Amongst the injured members and soldiers of the school, many of whom moved far too little, stood a woman in loose Ankirian military uniform. Lost in the fight's noise, she burned with power.

Sansir stretched forth his Dagger, but his Discipline could not yet reach her. Channeling mana through his Cloak, he threw himself at her harder. His Dagger’s fully extended length inched towards her, yet she moved swifter still.

Her Discipline enveloped the nearest fighters. Four mostly uninjured soldiers and Morphos, the old veteran. He reacted immediately, mana gushing forth, yet it was already too late.

Light flashed in multitudes of color, and men screamed. Blood sprayed high in the sky, people reduced to a red paste slipping past her working. Morphos’ defense could not stop her attack. Yet as he fell to the ground, blood smeared and ruinous with cuts, he still resembled a man rather than a formless blob.

Sansir’s Dagger reached her, grazing her neck with a simple touch. A seven spoked star bloomed on her skin. A hand-wide it almost resembled a normal snowflake. Blue so pale to resemble white, it quested forth. Spreading across her vulnerable flesh, spokes like frigid fingers.

The woman clasped her injury, but it was already fatal. Her touch only spread the frost to her hand. Sansir turned away as he heard her attempt a scream. He’d seen the results of his mana on people too often already. The sound of her throat tearing and a bloody gurgle enlivened his mind with nightmare enough without seeing it himself.

Kneeling next to Morphos, he checked the old man’s pulse. It was still strong. Is that what Amanaris’ statistics can do? He wondered. The veteran had been knocked out by the injury, but if his defenses were capable enough… Sansir shook his head. A curtain of slick red covered Morphos’ face, thickly enough to obscure the actual wounds from casual inspection.

Sansir stepped away. If the Korfiyan were to survive, they would have to win this fight. The hilltop was a mess already. Blood spattered the ground all over. Most people had some injury, many too severe to continue the fighting, yet it seemed the students had survived.

Notably, most of the Elusrians were too severely injured to keep fighting. Most had been burned or hit, not the signs of Dhaakir’s obsidian storm. The sight made Sansir’s collarbone ache. He’d been much the same in his first battle. His clavicle shattered by a random peasant with a hammer.

Kasos, swathed in gloomy water, slid to a halt next to him. His aged face was strained with effort and exhaustion, sweat trickling down the sides of his face. He dropped to a knee, thumping hard to the ground.

“I,” he said, gasping for breath. “Need you… tap in…” he shook his head. “Too old…”

Es, Ayvir, Pashar, and Dovar rushed around each other, lashing out at Dhaakir’s obsidian shrouded form.

“How is he doing that?” Sansir whispered with dawning horror.

Each of his opponents exchanged attacks, trying to open him for Es or Ayvir, yet all were countered, dodged, or redirected. Each of Dhaakir’s moves was a slight alteration of his technique, achieving maximum effect for minimal effort.

Sansir understood then why Asmar did not want to fight him. This man was a genius on the battlefield. No one could fight like this. Sansir couldn’t believe it even as he watched it happen.

“Mania,” Kasos said, somewhat recovered. Sansir noticed a blotch of wet and darkened cloth on the man’s thigh. “Or some call it. A form of it, at least. When you corner an animal, it reacts in fear, lashing out wildly. But some people, as rare as they are dangerous, when confronted with their life. Everything they own taken from them, they do not struggle to keep it. Instead of fighting tooth and nail for every scrap, they let go.

“Their focus shifts. They find peace instead. No longer attached to their assumptions, their items, and trappings, they are freed. It’s only them and their spirit. All is distraction.”

Dhaakir expanded his obsidian storm, pushing Es back. Yet this opened gaps in the otherwise impenetrable sphere. Ayvir’s Lance slammed into the Triplet-Master’s Mantle like it was a solid wall, his Discipline swiftly drilling towards Dhaakir’s exposed form. Black glass whipped out. Not for Ayvir but Pashar. She’d slipped past another hole and yet had been trapped.

After only a moment, Ayvir had cut through his Mantle, yet was body-blocked by Pashar. Dhaakir reached his Lance to the ground. As Pashar’s form dissembled into smoke, obsidian dust ripped into the sky, encapsulating all.

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Sansir readied himself, keeping his Disciplines close. He’d only get one shot. Slowly inching closer, he sensed movement within the Mantle. Dhaakir seemed to move without noticeably changing the area he controlled. Expanding and shrinking the size selectively? Sansir wondered. Is that even possible?

A thud of fist against flesh sounded within the cloud. A limp form flew out of the dust, rolling end over end to land close to Dovar. Ayvir tracked the exit. Left of center. A bar of darkness cut through the cloud, heat shimmering the cloud oddly. Light redirected from his tight control by the dust highlighted the figure hiding within.

Sansir drove forth at full speed, the accidentally overcharged ice cracking the leather of his boots. Ayvir’s attack struck the figure dead in the stomach. Shuttering, they screamed, high-pitched and ear-ripping. The heat from Ayvir’s attack dispersed the cloud momentarily, revealing Pashar’s burnt and suspended figure.

Half-shifted into smoke. It seemed the trick had saved her from being burnt through by Ayvir’s attack, yet she now fell limp to the ground.

That means- Sansir turned to Dovar, just as he let out a cry. The slam of a fist on flesh sounded thunderous, accompanied by the grinding snap of bone. Turning just in time, Sansir caught Dovar’s limp form. Blood splattered into his eyes, sending him careening off the ice block.

Falling to the ground, they rolled painfully together. Sansir grunting with each impact, Dovar letting out vacant mewls of pain. Generating a slide of ice, Sansir caught them and took stock.

Both of Dovar’s arms were broken, an attempted block resulting in shattered limbs. Both sleeves were torn where Dhaakir’s fist had shattered bone.

“Go,” Dovar wheezed, his breath whistling. Sansir had heard that sound before. From the dying. However, wind yet spun around Dovar’s defeated form.

“Keep your strength up,” Sansir commanded, hands shaking as he fought to his feet. Pain, sharp and fast, cut up his foot and into his shin. His boots fell apart with each step, frost-broken leather flaking off.

The wind had picked up, sharpening the chill in the air. Breath pluming before him, Sansir made another block of ice and flew forth.

The storm of obsidian had split into two, no longer surrounding Dhaakir, they surrounded Es and Ayvir, respectively. Esmund surged against the wall. Each impact shook his Discipline, forcing him to retreat before the rocks could cut through.

Ayvir’s struggle was more clear as his storm closed evenly from all sides. Bars of light attempted to cut through, but he was trapped. Unable to escape.

Dhaakir, silent for the entire fight, walked towards the struggling master. Eyes closed, his fingers waving as if playing an invisible instrument. One hand singed red and black with burns, with the other veined and thin-skinned.

He turned to look at Sansir with tears in his eyes. “How could I not have seen earlier?” he sniffled and smiled. “It’s so beautiful.” His wheezing voice barely had enough strength to be heard.

Getting within reach of his Dagger, Sansir sent an icicle flying towards Dhaakir. An off-hand swing of his uninjured hand shattered the ice, leaving only a thin rime on his knuckles. The presence of Dhaakir’s Heart fought the ice, yet Sansir.

Frowning, Dhaakir looked at his knuckles, then to Sansir. “What did you do?” he asked, flexing his fingers. His soul bore down on the ice. Cracking, it fell off.

Stone melted, sizzling on the ground. Obsidian cracked, disintegrated to dust. Dhaakir snapped around, returning his focus and strength to his other opponents. Ice remained on his hand.

Ayvir fell back, spraying blood from his shoulder. Es retreated, the obsidian hitting with spiritual force rather than physical.

“You shall watch.” Dhaakir reached out. Sansir focused on maintaining his ice, dodged to no avail. A head-sized piece of obsidian struck him in the face. It tore him off his ice, yanking painfully at his neck.

Groaning, Sansir felt the wet heat of his breath against his cheeks. He hung from his neck, drifting back to the deranged Triplet Master. Hard edges cut at his neck and skull as swung. Grasping desperately to relieve the pressure, Sansir hauled on the stone. Lifting himself less than an inch, yet enough to breathe freely.

His feet kicked, yet could not help him. Light poured in suddenly and Sansir was hanging in front of Ayvir.

“If you move, I will cut him down,” Dhaakir said. “That goes double for the old man.” It was unlikely that Kasos could hear them from this distance, not that Sansir could see him anywhere.

Ayvir knelt before him, his one arm cradling the bleeding form of Redpaw, his companion creature. The red-furred creature mewled in pain from a dozen cuts from the obsidian. Snow fell, fat flakes flurrying in the gusting wind.

“I was gonna gloat,” Dhaakir whispered, eyes wide and dead. “But it can wait a little while yet, I think.” He swung his injured arm, slamming pointed fingers into Ayvir’s shoulder. Enhanced by mana, his fingers cut in like a knife. Ayvir screamed as Dhaakir shoved his arm out of socket.

The old mad man gave Sansir a wide-eyed look before spinning them both about, swinging a weight of black stone. Es flying on trails of warp mana was struck on the jaw with a bone-shattering crunch.

Dhaakir stood still for a moment, looking at the body. “I didn’t kill him, did I?”

Sansir panicked, reached out to sense Es. His spiritual still chugged sluggishly on. Yet, Dhaakir seemed unable to sense it. “Oh, well.”

Obsidian dust recombined to a solid piece over Es’ chest, lifting him into the air. Ayvir had already joined them, suspended like he from the neck. Tears slid from the master’s face, his arm hanging limp at his side.

Breath whistling, Dovar was carried over as well. Finally, Pashar unconscious — like Esmund — joined them. Sansir flinched at the sight, her stomach a bare burnt thing like Dhaakir’s arm.

Sansir glimpsed at Kasos, the sole remaining fighter, as all six of them drifted toward the school. The teacher wasn’t looking at them, however, but at the sky. The snowstorm that had been approaching for the last minute finally arrived, and Kasos was hidden behind a curtain of white. Only the school seemed yet visible.