‎

‎Chakar’s boots crunched against loose gravel, each step echoing in the cold, thin air. The wind whipped white strands of his hair across his face.

‎

‎Chakar (muttering, low): “I’m pretty sure there’s more… more I need to do to find them.”

‎

‎He scanned the peaks, eyes sharp, every shadow a potential threat. His fingers itched for the water swirling faintly around them, a ghost of his power ready to strike if needed.

‎

‎He stepped over a ridge, the sun creeping higher, turning frost to jagged silver. The mountains stretched endlessly, a labyrinth of stone and shadow. He didn’t rush; he moved with patience, with purpose.

‎

‎

‎High in the mountains – jagged cliffs, wind howling

‎

‎Salal dragged himself over a ridge, lungs burning, heart pounding. Azaar stood a few feet ahead, hands casually crossed—except in one hand, he held the Zorgor Stone, glinting cold under the moonlight.

‎

‎Azaar (smirking, cruel): “Look familiar, Salal? Yours… now mine.”

‎

‎Salal froze, disbelief and fury warping his features.

‎

‎Salal (voice trembling, rage building): “Azaar… what—what did you do?!”

‎

‎Azaar’s smirk widened. With a sudden movement, he lunged, the Zorgor Stone pulsing ominously in his grip. His other hand glowed faintly, venomous energy coiling around his arm like a living shadow.

‎

‎Azaar (low, dangerous): “Time to teach you the cost of trust.”

‎

‎Before Salal could react, Azaar struck. The venomous technique hit Salal like liquid steel, searing his arms, making him howl in pain. Every strike carried a poison that burrowed into his muscles, numbing, burning, and twisting him at the same time.

‎

‎Salal staggered back, clutching his arms, eyes wide with pain and betrayal.

‎

‎Salal (panting, desperate, enraged): “No… I won’t let you—give it back!”

‎

‎Azaar laughed, a cold, echoing sound that rolled through the cliffs.

‎

‎Azaar (taunting): “Pathetic. You’ll never catch me with that little spark of yours. The stone is mine now… and so is your humiliation.”

‎

‎Salal, teeth gritted, lunged forward, dodging another venom strike that scorched the rock beside him. His Seyrah instincts kicked in, leaps and rolls across the jagged ledges keeping him alive, but the venom slowly gnawed at his strength.

‎

‎The two clashed violently on a narrow cliff edge. Azaar’s strikes were precise, brutal, dripping with venomous energy that burned through Salal’s defenses. Salal fought back, fists and water techniques clashing against the corrosive power, but each block came with agony.

‎

‎Salal (guttural, furious): “You… you’ll pay for this!”

‎

‎Azaar (grinning, holding the glowing Zorgor Stone): “I already am, in your own hands, little Seyrah. Feel it… taste your weakness.”

‎

‎The mountains echoed with their violent shouts and the crack of rock under their assault. The chase had turned into a merciless fight—Salal against his former mentor, venom against willpower, the Zorgor Stone a wicked trophy in Azaar’s hand.

‎

‎The wind howled through the jagged peaks, carrying the echo of pain and rage. Salal’s arms throbbed with venom, his aura flickering weakly around his limbs as he tried to regain control. But Azaar was relentless—each strike a calculated injection of agony, each movement fluid and deadly.

‎

‎Azaar (smirking, cruel): “Still standing, little Seyrah? Not for long.”

‎

‎Salal swung his fists, energy coursing around his hands and legs, leaving glowing trails in the night air. His kicks slammed against the rock, sparks flying, but Azaar danced around them, twisting and dodging with unnerving precision.

‎

‎Then—Azaar struck.

‎

‎Avenomous lash of his arm, infused with the Zorgor Stone’s pulse, slammed into Salal’s chest, sending him skidding across jagged stones. Pain radiated through every fiber of his body; his aura flickered and dimmed.

‎

‎Salal (guttural, struggling): “I… I can still… fight…”

‎

‎Azaar laughed, dark and echoing, the mountains themselves trembling with it. He advanced with predator’s grace, his steps light but crushing in intent. Salal rose again, barely on his knees, fists trembling with effort, aura weak but defiant.

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‎Azaar (leaning close, voice slicing like ice): “Defiance? Cute. But it won’t save you.”

‎

‎Another strike—fast, venomous, precise—slammed into Salal’s ribs. He collapsed, chest hitting stone, coughing blood. His aura sputtered, his vision blurred, but still, he tried to push forward, to rise.

‎

‎Azaar (grinning, raising his foot): “You’re weak, Salal. Nothing more.”

‎

‎Before Salal could react, Azaar stomped down, placing his boot squarely on Salal’s head. The jagged stone beneath groaned under the pressure. Salal’s face pressed into the cold rock, dust in his mouth, aura flickering weakly, energy seeping out of him.

‎

‎Azaar (taunting, cold): “Look at you… worthless. Just weak. This… is your limit.”

‎

‎Salal’s fists scrabbled at the stone, veins straining, but the venom burned through him, energy drained, muscles screaming in agony. He was beaten, humiliated, every shred of pride crushed under Azaar’s boot.

‎

‎Azaar (lifting his foot, smug, holding the glowing Zorgor Stone high): “Remember this, Seyrah… I decide who survives, and you… you’re nothing.”

‎

‎The mountain peaks swallowed his echo, leaving Salal sprawled, defeated, humiliated, and trembling under the cold moonlight. The Zorgor Stone pulsed ominously in Azaar’s hand, a cruel heartbeat marking Salal’s complete subjugation.

‎

‎High on the mountains, the wind screamed, carrying the sting of snow and stone. Salal lay sprawled beneath Azaar’s boot, venom pulsing through his limbs, aura flickering weakly. The Zorgor Stone glowed cruelly in Azaar’s hand.

‎

‎Then—a ripple through the air. A movement too calm, too controlled, slicing through the storm of sound and pain.

‎

‎Chakar stepped onto the ridge, white hair catching moonlight like a blade of frost. His eyes scanned the scene, taking in Salal’s battered form and Azaar’s smug posture.

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‎Chakar (cold, low): “Step off him.”

‎

‎Azaar froze, turning slowly, a smirk still curling his lips.

‎

‎Azaar (mocking, voice sharp): “Ah… the little ghost finally shows himself. You’re too late, Seyrah. He’s already mine.”

‎

‎Chakar didn’t answer with words. His water aura flared, coiling around his hands like living serpents, then shot forward in a precise surge, sweeping across the stone to knock Azaar back.

‎

‎Salal groaned, trying to roll aside, aura flickering weakly as Chakar’s intervention bought him a moment.

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‎Chakar (voice icy, dangerous): “You’ll regret touching him.”

‎

‎Azaar’s smirk wavered, but only for a heartbeat. Then he laughed, venomous energy swirling around his fists, the Zorgor Stone still clutched tightly.

‎

‎Azaar: “I’ve been waiting for this. Let’s see if you’re as strong as they say.”

‎

‎The mountains themselves seemed to tense as the two forces collided—Chakar’s controlled water strikes against Azaar’s venomous attacks, every blow echoing like the crash of ice on stone. Salal tried to stand, every muscle burning, aura flickering around his limbs, ready to join—but Chakar’s calm presence allowed him a fragile reprieve.

‎

‎The fight had escalated. The betrayal, the stolen stone, the rage, the intervention—it all collided into one deadly storm high in the mountains.

‎