"Master checked your Mirror, and, in his words, the device cannot be restored. Not only is the mechanism worn out and the Runeglyph engraving almost completely erased in two key spots, but stone pine resin was used instead of the now standard mineral glue... It's beyond repair; easier to make a new one," the clerk in the Society-recommended artifact workshop said with poorly concealed arrogance.

Malk had rushed there with Druzal's Mirror, still reeking of burnt smell, the very next day after "this Grandfather Boniface's" attack, praying to the Saints that the repair would be affordable. He had a discount, of course, but considering the average price of a new artifact was around a hundred drachmas, the cost of fixing it probably wouldn't be just a few obols. But he never imagined that things were even worse and the master would simply refuse to work on it.

Adding fuel to the fire was the clerk's attitude. The trained eye wasn't fooled by Malk's decent clothes or his Adept medallion. The clerk saw him as someone not exactly poor but clearly strapped for cash, so he didn't expect a good payoff and acted accordingly. He wasn't openly rude, but that stuck-up nose, condescending look, and smirk hiding in his mustache... Oh, Malk saw it all perfectly! And if he had his way, he'd drag the jerk into a dueling circle. Or, at the very least, he'd give him a good dressing down with some choice words, especially since there was a solid reason for mockery—despite his respectable age, the clerk remained at the rank of Adept.

But... alas, Malk wasn't in a position to cause a scene or seek justice.

"Really nothing can be done?" he asked gloomily.

"Nothing at all. If you don't believe it, you can go to any other workshop. Even if they take the job, it'll cost you as much as buying the best Mirror on the market," the clerk shook his head. "Although, if this tool is dear to you as a memento, then for a hundred and fifty to hundred and sixty drachmas..."

"Got it, you can stop," Malk cut him off. "But if we look at it from a different angle... Instead of fixing the Mirror, what about taking it apart? There's gotta be something valuable in there..."

Malk never thought he'd say such words, but he had no other choice. Even in the crappiest situation, you can find something good. Or at least try to.

"Reasonable approach," the clerk approved. "Master guessed you'd ask and gave an answer. The only part worth anything in that pile of junk is the focusing crystals. And a fair price for them is eleven drachmas. You won't find a better offer."

Hearing the amount, Malk winced like he had a toothache. Saints, that was so little!

"Deal," he forced out and pushed the box with the Mirror toward the clerk.

The man nodded silently, moved the burnt-smelling device aside with a grimace, and, as if he had been waiting for just this, began slowly counting out the gold.

"How much is your cheapest Mirror?" Malk broke the silence, almost physically feeling his heart bleed.

"The latest Mirror model from our workshop, released last sennight, sells for a hundred and five drachmas," the clerk lazily uttered, continuing to jingle the coins.

"I asked for the cheapest. Not new, even if it's crazy outdated, but working... and cheap!" Malk said firmly.

The question clearly surprised the clerk, and he gave Malk an appraising look. Doubt was written all over his face: he hadn't previously considered the student who'd shown up at the workshop to be a solvent customer.

"If you want, you can buy an artifact after repair. It's fully functional and in some ways even better than your junk..." the clerk started hesitantly.

"But?" Malk urged.

"But it'll last no more than a year and a half and is absolutely useless for mages above Apprentice level," the clerk finished more confidently. "On the other hand, it costs only forty-six drachmas."

"How much?!" Malk practically jumped in place. "Half the price of a new one for a broken piece of junk?!"

"It can't be helped, Mirrors are complex to make and require expensive materials," the clerk shrugged. But, apparently, the urge to sell the defective item finally kicked in, and he offered, "If you're interested, we can give you a six-month interest-free loan with a monthly payment of four drachmas. Just pay twenty-two drachmas upfront, and... the Mirror's yours. Deal?"

The question was clearly rhetorical—Malk wouldn't find a better offer. Still, it felt like daylight robbery, but there was nothing he could do about that either. He needed the Mirror for training too much to be picky. So, half an hour later, after signing the contract and having the appropriate note entered into his Gifted passport by an official registrar, Malk became the owner of a new Mirror. He also seriously drained his wallet—leaving just over eleven drachmas—and got into debt...

The latter didn't seem as scary as it would have a few months ago. At least because Malk was no longer a helpless provincial. Yorrokh take it, he was now a real Adept, had a good source of income, and his skills were improving day by day. Especially good progress he was making with the "Healer." His mastery of the spell had reached an intermediate level, which, along with his strong Authority, allowed him to confidently seal it in one-time containers. Not copying someone else's, but conjuring his own!

And it was paying off. If it used to take Malk about three ergs of energy to create a "Healer" sealed in a crystal, now it took only two. Even a bit less, but that wasn't substantial yet. Coupled with his increased energy absorption rate—within four hours at the Life Source, Malk now replenished not three and two-tenths ergs, but a full four—it allowed him to make two "Healers" for the infirmary instead of one, doubling his monthly income. Subtracting expenses for lodging, food, and loan payments, Malk's savings would grow by more than eight drachmas.

He couldn't have even dreamed of such a thing before! And not only him; among his fellow students, not everyone could boast such a successful application of their abilities either. A couple of them even had to sacrifice developing their Gift entirely and spend a month selling energy to the magic bank for money. After the Gifted tax, even with mediocre talent, they managed to earn more than two dozen drachmas this way. But the price for such a decision was also far from negligible. The first-year rule brutally punished all those who loved easy money, delaying their achievement of the coveted rank of Apprentice for months or even years. So, those two poor souls were now the clear losers in the race for power!..

However, the Mirror's break wasn't Malk's only issue. Equally, or maybe even more troubling in light of recent events, was the whole situation with "this Grandfather Boniface." And it wasn't like he hadn't given it any thought... He had! He turned to Colhaun's folk traditions, used the amulet given by the priestess of Dorana—but, as it turned out, all these were only half-measures. The dwarf, who started causing trouble at the level of a weak phantom, was now attacking openly and with much greater force. Moreover, in the future, things could get even worse...

So, the next logical step was to turn to specialists from the Society, and luckily, Malk knew one personally. Mage Hordol—a Bachelor, Runeglyph expert, and, according to Serge, a demonslayer—was exactly the person Malk thought he should consult.

And he didn't regret his decision.

"So, you say you're being harassed by some invisible, intangible entity that can bypass protections and Dorana's temple charms?" the portly mage asked thoughtfully, sipping coffy and munching on a pastry. Malk had dropped by his office during lunch, and he clearly wasn't going to interrupt his meal for a student.

"Yes!" Malk nodded. "And the last time, something really weird started happening. Arrows flew off posters, the dwarf himself broke into my Spirit Palace..."

"Interesting," Hordol drawled, putting his cup aside and wiping his hands. "And you, young man, have no explanation for this?"

"Am I supposed to?" Malk asked a bit sharply, though he immediately apologized.

"Well, I don't know... Out of nowhere, experts in illusions and mental techniques don't start hunting mere Adepts," the Bachelor shrugged. "There's always a reason for what's happening, and here, I don't see it."

"So you don't believe me?" Malk frowned. "The priestess, for instance, immediately mentioned traces of attacks!"

"Priestess," Hordol snorted. "Priestesses see a lot, but understand too little. Different education." The mage suddenly gave Malk a sharp look. "As for whether I believe you... does it really matter? Either way, I'm not crossing a mage capable of such 'mischief.' Sorry."

"So, it's a mage?" Malk clarified, trying to push aside the surging wave of disappointment caused by the teacher's response. "Not a demon?"

"Who knows?" the mage laughed. "Breaking into someone else's Spirit Palace or creating material illusions is something any Bachelor familiar with ritualistics, like myself, could do. But to do all this remotely, while in a disembodied state... if your words are to be believed and if you understand what's happening correctly... only a Junior Magister is capable of that. Or someone comparable in power, like a demonic Soul Collector or an old Vengeful Spirit." The stout man spread his hands. "Since there's no clarity, choose whichever option you prefer."

"And what am I supposed to do about this if even you refuse to help?" Malk asked gloomily, crushed by the ranks mentioned. Mages, demons, cultists, or specters—heck, he didn't want to mess with any of them!

"For example, resign yourself and try to wait for the moment when the Junior Magister playing with you gets bored with all this," Hordol suggested.

"Playing?!" Malk repeated, thinking he had misheard. So many troubles, and his enemy was just playing?!

"Yeah..." the Bachelor nodded. "Because when a Junior Magister wants a nameless Adept lacking the support of a family dead, they usually end up dead. But you seem to be alive, aren't you?" The stout mage paused, then added, somewhat gloomier: "It's much worse if I'm wrong, and the reason for all these oddities around you lies in the weakened state of your 'dwarf.' If he would gladly finish you off in one fell swoop, but can't yet... Then waiting out the trouble won't work."

"Just great. And what do I do then?" Malk asked in a dead voice.

"Fight, young man, fight and pray the Saints don't abandon you in this tough time," the mage smirked crookedly.

After his bluntly expressed unwillingness to cross the path of Malk's powerful enemy, these words sounded frankly mocking, but Malk wasn't offended. After all, if it was as Hordol said, he really had no other choice.

"By the way, young man, if you suddenly decide to go to the gendarmes for help, it's better not to. Save your time and nerves. Our valiant law enforcement, even the special office, doesn't handle such matters. They'll only move once you get killed, not before," Hordol informed, then suddenly fell silent, thinking about something, and after a few moments added, "Actually... if things get really bad, run to the Temple of Kehtot. Not to Achont, Druzal, or even Dorana, but to Kehtot. If you're lucky, the local priests might agree to help you..."

"And if not?" Malk asked, gloomy from the prospects painted.

"If not, then what difference does it make to you, young man, what you die from? From a mage's spell, a demon's fangs, or a priest's curse? The end's the same," Hordol laughed, and there was something in his laughter that made it clear he genuinely believed what he said.

And this answer put an end to Malk's list of questions. He'd learned everything he wanted, nothing more to ask. All that was left was to thank the esteemed Bachelor for his time and leave the office... Which, in fact, he tried to do, but as he reached the door, Hordol suddenly stopped him.

"Someone of your status, background, and influence is unlikely to find help. But who said you can't try to help yourself?" the senior mage said, looking at Malk mockingly. "After all, only death can stop someone from learning, and you still seem to be alive..."

The hint was clear enough that Malk's hope flared up with new force.

"The Society courses teach how to fight disembodied Junior Magisters and demonic Soul Collectors?!" he asked, already refusing to believe what he heard.

"No, of course not!" Hordol burst out laughing. "But we do sell a lesson on the basic structure used in all protective rituals, and it can at least help you hide from the eyes of these 'disembodied' ones. Interested?"

"How much?!" Malk almost snapped, only remembering at the last moment who he was talking to.

"Six drachmas, and today you'll learn how to create a full-fledged Protective Circle," Hordol said in the tone of a wandering peddler. With his appearance, it sounded more comical than convincing.

But Malk didn't even think of smiling. He counted out six gold coins, stacked them on the table in front of the teacher, and looked expectantly into his face.

"Here you go." A heavy, old-fashioned scroll seemed to jump off a shelf into Malk's hands as if by itself. "You have an hour and a half to master the ritual described there. When time's up, I'll test you. And pray to all the Saints you don't fail! Got it?"

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

The plump peddler had vanished somewhere, suddenly replaced by an army officer who didn't so much speak as issue commands. It was simply impossible not to obey him.

"Got it," Malk replied shortly, barely holding back from giving a military salute. He unrolled the scroll and hastily ran his eyes over its contents. "Wait!" he exclaimed. "But this is a Circle for Elemental mages! I know the Runeglyph symbols, but Elements..."

"What, have you managed to forget the rules for converting spell formulas already? No? Then, the coefficient reference book is on the table—calculate. You've got time!" Hordol snorted and, with surprising grace for his build, slipped out of the office. Already from the hallway, Malk heard, "An hour and a half!"

Yorrokh and all his generals! The situation around Malk was changing too quickly; he didn't even have time to react properly. First, they say that your enemy is at the level of a Junior Magister and no one will help, then they subtly mock you, make you feel depressed, and then again, they show you a way out of the impasse. And all this during a single conversation! Moreover, now he also had to hastily prepare for something like a test, which, something told Malk, would be more in the spirit of the ruthless imperial times than in the style of the current humane era.

Continuing to curse his luck, Malk plopped down at a table in the far end of the room, placed in front of him the reference books Hordol had mentioned, paper with a fountain pen, and finally unrolled the scroll. He dove into the neat rows of calligraphically drawn symbols and... zoned out for the next hour and a half. His trained mind fully concentrated on the task, throwing all its resources into its execution and ignoring everything else. The sequences of Runeglyph lines, their derivation and justification, anchor points, and material components of the ritual—all of it formed into a clear and understandable picture, turning the theoretical formula described in "high style" into something applicable in practice.

But understanding the Protective Circle ritual wasn't enough; Malk had to adapt it. He needed to rewrite the "phrases" and "words" that were relying on both Pneuma and the four Elements into the language of Pneuma alone. And that was no less difficult than grasping the philosophical musings about the nature of the Protective Circle...

"Finished?" suddenly came the voice of Hordol, who had returned to the office.

Malk realized with a bit of shock that the time allotted to him had run out. However, this did not upset him in the slightest: just moments ago, he'd finished checking the result and found no errors.

"Finished and ready for review!" Malk said firmly, and his tone clearly pleased the Bachelor.

"Let's see," the stout mage said, taking Malk's notes. He skimmed through them, studied the result, calculated something mentally, and... handed the papers back. "Nineteen characters in the final formula now? A bit too much, of course, but knowing only the basic Runeglyph signs, that's the best you can do. Accepted."

Malk nodded with satisfaction. Indeed, the original formula for all Elements and Pneuma consisted of ten runes, but Yorrokh take it, he'd already performed a miracle by simplifying the initially monstrous chains to a usable nineteen characters. To do better, you'd have to be a math genius!

"And now, as promised, the test!" Hordol announced in the tone of a kind uncle.

Malk didn't have time to react before Hordol jumped at him, turned his head sharply by the chin, and, pulling out of nowhere a brush glowing with golden paint, drew some sign on his forehead.

"Don't wipe it off!" the Bachelor warned, after which, clearing the center of the room of furniture and carpet, he placed right on the floor a large piece of amber he had taken from his pocket, with either a fly or some other many-legged winged creature sealed inside.

"Here's the deal. In about a minute and a half to two, this Fire Fly will latch onto your mind and start devouring your memory. Second by second, minute by minute. And it'll keep doing it until the oil I used to draw the linking sign on your forehead evaporates. That'll happen... in about fifteen minutes... but rest assured, this time will be quite enough for the Fly to deprive you of the memories of the last four or five hours of your life. You get what I'm saying?" the portly mage explained, showing truly demonic pleasure.

"I get it! What's my task?" Malk asked, feeling his hair stand on end from horror.

He was frightened not only by the prospect of forgetting something, but also by the fact that he would have to forget both the recent conversation with Hordol and the new knowledge. What the Yorrokh?!

"Your task is to use the protective ritual to keep this guest from Hell from picking the locks to your Spirit Palace and to preserve your memory!" the Bachelor explained with great relish and made an inviting gesture. "I left the chalk on the floor, so get started. Time's ticking!"

The last phrase Malk didn't hear already. Dropping to his knees in front of the amber, he drew a chalk circle around it in one motion, then sat on his heels, seemed to brace his open palms on the air, and began muttering the ritual formula he'd derived.

Seconds raced by, and ergs of energy poured with grim inevitability into the ellipses of glowing lines and symbols forming under his hands. The Fly didn't dawdle either: the skin on his forehead suddenly tightened, and a sensation like a drill boring into flesh appeared between his eyebrows. The race for dominance had begun, where the winner would receive Malk's memory.

The very thought of the creature already trying to reach his mind made Malk break into a cold sweat. But the fear didn't hinder him; on the contrary, it became the very stimulus that allowed him to finish the ritual formula as quickly as possible.

As soon as the last sounds of the incantations faded, a deep, quickly subsiding hum emanated from the conjured ellipses, and they gained physical density. Malk slapped his palms on the floor, trying to ensure the chalk circle was right between them, uttered the final key word, and... It was like opening an invisible floodgate. The energy pulsing in sync with his Crystal Heart instantly gained freedom and rushed into the circle marked by the chalk. There was a crackle, the smell of ozone, and now, instead of the figures conjured by Malk's magic, it was the drawing on the floor that shone with Force.

The most important part was done; all that was left was to put the final touch. And Malk, with great relief, sealed the resulting Protective Circle with his Authority... Done! The ritual was a complete success, and as proof, the pressure on the spot between his eyebrows stopped immediately.

Keeping his palms on the floor, Malk looked triumphantly at the Bachelor, who had once again sprawled in his chair. He wanted to say something grand and victorious, but the senior mage's smirk and finger tapping on the hourglass made Malk turn away silently.

Damn it, he just needed to hold on for a few minutes. Was that so hard?!

Alas, the thought had barely formed when the circle bound by Authority suddenly seemed to turn into a living creature that was trying to break free.

Damn it! Malk almost cursed out loud and squeezed the magical figure tighter with his Authority. At the same time, he scanned the tangled chains of runes for a weak spot... only to discover a barely emerging gap in literally the very first combination of signs.

There was no time or energy for cursing. He pulled the fraying spell weave together with Authority, moved on, and... another damaged chain of symbols! The Protective Circle, seemingly created without errors, could not withstand the Fire Fly's thrashing and kept tearing with each its jerk. Authority could fix everything, but it was running out.

For a while, Malk remained optimistic, but after the ninth breach of the Circle, the hope for a favorable outcome was replaced, if not by despair, then by a premonition of defeat. And the fact that he still had not given up and continued to fight was thanks to willpower and stubbornness, but certainly not skill.

"That's enough, time's up," Malk heard and felt a cloth with a sharp smell wipe across his forehead.

"How's it up?" he gasped.

"Just like that: the Fly devoured half of your memory, and the test simply became pointless," Hordol explained sympathetically, yanking Malk up from the floor.

"Wait... what do you mean 'devoured'?!" Malk nearly yelled, quickly sifting through his memories. There were no gaps or breaks in the sequence of events.

He stared at Hordol in confusion... only to see him bursting with suppressed laughter.

"Bad joke," Malk said coldly, not caring that the jokester was an actual Bachelor.

"Agreed!" Hardol nodded, continuing to chuckle. "But that doesn't make it any less funny."

With a wave of his hand, he broke the Circle's protection and pulled out the amber. Admiring the creature lurking inside for a couple of heartbeats, he then put it back in his pocket.

"So, I passed the test?" Malk reminded him. And seeing a confirming nod, he asked, "Can you tell me why all this risk was necessary?"

Hordol responded with a broad smile, but Malk was no longer to be deceived. Behind its facade, he saw the predatory grin of a Power-hungry mage, following the path of gaining might and ready to drag along anyone unlucky enough to catch his interest.

"Why the risk?" the teacher repeated. "Well, for better motivation. But you've already figured that out yourself, haven't you?.."

All in all, it was quite a talk with unexpected repercussions that Malk ended up having with Hardol. Did he regret asking for help from the stout demonslayer himself? Of course not. The gain outweighed any difficulties and screwing with his nerves. Would he do it again if he knew everything beforehand? He wasn't quite sure about that.

Actually, the experienced Hordol understood what Malk had gone through, and therefore, before letting him go, he advised him not to do anything serious and to have a good break. It was a sensible suggestion, but Malk still chose not to follow it. In his work schedule for that day, he had one more important matter left, which simply could not be postponed in light of what was happening around him.

Malk planned to visit the Grand Andalore Reading Hall. And his goal wasn't to gather information on influential noble Houses and Families or even to find new medical textbooks, which he'd already started studying on his own. No, this time, the library visit was driven by his desire to unravel the tangle the mysteries around that Saints-damned dwarf. And not by blindly poking around like a newborn pup, but by carefully unwinding the thread that, as it seemed to him, the Yorrokh's freak kept leaving behind time after time.

"Could you please help me find books on Common Language dialects and languages of Hell?" Malk asked the first librarian he saw, as soon as he stepped into the reading hall. "And first off, I'd like to know where it's customary to refer to oneself as 'grandfather'..."

Mentally, he was already preparing for long, tedious searches in the catalog, followed by equally lengthy waits for the ordered books from the archive. So when he got the answer right away, he was caught off guard.

"I can tell you straight up, no need for books. It's a Styxson etiquette quirk! When they want to emphasize social status differences, the higher-up usually calls themselves 'this father.' But if the person you're talking to is, well, human, demon, or maybe a ghost—Styxsonians have it all complicated here—anyway, if the other is someone really powerful, they use 'this grandfather,'" the librarian explained enthusiastically. "Though, for the last hundred years, that part of etiquette's considered outdated, but some fogeys still cling to it. On the other hand, if someone calls themselves 'this grandfather,' there is hardly anyone willing to correct them. Unless it's another such 'grandfather.'"

"So... wait... I don't quite get your bit about human, demon, or ghost... What do you mean by 'Styxsonians have it all complicated'?!" Malk couldn't help but ask.

His companion sighed quietly, barely holding back from rolling his eyes.

"Exactly what I said. It's Styxson. There are so many Schools with the most twisted paths, so many Arcane Arts that seem perverse to us, so many people with demonic Lineages—the line between species blurs in some cases. And you can't be sure of anything!"

Malk asked no more questions. Thanking the librarian and discreetly slipping a couple of obols into his pocket, he took a free seat in the hall and stayed there until evening, reading a diplomat's notes on one of Mritlok's most mysterious countries. He didn't learn anything beyond what he heard from the librarian, but Malk still didn't regret the time spent. Because thanks to that book, probably for the first time in his life, his teenage dreams of fame and recognition were joined by a desire to travel. To witness the brightest wonders of land and sea, to explore new countries and customs, endure hardships, and make discoveries... Damn it, Mritlok was considered a world of countless islands, yet he was still stuck on just one!

With thoughts like these, Malk returned home, genuinely convinced that his endlessly long day was over and all that awaited him was bed and deep sleep... And he was wrong. As it turned out, the tense day was about to transition into an eventful night. Because that very night, the apartment he shared with his friends came under a real assault...

Yorrokh knows how things would've ended if the killers, planning to break in, hadn't started arguing right under Malk's kitchen window. Something wasn't working out for them, something they couldn't agree on beforehand—and in the end, a last-minute hitch cost them the success of the whole venture. By the time they finally opened the window, Malk had already snapped awake, armed himself with a musketoon, and, hiding in the kitchen, began to wait for guests.

However, "wait" is too strong a word. Malk had just taken his position when the first intruder clambered onto the windowsill. And he didn't look like someone who came to wish Malk a good evening.

Malk didn't waste energy on chit-chat either.

The musketoon blasted hellishly loud, a burst of fire shot at the unwelcome guest, and... with a muffled scream, he flew outside. The bastard was saved from death by a thin plate of shield that took the full brunt of the blast. As for Malk... Malk climbed out after him, whether to take the guy captive or, on the contrary, finish him off—he didn't really know what he wanted more.

Outside, a large, weighty surprise awaited him. He barely had time to jump off the windowsill when another Saints-damned killer appeared and instantly punched him in the ear. The hit was sharp and almost perfectly executed, but it didn't knock Malk out. Sure, it knocked him down and made him see stars spin around his head, but that was it. He was able to keep fighting, and that's what he did a moment later.

A forward dive, a roll, an attempt to get up, a miraculous dodge from a long blade that seemed to emerge from the shadows, and Malk finally had a chance to get a good look at his attackers. To his right stood the victim of the clash between the worlds of magic and firearms, cradling his right arm. A bit further back lurked another foe—short enough to seem like a kid—who could slip into shadows and wielded a long blade. And finally, right in front of Malk, froze the last attacker... the one who decided not to wait for an invitation and strike first.

With a loud buzz, a Lightning shot from the attacker's palm and stung Malk's left arm like a venomous bee. He screamed in pain and rage.

"They said you could catch Lightning..." the Lightning Master said, a bit disappointed. "So why aren't you catching mine?"

"All in good time, all in good time..." Malk grimaced, using Authority to expel the remaining magical charge from his body, then, as subtly as possible, started creating his Spark.

Whether it was the tension or his grown Authority and overall spellcasting skills, Malk managed to create the Spark surprisingly fast. And even pulled off hiding his actions from the enemies. So when he finally released it at the wounded guy, it was a big surprise for everyone. And especially for the target. The window-crasher didn't have time to dodge the magical charge, took it straight to the head, and dropped like a sack.

Only two enemies were left against Malk, but dealing with them was a lot tougher.

Seeing their buddy fall, both thugs charged without a word. Initially, the one specializing in Lightning seemed the most dangerous to Malk. He even readied his knife to fend off magical discharges, losing track of the other for a bit, for which he paid the price.

The shorty's figure suddenly lost shape, becoming transparent and blurry, then merged with the shadows completely and slid along the ground to Malk's back. Unfortunately, Malk figured out his skills and intentions too late, and although he managed to escape certain death, he still received a long gash on his side.

The Lightning guy wasn't slacking either. Left unattended, he prepped another magical charge and hurled it at Malk. The knife, raised just in time, saved him from a full hit, but his body still jolted. And if it weren't for Malk's resilience, instantly coping with the consequences of such attacks, he'd have been stuck with temporary muscle paralysis!

A brief pause in the fight gave Malk a chance he couldn't pass up. Pretending to attack the short killer, who hadn't yet vanished into the shadows after his partially successful strike, Malk instead sprinted toward the Lightning guy. The blade deflected the incoming charge, and his clenched fist struck—the enemy's face even flashed a triumphant grin when a Shield woven from Lightning appeared to block the swinging blow—but the magical barrier tore like rotten gauze. Along with the punch, Malk released a Dispersion spell, which thinned the Shield and let him reach the target. His fist, barely weakened by meeting the defensive spell, slammed into the enemy's gut. It hit so perfectly that the seemingly tough guy doubled over and was thrown back a couple of steps.

Malk's opponents were down to one.

Meanwhile, behind him, the shadow-gliding blade lover appeared again. But unlike before, Malk was fully ready this time. Dodging a straight thrust that only grazed his belly, he spun and landed a direct punch to the shorty's jaw. The latter flew back to the wall like a deflated ball.

The enemy was defeated, and the battlefield was Malk's. Now, two questions loomed large: what to do with this victory, and where, Yorrokh take it, did he get such strength in his hands?!