From the darkness ahead, something stepped forward.

It was human-shaped, roughly Ashren's height and build, with the same reach and proportions as a man. But it had no face. No eyes. No mouth. No expression. Its surface looked like shadow pressed into flesh—smooth, colorless, and fundamentally wrong.

Ashren raised his sword instinctively.

“What are you?”

The thing gave no answer.

It moved.

Fast.

Ashren barely reacted in time, throwing himself sideways as the figure slammed into the place where he had been standing. The impact tore through the silence, the force of it echoing endlessly into the darkness.

Ashren recovered and swung.

His blade struck the creature's forearm.

Sparks scattered.

No blood.

No reaction.

The figure countered immediately.

Ashren twisted away from the first strike, then another. He tried to create distance, but the creature was already there again.

Another attack.

Ashren dodged.

Another.

He moved too late.

Pain ripped through his ribs as the blow caught him and threw him backward. He hit the ground hard, his breath disappearing from his lungs.

“Damn it—!”

He forced himself upright.

The creature was already coming again.

Ashren raised his sword, but his movements were becoming slower. His body was still carrying the injuries from his fight with Vorrek, and every movement pulled at wounds that had barely stopped hurting.

He swung.

The figure simply stepped aside.

The attack had been desperate.

Random.

The creature countered instantly.

Its blade struck Ashren's ribs.

Pain exploded through his body.

He was thrown across the chamber.

His sword flew from his hand.

For several seconds, Ashren couldn't breathe.

He lay motionless, staring into the darkness while pain spread through his ribs, shoulder, leg, and back. His entire body seemed to be screaming at once.

It hurts.

He tried to move.

Pain.

He tried again.

More pain.

His fingers trembled against the ground.

I can't keep doing this.

The thought frightened him more than the creature did.

He had already fought Vorrek.

He had already been beaten.

He had already been left alone in the forest.

And now this.

His eyes closed.

For a moment, all he could remember was Elara's face.

Her eyes when she saw him standing in front of Ravenn.

The way she had screamed his name when he was left behind.

Ashren!

His chest tightened.

Then another memory surfaced.

His uncle.

A wooden sword in his hands.

Balance first.

Ashren opened his eyes.

The faceless figure stood several steps away.

Waiting.

It wasn't attacking.

Why?

Ashren remained on the ground, breathing slowly.

The pain was still there, but something strange was happening.

It was settling.

His wounds hadn't disappeared. His ribs still burned, his shoulder still throbbed, and his leg still felt weak beneath him. But the longer he remained still, the more his body seemed to stabilize.

Ashren looked down at his hands.

They were trembling.

But they moved.

He flexed his fingers.

They responded.

He slowly bent his injured leg.

Pain shot through it.

But it moved.

“What… is happening to me?”

He looked toward the faceless figure.

It hadn't moved.

The realization came slowly.

It stopped when I stopped.

Ashren remained on the ground for another few moments.

Not because he was giving up.

Because he was learning.

He pushed himself upright.

His body protested immediately.

He ignored it.

Ashren staggered toward his sword and bent down. His fingers closed around the hilt.

Cold metal.

Solid.

Something he could control.

He turned toward the creature.

“It looks like I don't get out of here…”

His breathing steadied.

“…until one of us is defeated.”

The faceless figure remained still.

Ashren raised his sword.

“I’m ready.”

The creature stepped forward.

One step.

Then another.

Ashren tightened his grip.

And then—

it divided.

The single figure split seamlessly into two identical forms.

Ashren stared at them.

His expression dropped.

“Damn it.”

Both figures raised their blades.

Ashren barely had time to move.

They attacked together.

He dodged the first strike and twisted away from the second. One blade passed close enough to feel the air move beside his face.

He ran between them.

Turned.

Moved again.

But they were faster.

He couldn't keep both in sight.

A blade struck his ribs.

Ashren cried out.

Blood began spreading across his clothes.

Before he could recover, the second figure attacked from behind.

The blade tore across his back.

Ashren stumbled forward.

His vision blurred.

His body felt heavier than before.

Another strike came.

He tried to move.

Too slow.

The blow caught his shoulder and sent him crashing down.

Ashren remained conscious.

Barely.

Blood slipped from the corner of his mouth.

Am I going to die here?

He closed his eyes.

Again, the figures stopped.

Ashren noticed.

His breathing slowly settled.

The pain remained, but it stopped growing.

His body was damaged.

Bleeding.

Exhausted.

Yet still responding.

Ashren opened his eyes.

He thought of Elara again.

I promised her.

He remembered standing in front of Ravenn.

I came because Elara was taken.

He remembered his uncle placing a sword in his hands.

Balance first.

Ashren's fingers closed against the ground.

His body hurt.

That was undeniable.

But pain wasn't the same as helplessness.

He had been treating the pain as though it were a command.

Stop.

Lie down.

You can't.

Ashren slowly shook his head.

“No…”

His voice was barely audible.

The faceless figures remained still.

Ashren pushed himself up.

His arms shook violently.

He nearly collapsed.

But he stayed upright.

“The pain is real,” he whispered.

He looked at his hands.

“But I'm still moving.”

He picked up his sword.

His breathing steadied.

“I don't need it to stop.”

The figures raised their blades.

Ashren lifted his own.

“I just need to keep moving.”

The two figures advanced.

Then—

both divided.

Four.

Ashren stared at them.

For a moment, disbelief replaced everything else.

“Are you joking?”

Four identical figures stood before him.

Ashren's breathing became heavier.

He looked from one to the next.

Four opponents.

No room to rest.

No way to predict what they would do.

And he was already injured.

“This may be my last chance.”

He lowered his stance.

“If I stop again…”

“…they'll kill me.”

His eyes hardened.

The four figures moved.

He couldn't fight four at once.

He attacked.

The figure dodged.

The other three immediately closed in.

Ashren twisted away.

A blade came toward his side.

Another came from behind.

He ducked.

A third came from above.

He raised his sword.

The impact nearly tore it from his hands.

Too fast.

He tried to retreat.

A blade caught his leg.

Pain exploded through his thigh.

Blood ran down his skin.

Ashren nearly fell.

His mind immediately screamed at him.

Pain.

You're hurt.

Stop.

Ashren clenched his teeth.

“No.”

He forced his leg forward.

It moved.

Painfully.

But it moved.He pushed forward.

“As long as my body still responds to my will…”

“…I can still fight.”

The figures attacked again.

Ashren deliberately drew them toward one another.

One raised its blade.

Ashren shifted aside at the last instant.

The attack struck another figure.

For a moment, the two collided.

One of them flickered.

Then disappeared.

Ashren's eyes widened.

They can hurt each other.

It was the first advantage he'd found.

He barely had time to think.

The remaining figures turned toward him.

Then one tilted its head, and began to divide.

“No…”

Four figures stood before him again.

Ashren stared.

His breathing shook.

“There's no end to this.”

They attacked.

He fought.

There was no elegance left in his movements.

No perfect technique.

No clean footwork.

He simply refused to stop.

One blade cut across his shoulder.

Another struck his side.

A third tore through his abdomen.

He staggered, blood running down his clothes.

Another attack came.

He moved barely, and blocked.

The impact nearly shattered his arm.

Another blade caught him across the back.

Ashren stumbled.

Blood dripped from his mouth.

He wiped it away.

His hand came back red.

He stared at it.

Is this all my blood?

For a moment, fear returned.

Not fear of dying.

Fear that there would be nothing left.

His knees weakened.

His breathing became ragged.

He looked at the four figures surrounding him.

His sword hung loosely in his hand.

Yet he was still holding it.

Still standing.

Still capable of moving.

Ashren laughed.

The sound broke into a cough.

“You think I'm going to rest again?”

He straightened.

“No.”

His voice echoed through the darkness.

“There is no rest.”

He raised his sword.

“As long as I can still move…”

He took a step.

“…as long as I can still fight…”

Another step.

“…you're not getting another chance.”

Ashren charged.

The figure dodged.

He turned and attacked again.

It moved away.

He followed.

He didn't give it time.

His blade cut through empty darkness.

“As long as my body responds to my will…”

“…you haven't defeated me.”

The four figures suddenly separated.

One moved to each corner of the endless chamber.

Ashren stopped.

His chest rose and fell violently.

He turned slowly, watching them.

“What are you doing?”

No answer.

The four figures stood motionless.

Then something changed.

A second blade appeared in each of their hands.

Ashren stared.

His gaze dropped to his own weapon.

One sword.

Damaged.

His hands trembling around the hilt.

Four enemies, eight blades.

Ashren let out a breath that almost became a laugh.

“This isn't fair.”

“But I don't care.”

“Fair or not…”

“…I'll fight with everything I've got.”

His voice grew louder.

Then tightened his grip.

“…until this battle is over.”

Ashren raised his sword.

He shouted into the endless darkness.

“So come at me!”

The figures lowered their weapons.

They came.

All four.

Ashren moved.

One blade flashed toward him.

He blocked it.

Another struck his shoulder.

Pain exploded through his body, blood spilled.

But he kept moving.

One strike after another.

His body was reaching its limit, and sword shook in his hand.

His breathing had become little more than ragged gasps.

Then the four attacks came together.

There was nowhere left to go.

Blades pierced his side, shoulder and abdomen.

Another slammed into him with enough force to throw him across the chamber.

His sword flew from his hand.

Ashren hit the ground.

Hard.

He didn't move.

Blood spread beneath him.

His breathing was shallow.

Every part of him hurt.

He could feel everything.

Every cut.

Every bruise.

Every damaged muscle.

Every fractured breath.

It should have been over.

Ashren slowly opened his eyes.

The four faceless figures stood in the darkness.

Watching.

He stared at them.

“Why…?”

His voice was barely a whisper.

“Why haven't I died yet?”

No answer.

Ashren swallowed.

Blood filled his mouth.

“I can feel every part of me breaking…”

His fingers responded.

His eyes widened.

He tried his arm.

It moved.

Slowly.

Painfully.

But it moved.

“I should be dead.”

Still nothing.

The figures didn't react.

Ashren's fear turned into anger.

“Why am I still alive?”

His voice echoed through the chamber.

“Answer me!”

Silence.

Ashren stared at them.

His breathing became heavier.

“If silence is your answer…”

He dragged himself forward.

“…then I won't rest.”

His fingers reached for the sword.

It was too far away.

He crawled toward it.

“I won't give you time.”

His body screamed at him to stop.

He ignored it.

“If I don't die…”

His hand finally reached the hilt.

He closed his fingers around it.

“…then you're going to get an endless fight.”

He forced himself onto one knee.

The four figures advanced.

Ashren tried to stand.

His leg shook.

He almost fell.

But he remained upright.

He had no strength left.

No advantage.

No certainty that he would survive another attack.

Only his will.

He raised the sword.

The figures moved.

Ashren charged without waiting.

He attacked the nearest one.

It dodged effortlessly.

Another struck him.

Ashren crashed to the ground.

Blood spilled from his mouth.

Pain swallowed his thoughts.

He lay there, breathing heavily, his sword lying beside him.

For a moment, he couldn't think.

Couldn't move.

Couldn't even remember why he was still fighting.

Then one thought returned.

Elara.

His fingers twitched.

Another followed.

I promised her.

His eyes opened.

He tried to breathe.

His body answered.

Barely.

But it answered.

Ashren closed his eyes.

He took one deep, shaking breath.

The darkness pressed against him.

The four figures waited.

And Ashren—

still alive—

still conscious—

still refusing to surrender—

held on.