Pasta sat alone under the night sky, savouring the rare peace and silence it offered, save for the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze. That tranquillity was short-lived, however, as
Puck hopped over to him, flapping her wide wings with an almost frantic energy.
“Alright, alright!” Pasta laughed, holding his stomach. “I’ll go to bed, jeez, Puck. You’re just like Emilia—only with feathers!” He burst into laughter at his own joke, kicking his legs idly over the edge of the mansion roof. Puck tilted her head, her beady eyes narrowing as though rolling them in exasperation.
Pasta leaned back, resting against the shingles, his smile softening. “You know, tomorrow we’re heading to the Seventh,” he said, his voice tinged with anticipation. “It’s for Emilia’s lessons with Bloodborne. Father agreed to let her be an adventurer during our travels. You should’ve seen her face, Puck—she was so happy, her cheeks were brighter than the sun.”
Scooping the stubborn bird into his hands, he gently stroked her feathers, eliciting a reluctant groan of contentment. “It’s safer this way,” he continued. “Being an adventurer means fewer people will mess with you. Hunters and mercenaries won’t pick fights as often—they’d rather go after easy prey than someone who might fight back.”
Puck shifted in his hands, her sharp gaze meeting his, questioning his reasoning.
“Hey, hey!” Pasta waved a hand with a sheepish grin. “Not saying I’m okay with criminals attacking people, noble or not! Come on, Puck, give me some credit here.”
He sighed, laying back fully and gazing at the faint glimmer of stars above. “I’ve been training for this for years, you know,” he said, his tone growing quieter. “Ever since our older sister’s death... all of it was for Emilia. To protect her, to grow stronger, and to chase my dream of becoming a mighty warrior.” He stretched his arms skyward, his fingers splaying as if trying to catch a star. “As adventurers, we’ may face monsters, dragons, and maybe demons. I’m itching for that kind of excitement, Puck. I want to test my strength.”
A wide grin spread across his face as he lowered his arms. “One day, I’ll have to make a choice,” he said softly. “Between protecting Emilia and following my own dream. And no, Puck, I can’t do both. Not in the way I want to at least.” His eyes sparkled as he clenched his fist. “But if I ever meet a strong fighter on one of our adventures? I’ll make sure to give it my all, just for the thrill of it. Since it may be my last,” he gave a near ominous grin. "And I'll enjoy every bit of it"
*
Amidst the wreckage of fallen hunters and the distant cawing of crows, Pasta stood at the centre of the desolate battlefield. His grin was irreverent, his posture loose as he glanced down at Ryder, whose cold, unyielding stare seemed to be carved from stone.
“Last time, you did quite a number on me.” Pasta said as his hand drifted to the hilt of his blade. “How about a second round—”
Before he could finish, the ground erupted with a crackling burst of frost, a spear of jagged ice hurtling straight toward him. Pasta’s eyes sharpened, his body moving instinctively as his blade sang through the air, slicing the ice cleanly in two.
He barely had time to regain his footing before Ryder threw a stony fist toward him, sending him hurtling backwards.
Pasta twisted mid-air, landing on his feet in a crouch. He wiped the dirt from his face, spitting blood onto the cracked frozen earth. “First hit, huh?” he said with a cocky smirk, twirling his blade. "Looks like someone's not in a good mood"
Ryder yawned, his movements casual as he stepped forward, the ground trembling beneath him. “It seems you’re under a grave misconception,” he said, his voice low and disdainful. “I’m here for the swordsman—not a weakling like you.”
The words struck deep as Pasta lowered his head, the brim of his hat casting shadows over his eyes—or so it seemed. Then, he erupted into laughter, smacking his knee in exaggerated amusement. “Weakling? Me?” He jabbed a thumb at his chest. His laughter died down as his piercing gaze locked onto Ryder. A grin spread across his face, sharp and taunting. “Hey, shorty, you’ve got it all wrong—”
The ground beneath him rumbled as jagged rocks burst upward, aiming to skewer him. “More rocks? Really? Come on, at least try to get creative.”
Pasta held his ground, his smile never faltering as he adjusted his stance, leaning forward slightly.
The world seemed to blur, shifting to colours of black and white for a moment as Pasta felt the subtle tremor beneath his feet. Just as a rock spiked up beneath him, he used its force to propel himself forward, launching toward Ryder like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Each swipe of his blade was effortless, his laughter echoing through the battlefield like a chaotic maniac.
In an instant, Pasta closed the gap between them. He swung for Ryder’s head, but his blade met resistance—Ryder’s rocky arm intercepted the strike with a deafening clash. Sparks flew, the force of the collision pushing both combatants back slightly.
Ryder’s eyes narrowed as he glared at Pasta, his irritation palpable. Pasta, unbothered, flashed a grin. “Nice block,” he said, tilting his head. “But seriously, lose the rocky arm. Blocking barehanded? Way cooler.”
Ryder’s scowl deepened, and with a flick of his fingers, a stone fist erupted from the earth, catching Pasta square in the chest and launching him backwards. He collided with several more stone pillars that sprang up in quick succession, each impact wringing a groan from him until he finally skidded to a stop.
Blood trickled down Pasta’s temple as he pushed himself off the ground, wobbling slightly but grinning nonetheless. “Man, tough crowd,” he said, his tone light despite the blood dripping from his chin. “Come on, man. It was just a joke! Take it easy a bit.”
Ryder swung his hand, the jagged rock encasing his fist crumbling to the snow with a heavy thud. His expression remained impassive as he said, “I’ll admit, you’ve gotten stronger, even if only slightly.” His tone, cold and unflattering. “I’ll kill you quickly and move on to the others.”
Pasta straightened up, his body battered and weak. He spat blood to the side, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Yeah, yeah, that’s the plan, right?” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Also I don’t think I’ll ever get use to those damn rocks of yours.”
Gripping his blade, Pasta sliced cleanly through his cloak, letting the top half fall away and hung his hat behind him. The frayed rope around his waist held the rest of his tattered clothing in place. His muscular frame gleamed in the icy moonlight, scars both old and new crisscrossing his skin, defying the biting chill of the wind.
“I’ll make this easier for you!” Pasta declared, pointing his blade at Ryder, his grin unwavering. “I’m in a good mood, but damn, am I starving. So, let’s get this over with before I pass out from hunger.”
Ryder’s frown deepened. He flicked his wrist, and the earth trembled in response. Rocks swirled around him, melding together and growing into a towering, hulking figure of stone. His form was colossal, his features devoid of emotion, a stony bastion of power.
“How foolish,” Ryder said, his voice devoid of pity. “I won’t even enjoy having your head. My brother will handle this farce while I deal with the swordsman.”
Without another glance, Ryder turned and strode toward the tower in the distance.
Pasta moved to stop him, but a massive figure materialised before him—Bastian, the rocky colossus Ryder had summoned. The creature’s granite fist swung down, a thunderous punch aimed directly at Pasta.
Pasta raised his blade to block, but the sheer force of the blow sent him hurtling backwards, a vortex of wind swirling in its wake. Before he could regain his footing,
Bastian reappeared, slamming him into the snow with bone-crushing strength.
The flurry of snow obscured their forms as Bastian launched into a relentless assault. His punches rained down on Pasta, each one sending blood spattering into the frost. The sound of Pasta’s laughter cut through the beating, a defiant echo in the frozen night, but as the punches continued, his voice grew faint.
Ryder sighed, glancing back briefly. “Jinni wouldn’t want me to interfere. A shame, really,” he muttered, stifling a yawn. “Perhaps I’ll deal with the girl instead. The lords won’t be pleased with her meddling… if she’s even still alive.”
“Hey,” came a raspy voice.
Ryder stopped in his tracks, scowling. Still alive huh?
“What did you just say?” Pasta whispered.
Ryder turned, his annoyance morphing into shock. There stood Pasta, bloodied and bruised, holding Bastian’s massive stone head in one hand. The colossus struggled violently, but Pasta’s grip was unyielding.
“What in the—?” Ryder’s eyes widened in horror as Pasta’s lips curled into a devious grin. He crushed Bastian’s head to rubble, letting the remains crumble to the ground.
The sight froze Ryder in place, a bitter memory clawing its way to the forefront of his mind. The image reminded him too much of the Weeping Swordsman—a scene he had vowed never to witness again.
Ryder’s fists clenched as rage churned inside him, not at Bastian’s destruction, but at the humiliation. How dare a weakling like him hold my brother at his mercy?
His thoughts drifted to the past, to the day his older brother, once a vibrant and ecstatic drummer, had vanished in a rockslide after a heated argument between them. Ryder had been blamed for his brother’s death, cast aside in a kingdom where justice held no weight. On the brink of execution, he was granted a gift—a power he swore to use to dominate the weak even if it meant crushing everyone beneath his heel including his deceased brother.
But now, seeing his brother’s form destroyed, not by his own hands but by someone else’s, Ryder’s fury erupted. “You…” His voice trembled with unbridled anger. “You’ll pay for that!”
*
The clash of steel and the grunts of exertion echoed around the forest, mingling with the gentle murmurs of the nearby river—a symphony of conflict against nature's peace. Pasta lunged forward, his sword cutting through the air, only for Mr Swordsman to parry effortlessly with a single, fluid motion of his blade.
“I plan to teach you the essence of our lifeforce, so listen carefully,” Mr. Swordsman said, sidestepping Pasta’s wild swing. “The first commandment: the ability to manipulate an element, bending it to one’s will—strengthening it or rendering it powerless. The second is parallel space—a distorted dimension where time crawls at a near standstill. Finally, there is creation, the third and most elusive power. It allows one to claim absolute dominion over a space, shaping it to their design. Even I haven’t mastered it. It is said to be a second gift, bestowed only upon the truly gifted.”
Pasta gritted his teeth, pushing against Mr. Swordsman’s blade with all his might. His eyes glinted with defiance. “Guess even you aren’t all-powerful, huh?”
Mr Swordsman’s face remained stoic, his tone calm yet piercing. “What do you define as power, Pasta?”
Pasta paused, his grin widening as he stepped back, lowering his blade slightly. “You see, Mr. Swordsman, power to me is strength—the kind that lets you crush anyone in your way. The skill to overwhelm your enemies and stand above the rest, no matter how many they are” he said, his voice steady even as he was forced to the ground with a sharp push of Mr. Swordsman’s blade. “I’m not the honourable type, so don’t expect some poetic answer from me. That’s why I think you’re powerful, and why I wanted you to train me.”
Mr. Swordsman studied him in silence for a moment before a faint smirk tugged at his lips. “Let’s begin with the first power then,” he said, sheathing his blade as he turned away. “And Pasta,” his voice lowering to a whisper, “if you ever encounter someone who wields the power of creation, run. You won’t stand a chance.”
*
Ryder’s eyes flickered, his fists trembling as he stood mere paces from Pasta. The only sound between them was the howl of the wind, snow swirling around in chaotic spirals. Then, it began.
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The skies above twisted unnaturally, colours bleeding into one another as day and night cycled in a dizzying blur. The heavens darkened, settling into an ominous, dark azure.
Pasta’s frown melted into a mischievous grin as he tilted his head to the sky. “Well, isn’t this fancy?” he muttered, his voice laced with amusement.
Around them, the world transformed. The tower disappeared, replaced by an endless expanse of snow and jagged rocks scattered across the plains. Ryder took a step forward, his head bowed, voice barely audible.
“You see,” he said, his eyes losing their whites letting only voids remain, “I wasn’t planning to use this against a pest like you. But you’ve annoyed me to the point where I’d love nothing more than to toy with your very soul.” He raised his gaze, a wicked smile curling his lips. “This is my third power. If I kill you here even once, I can reanimate you and kill you again, as many times as I please. But don’t get it twisted—when you die here, you die for real. Even if you somehow defeat me and shatter this realm, your body will perish with it.”
Pasta scratched his ear with a finger, nonchalantly blowing the dust from it before resting his sword on his shoulder. “So, no escape unless I kill you first, huh? Fine by me.”
“Shut your filthy mouth, you weasel,” Ryder growled, his voice low and venomous. He raised his hands as the air around them thickened. “I am the god of this world—my creation. A realm where I have never known defeat.”
The ground trembled violently, the snow shifting into jagged rocks that twisted into monstrous forms. Serpents, dragons, and grotesque creatures towered over the battlefield, their earth-shattering roars reverberating across the desolate plain. Bastian-like figures emerged, countless in number, their stony forms lining up in a massive, terrifying army.
Ryder’s form began to warp, parts of his body encased in layers of rock that tore through his clothes and etched to his skin. His back bulged grotesquely, as a massive, humanoid Bastian clawed its way out, laughing maniacally. A colossal rocky ring materialised behind the brothers, adorned with drums at each corner. Two more rocky drums materialised in Ryder’s lap as he floated into the sky, cross-legged with Bastian looming over his head like a twisted shadow.
Ryder’s voice, distorted and layered with Bastian’s, boomed across the battlefield. “There’s no use begging. You’ll die here again and again, nothing more than a pitiful joke for my amusement. Darius claimed you killed Valdorith, but that’s absurd. You’re no dragon slayer—just a weak, pathetic fool.”
Far in the distance, standing alone against the monstrous army, Pasta remained silent, his expression unreadable. Valdorith, huh? He had forgotten about their whole encounter, what he had to prove, and what he had to fight for. But whatever it was... it didn’t matter now.
He chuckled softly, clicking his blade on his shoulder. “Carrying the will of others sounds noble and all,” he said, his voice cutting through the cacophony, “but I’ve been waiting for this moment my whole life. No way am I letting some dragons will ruin that for me.”
Pasta sighed as his stomach rumbled. “How do you expect me to run from this Mr Swordsman?” he asked, shaking his head. “Begging would have sound more reasonable,” he laughed out and held his stomach. “Not like I’ll do that anyways, guess you aren’t that smart as well”
Ryder’s gaze burned with contempt as he looked down at Pasta. “Give me your last words, Pasta,” he said, his voice dripping with mock pity. “I’ll deliver them to your sister and your loved ones.”
Pasta’s lips curled into a smile as he bowed slightly. “Last words, huh? Well, I’ve got just the thing.”
Straightening his back, he stepped forward, his posture brimming with confidence. He stretched out his arm, his palm open wide, resting his sword on his shoulder. The fire in his eyes matched the grin spreading across his face, the excitement in him radiating like an unyielding flame.
“My name is Mighty Pasta,” he declared, his voice booming across the frozen wasteland. “I saved the town of flames, protected a marriage, killed a true dragon, fought the strongest man in the world, and even crossed swords with the greatest swordsman alive. And now...” He leaned forward, his grin widening. “I’m gonna... beat... your... ass.”
Ryder growled, slamming his drum with a force that echoed like thunder. The ground rumbled as the army of Bastians charged forward, their battle cries filling the air.
Pasta remained posed as he leapt on one foot and the next. “Let’s goooooo! Dammit!” he roared, launching himself into the fray.
The world turned monochrome for an instant as he surged forward, then snow erupted beneath his feet in a storm of frost and wind. The sheer force of his movement created an explosion of snow as he rocketed upwards.
A dragon flew towards him, its jaws wide open. Pasta’s eyes gleamed as he laughed maniacally, using his elbow to shift the wind and propel himself aside. With a swift swing of his blade, he struck the dragon’s chin, propelling himself atop its massive form.
“The party’s just getting started, big guy,” he grinned, stabbing the beast’s nape. More dragons and monsters rushed toward him, their shadows blotting out the sky. Undeterred,
Pasta’s muscles bulged as he sprinted across the dragon’s back, his sword carving through the rocky structure of its wings. The beast crumbled into rubble, and Pasta leapt from the debris toward another approaching dragon.
Before he could land, a giant snake lunged from the side, its fangs sinking into him.
Pasta strengthened his coating as the creature thrashed wildly, slamming him into jagged rock walls that erupted from the ground. With one final swing, it hurled him skyward, its maw open wide to swallow him whole.
Pasta’s eyes snapped open mid-fall, his grin returning with renewed vigour. In a flash, he took a striking stance and launched himself downward at lighting speed, his blade cleaving the serpent clean in half.
He landed amidst the disaster, pulling his blade free with a grunt. “Rocks, huh? Guess my poison’s no good against you. Makes this a bit of a chore,” he said, glancing up at the approaching wave of monsters flying towards him and on land the army of Bastian who were getting closer.
His smile widened. “Still, not like I'm complaining orr anything. But, I don't have all day for you minions.”
Above, Ryder sat like a god at the centre of the storm, his drumming commanding the battlefield.
Pasta narrowed his eyes. It was clear—defeating the horde would take an eternity. The real threat was Ryder.
As the monsters closed in, Pasta propelled himself skyward with a powerful burst of wind, his blade gleaming in the dim light. “All I need is one strike,” he whispered to himself, a dragon charging toward him. With a graceful twirl, he landed atop its back, slicing through the creatures riding it before sprinting to its tail.
Using another burst of energy, he launched himself straight at Ryder, the monochrome world enveloping him once more. Time slowed to a crawl as he entered his parallel space—a technique he’d recently mastered, though its use was limited to mere seconds and could only be used a couple of times before he succumbed to unconsciousness.
This is it, he thought, his blade inches from Ryder’s neck. Goodbye, Ryder.
“How truly pathetic,” Ryder said, his distorted voice laced with disdain.
Bastian’s massive hand slammed a drum behind Ryder, summoning a colossal stony arm that swatted Pasta away like an insect. He crashed into the snow, the impact sending him hurtling miles across the plain.
Colour returned to the world as a giant Bastian emerged behind Ryder. The shattered monsters began to regenerate, their bodies reforming as if nothing had happened.
“You can try all you want,” Ryder declared, his voice echoing across the battlefield. “But your fate is inevitable. You will die here.”
The army stood motionless, their glowing blue eyes fixed on Pasta’s crumpled form in the distance, awaiting their master’s final command.
*
Pasta's chest heaved, his heartbeat pounding rapidly. Heat surged through his veins, unbearable and searing, as if his entire body had been set ablaze. Yet the pain was far worse—it felt as though something gnawed at him from within, consuming him piece by piece.
Memories flooded his mind, vivid and alien. They weren’t his memories, yet they unfolded as clearly as if they were etched into his soul.
Naga. Astria. Valdorith.
He saw it all—the fury, the betrayals, the blood-soaked history. But the anger he expected to feel wasn’t there. The rage that once consumed him had been stripped away, leaving only clarity. Was this why he had been ridden from those visions before? To free him from the burden of carrying someone else’s wrath? The weight of sins his ancestors had carved into the annals of history?
He didn’t know why it was happening now, in this moment of life and death. But he knew one thing for sure.
I’m not going to die here. Not before carving my name into history as a warrior. Not without protecting Emilia. Not without standing toe-to-toe with Mr. Swordsman for more duels. And definitely not without tasting Pyrovile meat again with Tori.
“So,” he whispered, his voice trembling with something that was neither fear nor joy. His eyes shimmered, teary yet ablaze with a menacing grin that spread wide across his face. “Should I be angry... or happy?”
Around him, faint green and crimson firefly-like motes of light began to rise, dancing in the cold air. His eyes shifted from their natural dark hue to a venomous green, glowing like embers in the dark. His form wavered and distorted, as though he were a glitching hologram. Across his chest, from one shoulder to the other, a tattoo formed—an intricate blend of serpent and dragon, coiling as if alive.
“THE GIFT OF THE DRAGONS RIFT.”
It coursed through him, ancient and primal, every technique, every ability rushing into his mind like an old friend finally making its presence known.
Pasta exhaled sharply, his body trembling as he processed the overwhelming surge of power. And then—he burst out laughing.
He clutched his stomach, doubling over, his laughter ringing out like a madman’s cry. He fell to the ground, rolling in the snow, gasping between fits of manic cackling.
Ryder’s scowl deepened, his gaze dark with suspicion. “Has he finally gone mad?”
Pasta wheezed, struggling to catch his breath as he sat up. “Y-you’ve got to be kidding me,” he choked out, wiping a tear from his eye. With an exaggerated effort, he pushed himself to his feet, still chuckling. “Why now, huh? Did I unlock some kind of cheat code or something?”
Ryder’s curiosity twisted into fury. “What’s wrong with you, Pasta?! Have you completely lost it?”
Pasta held up a hand, trying to compose himself, though his grin never faltered. “W-wait, wait, wait!” he stammered, his voice shaking with suppressed laughter. “Just give me a second!” He straightened up, wiping his face. Then his expression sharpened, his glowing green eyes locking onto Ryder’s.
“I just want to say...” He smirked, raising his blade. “You’re dead, man.”
A second Pasta materialised beside him, identical but with an air of casual nonchalance. The duplicate clapped a hand over Pasta’s shoulder and yawned. “Man, I’m starving. Let’s make this quick.”
Ryder’s shock was short-lived, his lips curling into a snarl. “Kill them,” he hissed, hitting his drum. “Kill them now!”
As the monstrous army surged forward, thousands of jagged, grotesque beasts roaring to life, both Pastas exchanged a glance.
The second Pasta vanished as the original shot forward, closing the distance between himself and the army in the blink of an eye. His movements were a blur, his blade slicing through the air with precision creating a cloud of snow shrouding the entire army in white. Then, with a leap and a gust of wind under his feet Pasta soared high above the battlefield.
Thousands of copies of him appeared mid-air, their laughter harmonising into a chaotic symphony that echoed across the plains.
They descended like a storm, crashing into the monsters with feral intensity. But their strikes were weak as they only provided a distraction for the countless hordes of monsters.
Ryder’s frown deepened as he observed the chaos. “Cloning,” he said. “So that’s his gift. But it’s not enough. His speed has decreased and he no longer has the skill he displayed back then—that must be the backlash of multiplying himself.” He smirked darkly, summoning more monsters with a beat of his drum. “I, on the other hand, can create an infinite number of creatures, each as strong or stronger than the last. I have endless energy in this world of mine. This little display of his won’t last.”
But as Ryder’s army grew, so did the intensity of Pasta’s laughter. The battlefield was a cacophony of chaos, a symphony of blades and defiance. And amidst it all, Pasta stood, grinning wildly, ready to push his newfound power to its absolute limit.
Pasta’s green eyes dimmed as he glanced at his palm, a mischievous chuckle escaping his lips. “Well, here goes nothing,” he said, his voice dripping with playful confidence. He raised his blade to his neck and gave himself a shallow cut. The poison surged through him like wildfire, and his tattoos flared to life, pulsing red and green.
A wild grin spread across his face as energy erupted from his body, sending tremors through the battlefield. His eyes regained its vibrant glow, and he let out a triumphant roar. “Come on, baby!” he yelled, launching himself into the fray. He moved with chaotic grace, hopping and flipping like a crazed monkey, his movements syncing perfectly with the rhythm of Ryder’s relentless drumming.
Each monster in his path was reduced to shreds with almost comical ease, his sword slicing through them like a hot knife through butter. With a sudden burst of energy, Pasta propelled himself toward Ryder. Their eyes met—Ryder’s wide with shock, Pasta’s alight with wicked glee.
Pasta’s blade shot forward, aiming straight for Ryder’s heart.
Ryder’s expression twisted in panic—until Pasta pulled back at the last second, stabbing one of the massive drums instead.
“Psyche!” Pasta taunted, grinning ear to ear as the drum shattered. Before Ryder could react, Bastian, the towering giant, swung a massive fist at him. Pasta twirled in between its fingers effortlessly, laughing as he turned and sliced off the giant's hand.
He landed on the arm and ran through it as he sliced with ridiculous speed, his laughter echoing in the skies. He reached the creature’s head and beheaded it with a single, clean strike. The massive body crumbled, and Pasta leapt into the air, his sword on his shoulder as he gazed down at the war.
Sweat poured down Ryder’s face as he watched Pasta summon his clones back, clearing the battlefield. His chestnut hair whipped in the wind, and his eyes shifted and glowed with an intense orange hue as he ignited his blade with a searing inferno that ran across the heavens and laced with flickering green poison.
With a great swing and a smile brighter than the flames, Pasta unleashed his wrath.
Flames roared across the snowy battlefield, melting ice and obliterating Ryder’s army in one spectacular explosion. From the sky, Pasta watched the inferno with a devilish grin. “Now that’s what I call a gift,” he said, his voice laced with glee.
But as the firestorm raged, the world shimmered and shifted, reverting to its snowy landscape in an instant causing Ryder to spit out blood. He was running out of energy and the world had taken far too much damage
Ryder stumbled back, terror etched across his face. “Stay away from me, you monster!” he screamed, summoning jagged rocks to launch at Pasta.
Slashing every attack with ease, Pasta blurred into view before Ryder.
Desperate, Ryder poured every ounce of energy into fortifying himself, a destructive dark aura enveloping his body. It’ll be better to survive now and fight another day than die here to this fool, he thought. The moment, Pasta swings at my indestructible coating, I’ll deactivate the space, sending Pasta far away and making a run for it.
Pasta’s grin only widened as he studied the cracks forming in Ryder’s defences. His blade enveloped itself in the spirit of Naga's serpent form. With pinpoint precision, Pasta struck a single fissure in Ryder’s barrier, grazing his cheek.
For a moment, silence reigned. Ryder looked at his hands in disbelief as the energy dissipated, Bastian became a pile of rocks and his ring turned into dust. His veins began to bulge and twitch, the poison spreading mercilessly through him. With a final scream, Ryder held his face, turning himself to stone and crumbled to the floor.
Pasta smirked and landed on the rocky corpse, his feet making a satisfying crunch. He stabbed his blade into the ground and slumped onto a pile of rubble, stretching his legs as his chest heaved with exhilaration. After a brief pause, he burst into laughter, smacking his knee and slapping the rocks.
“That was awesome!” he exclaimed, yanking his sword free and twirled it once before planting it over his shoulder, his grin stretching wide. “I can’t wait to brag about this later, but man, I’m still starving for more!” His laughter rang out, sharp and untamed.
His emerald-green eyes glinted with mischief and hunger, the battlefield’s icy winds swirling around him like a storm waiting to break. “C’mon, give me a real challenge already!” His devilish grin widened as he leaned forward. “So… who’s next?”