glowing like molten gold, its eyes blazing with raw energy.

Fallow tilted his head, his calm expression unchanging as he looked up at the dragon. “Hm.”

“Rend him apart!” Fuma’s voice carried across the field like a command of thunder.

The Pneuma Dragon roared again and shot forward, a torrent of energy descending upon Fallow like a storm. The ground quaked as the barrage rained down, thunderous and relentless. Dust and debris exploded into the air, obscuring the battlefield in a haze of chaos.

Yet through it all, a shadow moved.

Fuma’s eyes widened as Fallow emerged from the haze, his blade flashed, and his body became a blur. He sidestepped the dragon's head just as it slammed into the earth, dust and debris exploding in every direction. Keeping his distance, Fuma shifted his position and launched another dragon.

Fallow didn't retreat. Instead, he advanced.

His sharp blade gleamed as he closed the distance, his steps steady, precise.

He’s closing the distance.

Fuma's pulse pounded in his ears. He sent dragon after dragon toward the advancing swordsman, each one crashing with devastating force, churning up the ground in showers of rock and dirt. Yet, like a phantom, Fallow weaved between the attacks, his form flickering in and out of view through the chaos. His movements were deliberate, calculated.

Fuma gritted his teeth, frustration clawing at him.

He’s too fast.

“Taste this!” Fuma shouted, and he leapt backward, flipping mid-air as he unleashed another streak of Pneuma. The dragon reared its head and struck again, but Fallow weaved through the onslaught, his blade slicing through the ground in long arcs.

The air itself howled—a shockwave of wind slicing toward Fuma.

“Damn!” Fuma twisted to the side, narrowly avoiding the brunt of the attack. Yet the wind grazed his cheek, sharp as a blade. A thin cut opened on his face, blood trickling down. He flinched, his hand instinctively touching the wound.

Even from a distance…

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He looked at Fallow, who came to a stop a few yards away, his blade lowered. His eyes were calm, but the weight of his presence pressed down on Fuma like a boulder.

"Distance doesn’t matter," Fallow said calmly, wiping the edge of his blade with a flick of his wrist. "Not when the blade can reach where I want it to."

Fuma scowled but said nothing. He was already calculating, scenarios spinning through his mind.

Distance isn’t enough. He’s too fast.

Fallow shifted his stance, raising his blade again. “Impressive Pneuma control, I’ll admit. But it won’t matter.”

“Let’s see how long you can keep up,” Fuma said.

Gathering his breath, Fuma stepped back further, both hands now outstretched. The Pneuma dragon’s form splintered and multiplied—thinner, faster serpents emerging from the larger body. They swirled behind him like an ominous storm cloud, each tendril of energy waiting for his command.

With a swift motion of his palms, Fuma sent the dragons forward. They shot toward Fallow in a relentless barrage, their piercing cries drowning out the sounds of battle around them.

The dragons twisted and writhed, striking at Fallow from every direction. Fallow’s eyes narrowed, unreadable—as he lifted his blade.

CLANG! His blade struck one dragon slicing it clean in two—its form dispersing into shimmering dust—and then another, and another. His blade moving faster than the eye could follow. Fuma barely registered the sequence; the movement was so precise, so fast, it was as if time itself slowed down.

He watched in horror as his dragons fell, chopped into segments mid-air. The remnants of the energy shimmered around Fallow’s figure, falling like golden snowflakes. When the final dragon shattered, Fallow stood, untouched, his blade gleaming in the aftermath.

Fuma’s breath hitched. His mind went blank.

How…?

Fallow broke the silence. “You’re not an Evoker, are you?” he said, his tone edged with curiosity. “You’re no Summoner. I can see it.”

Fuma’s eyes widened slightly, but he said nothing.

Fallow stepped forward, resting the blade on his shoulder. “Well? Am I wrong? You’re an Enhancer, aren’t you?”

Fuma remained silent, his mind racing again.

Fallow let out a short, humourless chuckle. “Why go through so much trouble to shape your Pneuma into dragons and serpents? That kind of complexity does nothing for an Enhancer, a waste of effort.”

"..."

“What’s the matter? Didn’t think anyone would catch on?” Fallow took another step forward.

Fuma’s jaw tightened. He didn’t speak, sweat dripping down his temple as he thought.

Fallow tilted his head slightly. "You’re still calculating. Thinking of your next move. It won’t help you."

For the first time, Fuma felt a flicker of doubt. I need to end this now… Then his gaze flickered behind Fallow, an idea sparking. Slowly, deliberately, he let his posture relax, releasing Pneuma from his body, allowing it to disperse into the surroundings.

Fallow raised a brow, noticing Fuma's shift in stance. "Giving up already?"

Fuma smirked faintly. "Not quite."

Fallow paused, his brow furrowing. “What…?”

Too late.

Suddenly, the Pneuma gathered behind him exploded into motion. Thin, agile dragons sprang from the ground, their teeth sinking into Fallow's arms, legs, and torso. Fallow spun violently, gritting his teeth as the pneuma dragons clawed and bit into his flesh, leaving jagged wounds and streaks of blood. He swung his blade, hacking through the forms, trying to shake them off but the dragons were too many, too relentless.

Fuma straightened, wiping the blood from his cheek. “Got you!”

Fallow grunted, his teeth gritted as he swung his blade, slicing through the dragons. Their forms shattered into dust, but the damage had been done. His body was marred with fresh wounds, his black t-shirt torn and stained red, blood trickling down to his fingertips. For a moment, the battlefield stilled. Fuma exhaled deeply, his muscles trembling slightly from exertion.

Fuma recalled the dispersed Pneuma, the energy flowing back into his body like a current. Enhancers had that advantage—they could reclaim what was theirs.

But Fallow didn’t fall.

Instead, he stood straighter. His chest heaved, blood dripped steadily from his wounds, but his face remained unreadable. Slowly, he turned his gaze to Fuma.

Fuma’s stomach twisted.

How is he still standing?

Fallow flexed his arms, the bite marks stinging as he glared at Fuma. “I’ll admit… that was clever. But you’ll need more to defeat me.”

I can’t overpower him head-on… but if I keep my distance and chip away at him…

Fallow stepped forward, "You thought that would stop me?"

Fuma blinked, his mind stalling for just a moment. Fallow smiled faintly, a ghost of something bitter in his expression.

"Pain stopped hurting a long time ago." He swung his blade, and Fuma barely managed to leap back, his shoes skidding through the blood-soaked ground.

He stared at Fallow,

What kind of life has this man lived?

Fuma's heart pounded against his ribs as Fallow moved towards him, calm and unrelenting, like a storm that knew its destination. His feet shifted, ready to move, but for a moment—just a brief, fleeting moment—his focus faltered. A thought slid into his mind like a whisper.

Did this man… live a life more ruthless than mine?

The battle before him blurred, sound warping into a distant hum as the dark recesses of his mind cracked open. As Fallow’s steps neared, his vision dimmed and his mind spiraled into a memory he could never escape.