The horizontal dark red slash that had torn through Finn's body kept burning—a scar of fire carved into the woods. Trees hissed as flames licked up their sides, smoke spiraling into the sky like a funeral chant. Icariel stood frozen, limbs locked, mind drowning in the unreality of it all. His breath barely formed the words: "What the…"

[Hide behind the right tree at your side. Now.]

The voice. Sharp as broken glass.

His body moved before thought arrived. He dove behind a thick tree, bark rough and jagged against his back—like dried scabs pressed to skin. Both hands clamped over his mouth, choking back the sound of his own breath. His heart thundered—wild and reckless, like a beast slamming against the cage of his ribs.

Through the crackling fire, he heard it—footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Confident.

Each one landed like a death sentence.

"Tch." A voice. Female. Cool, venom-slick, wrapped in smoke. "To think you believed you could escape me."

Icariel risked a glance—a sliver past bark and flame.

A woman. No. A thing wearing a woman's shape.

She didn't belong to this world. Black-and-white armor clung to her like the skin of something predatory. Her hair—bound high, swaying like the tail of a beast. A sword too large for her frame rested in her hand, its blade humming with the same dark red energy that had split Finn in half.

Her smirk was a gash across her face. Her gaze devoured Finn's remains with something like joy.

"Only after killing this rat," she whispered, "do you come crawling to face me again?"

She raised her sword. The air grew taut.

CLASH!

A burst of sparks ripped the clearing open. The ground shuddered.

Galien.

He stood before her, sword ablaze with orange mana, body trembling—not with fear, but rage.

His face was a ruin of fury.

"You bitch!" Galien roared, voice cracked raw. Fire danced in his eyes, born from grief, not hate.

Icariel flinched. His thoughts stuttered.

"Galien…?"

His eyes caught Finn again—his friend split like butchered meat. A lake of steam and red surrounded what remained.

And in Galien's eyes—rage was grief given fire. A single tear slipped down his cheek, lost in the heat.

"Why?!" Galien swung. The sword howled in orange fury.

The woman blocked with grace twisted in cruelty.

"Because you refused me."

Another swing. Harder. "I never gave you trouble! I never raised my hand against your kind!"

"Haa…" She exhaled as if bored. Her sword pulsed, blood-red light writhing like worms in oil. With a flick, she unleashed another slash—screaming through bark and bone.

Galien blocked—but it threw him back. Soil cracked beneath his feet. Blood welled at his lips.

Behind the tree, Icariel shook. "He was always this strong… but he hid it from us."

The woman tilted her head, voice sweet and sharp. "You once said it yourself, didn't you? 'Better to remove those who refuse me now, before they become enemies I can't control.'"

Galien reached into his pouch.

Icariel's eyes widened.

"That pouch… the one he said he found in the woods…"

It shimmered as he drew the second sword—silver-edged, radiant with mana.

The woman laughed softly, as if wounded by irony. "A gift from our leader, and now you draw it against us."

Galien's voice was death. "Shut your damn mouth."

Steel clashed again.

Galien roared. Twin swords danced with fury, each stroke a scream.

A cut—just under her eye.

She paused. Touched the blood. Smiled.

"Still troublesome… That's why he wanted you."

She stepped closer. Red aura swelling, devouring.

"But now… you're bleeding inside, aren't you? I can feel it. You're fading."

Then she moved.

Fast.

Too fast.

Her strikes came relentless. Galien faltered. His clothes tore. Blood stained the earth.

His thoughts burned behind gritted teeth: "I can't win. Not like this. I'm dying."

He lunged—an X-shaped slash of blazing blades.

She blocked. Effortless.

Galien dropped to one knee, blades digging into soil.

She stepped forward. Smiling.

"The end has come, I guess."

Icariel's heart stopped.

"If Galien dies… then we all die."

His lungs tightened.

"That means I will die."

The fear. The true fear—not of battle, not of fire, but of ceasing.

And then, the voice.

Soft. Unyielding.

[Now is your only chance.]

Icariel's breath caught. Disbelief crackled in his skull.

"WHAT?!"

[End of Chapter 3]