His vision was awash with crimson.

"Still refusing to surrender?" He vaguely heard his opponent's query, though the words were lost to him like whispers in a storm.

"Never yield, not until death."

That remained his unwavering answer.

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The two forces converged like opposing tides, their formations resembling warring colonies of ants rushing toward inevitable collision. Mere heartbeats—perhaps thirty seconds—separated them from clash and carnage.

"Knights, heed my words!" Devalosfang Dear's voice cut through the tension. "Our mission is to rescue the vanguard squad, not to seek the enemy's destruction! Protect the survivors at all costs. Should the enemy retreat, hold your pursuit! Is that clear?!"

After his knights' acknowledgment echoed back, his hawk-like gaze swept the battlefield before him. At the vanguard rode Carl and Tyler... and behind them... ah, Big-Mouth Simon. Devalosfang's eyes gleamed with predatory intensity. Come then!

Raising his steel sword before his eyes like a mirror reflecting his resolve, Devalosfang drew a deep breath and spoke: "Beautiful Josephine Dear! Trust your fate to my hands now, and let us dance as one!" With those words, his heels struck his mount's flanks. The chestnut mare reared magnificently, her war cry splitting the air, before plunging like an arrow into the ranks of cloaked riders.

Stellan was the first to spot him, having just leveraged his leg against a shield to wrench free his longsword, almost sending Tyler tumbling from his saddle. Catching sight of the approaching reinforcements, Stellan drew his lightning-shaped dagger with fluid grace. Devalosfang's steel sword traced twin arcs through the air, a perfect defense against the cloaked rider's lightning strike. Then he was past Stellan, his true quarry being Simon of Elsra.

Tyler witnessed this exchange, and for a heartbeat his mind went blank—not from the squad leader's martial prowess, but from the haunting familiarity of the scene.

Steel sang against steel as the reinforcements clashed with the cloaked riders. Tyler spotted Simon, slumped in his saddle, his right hand making futile attempts to raise his blade. The sight ignited a cold fury in his chest.

He charged at Lannord, who had already noticed his approach and abandoned the defenseless Simon to meet this new threat. Lannord raised his blade, ready to strike at Devalosfang's exposed throat as he charged.

Devalosfang lifted his sword skyward.

The Dance of Blossoms.

His steel sword, kissed by an ethereal blue glow, seemed to come alive, weaving graceful yet deadly arcs around him. Each curve was both beautiful and lethal, gentle yet fatal. He transformed into a stone lotus in full bloom—magnificent to behold but deadly to approach. Lannord, finding no opening for attack, withdrew to defense, yet could not discern which phantom strike to guard against. As they passed, a silver flash preceded twin gashes opening across Lannord's shoulders.

Devalosfang wheeled his mount sharply, pursuing the cloaked rider with relentless determination. He quickly closed the distance, his expression carved from stone. Lannord sought countermeasures against this fearsome opponent, but Devalosfang allowed no time for thought.

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The Dance of Winds.

Now came the tempest—a storm that could pierce through hurricanes. His thrusts formed an endless chain of light, each strike flowing into the next with supernatural grace. While Lannord's reflexes could track Devalosfang's movements, raising his sword in defense proved futile. Each time he identified the knight's target and moved to parry, he received only pain, blood, and wounds that cut deeper than the last.

Nearly stripped of all resistance, the cyclone of strikes had severed the tendons in both his arms. His hands hung limp, still clutching his battered sword, but the blade pointed earthward like a broken wing. Though Lannord's face bore youth's stamp, Devalosfang showed no mercy.

The Farmer's Dance.

Gripping his sword with both hands, he delivered an overhead strike that seemed capable of cleaving the bonds of time itself. In its wake, Lannord and his mount crashed to earth as one.

"Myr!" Devalosfang called to a nearby knight. "Get Big-Mouth Simon onto your horse before his backside becomes acquainted with the ground!"

The knight nodded, hoisting Simon onto his mount. Simon's horse, relieved of its burden, quickened its pace to stay close to Myr. "Hold fast, brother," Myr reassured the knight sagging against his back. "Stay with us—you’re made of sterner stuff than this, aren’t you?"

Assured of Simon's safety, Devalosfang's attention returned to the battle ahead. He observed Carl and Tyler trading sporadic blows with the cloaked rider, who had been howling since Lannord's fall. What do you cry out? Devalosfang mused. "Return my friend"? "I'll have your blood"? How touching. But sadly, you'll have no time left for mourning.

The falcon had marked its prey.

Tyler and Carl fought with desperate intensity. Since Devalosfang's clash with Stellan, they had found no opening to close with their foe. In a brief respite, Tyler glimpsed the fierce combat behind them.

There could be no mistake.

He trembled.

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The Dance of the Lance.

Devalosfang gripped his sword two-handed, positioning it horizontally beneath his left arm in a classic charging stance. His spurs found his mount's flanks, drawing forth a piercing neigh before the horse launched forward with explosive force. He became the very image of a charging lancer.

Stellan sensed him coming. He violently parried Carl and Tyler's attacks before spinning to meet the charging knight's thrust with his jagged dagger. Sparks erupted as steel met iron, the dagger's serrated edge binding against Devalosfang's sword. Yet even so, his chin felt the sword's cold kiss.

Devalosfang wrenched his blade free, recognizing this approach's limitations. His gaze fixed on that strange dagger—more troublesome than before. This must end swiftly. "Three blades!" he called to the two knights before him. Carl and Tyler instantly grasped their leader's intent, and all three converged on Stellan at once. With only two hands to counter three attacks from different angles, he momentarily faltered. But Stellan's composure returned quickly as he assessed his situation. He knew he could block two attacks, leaving the third for his green cloak to defend against. After split-second calculation, he chose to counter Devalosfang and Tyler's strikes.

Stellan's right hand flashed out, catching Devalosfang's thrust with his dagger, while his left swept up to deflect Tyler's slash. His eyes tracked Carl's approaching blade, aimed for his throat. In his remaining instant, he jerked his green cloak up to shield his vulnerable neck.

He had chosen wrongly.

Carl's sword never sought the cloak. Instead, mid-thrust, he shifted his left hand's grip, transforming the strike into an upward slash. The blade entered beneath Stellan's chin, carving through his right cheek to create a chasm of crimson, shattering his eye before emerging at his forehead.

He felt his eye burst, sending waves of agony through his skull. But anger's blade cut deeper still, driving him into uncontrollable fury. Stellan's remaining eye filled with blood, his shattered orb floating like crimson jelly. Veins bulged along his neck like writhing snakes.

"I will drink your blood."

The words emerged through clenched teeth like a beast's growl.