Itekan burst forward again.
Not with hesitation. Not with doubt.
His body moved on instinct alone—refined, honed, sharpened through countless repetitions until thought itself lagged behind motion. Moonveil Fang slid into his palm as the Shadow Dagger emerged in the same breath, the twin weapons synchronizing as if bound by a shared will.
Black and silver crossed in overlapping arcs.
The air screamed.
Each swing carved crescent-shaped distortions through space itself, shadows dragging behind the blades like afterimages of violence. The forest around them recoiled—branches snapping, leaves disintegrating midair as pressure tore through the clearing.
Shzekcl met the assault head-on.
A dagger flashed into his hand—small, unassuming, almost crude compared to Itekan's armaments. But its movement was flawless. Minimal. Efficient.
Steel rang once.
A single, clean note.
The clash sent a shockwave rippling outward, flattening grass and kicking up a halo of dust—but Shzekcl's feet never shifted.
Yet—
Warmth splashed across his cheek.
Liquid.
He blinked once.
Poison.
Shzekcl's eyes narrowed, not in panic—but in mild irritation.
So that blade carries venom…
Annoying.
But harmless.
Poisons had been woven into his existence since infancy. Not as weapons—but as necessities. His body had been tempered through exposure long before he could even understand pain. By the age of fourteen, resistance had given way to something far more absolute.
Immunity wasn't a trait.
It was a function.
Shzekcl reached up, wiped the substance from his cheek with two fingers, examined it briefly—then flicked it away as if brushing off dust.
Across the clearing, Itekan landed in a low crouch several meters back, boots grinding against torn earth.
His face had gone pale.
…No effect.
His mind raced, calculating faster than his heartbeat.
Fast. Immune to toxins. Durable beyond expectation.
So this is the Ace of Rangers Academy…
The title carried weight. Prestige. Fear.
And now—confirmation.
Itekan had attacked relentlessly. He had layered speed atop speed, feints within feints, pressure from every angle imaginable. Shadow manipulation, blade synergy, environmental control—each technique chained seamlessly into the next.
And yet—
Shzekcl had brushed it all aside.
No wasted movement. No visible strain. No escalation.
Only correction.
Normal Chajama was useless. Maximum and Minimum Chajama could pierce him—but only barely.
The thought gnawed at Itekan.
Starbreaker might do it…
But the flaw loomed large in his mind.
Straight-line movement. Predictable. Commitment-heavy.
If it failed—
There would be no recovery.
It had to land clean.
"You're dull," Shzekcl said, voice flat, almost bored. "Do you have anything else?"
He tilted his head slightly.
"Or is this all you amount to?"
The words struck harder than any blade ever could.
Itekan's jaw tightened.
His fingers curled around Moonveil Fang until the hilt creaked.
"…Is that so?"
His SE detonated outward.
The ground convulsed violently, fissures racing across the earth like veins splitting open. Trees bent at impossible angles, bark splitting as shadows erupted from their roots, surging like a living tide.
The air thickened.
Pressure spiked.
Breathing became laborious, each inhale dragging weight into the lungs. Even the light itself seemed to dim, swallowed by encroaching darkness.
For the first time—
Shzekcl smiled.
Just barely.
What is this…?
His chest tightened.
Am I… smiling?
The realization struck him harder than the shockwave.
No. That's impossible—
I don't feel things like this.
…Do I?
"Yes," Shzekcl said, his voice rising—emotion seeping into it for the first time.
"Show me."
His eyes gleamed.
"Show me all the emotions you carry."
Something inside him shifted.
The monotony shattered.
Something darker surfaced.
"Toitoi."
His body fractured into motion, collapsing inward before exploding outward into a four-flickered shadow form—edges blurring, contours bending, his presence warping the battlefield itself.
The resemblance to Itekan's shadow manifestation was unmistakable.
The surrounding darkness reacted violently.
Shadows twisted. Overlapped. Fused.
Two figures stood amid the chaos.
Two shadows. One battlefield.
And the forest was swallowed whole.
Neither was playing anymore.
The endgame had begun.
Who knows what the shadows hide?
---
Elsewhere...
The Frost Monarch swung.
The massive blade descended like a falling mountain, its sheer weight tearing through the domain with apocalyptic force. Ice ruptured outward in spiraling shockwaves, glaciers cracking and reforming in the same instant.
Itoyea vanished.
Thunder cracked.
He reappeared along the giant's arm, boots skidding across frozen flesh as his blade screamed—carving a glowing line through solid frost. Wind howled violently, tearing loose entire slabs of ice and hurling them skyward.
The Frost Monarch roared.
The sound carried no noise—but the domain trembled in response, reality itself buckling beneath its fury.
Above it all, Arizel stood atop his throne.
Arms spread. Veins glowing pale blue.
"Crush him."
The domain obeyed.
Ice folded inward. Platforms shifted violently, rearranging space with ruthless intent. Spears erupted from every angle, converging on Itoyea mid-air like a closing cage.
He twisted. Spun. Cut.
Each movement was precise—fluid yet desperate. His sword traced golden arcs through the chaos as wind coiled tighter around him with every breath, every heartbeat.
Keel Kun's voice thundered across the stadium feed:
"THIS IS ABSURD!! ITOYEA IS FIGHTING THE DOMAIN, THE SUMMON, AND ARIZEL HIMSELF—ALL AT ONCE!"
The Frost Monarch charged.
Itoyea landed hard, skidding backward, boots burning molten lines through the ice. Blood dripped from his lip—but his grip never wavered.
"…You're relentless," he muttered.
Arizel's eyes narrowed.
"So are you."
He clenched his fist.
The throne pulsed.
"Domain Compression."
The ice tightened.
Space itself felt squeezed, as though the world were being crushed between invisible walls. Movement slowed. Even thought dragged.
The Frost Monarch raised its sword.
Execution.
Itoyea inhaled.
Deep.
Wind spiraled inward. Lightning sparked—not wild, not chaotic—but focused. Controlled.
"…Guess this is where it ends."
He stepped forward.
"Way of the Wind—4th Form: Celestial Wind."
The storm exploded outward, ripping through the compression field. Ice screamed as pressure collapsed, space tearing open for a single, fleeting moment—
Freedom.
Itoyea didn't waste it.
Electricity surged.
His stance shifted seamlessly.
"5th Form—"
Thunder and wind fused.
"Celestial Thunder Clap."
The world vanished.
A single line of blinding blue-gold light tore through the domain—through the Frost Monarch's sword, its torso, the throne behind it.
The giant froze.
Then shattered.
The domain cracked like glass.
Arizel was struck dead center, blasted from the throne as the frozen world collapsed around him. He crashed hard, skidding across ruined ice until momentum finally died.
Silence followed.
Itoyea stood alone—chest heaving, sword trembling, but unbroken.
Arizel lay among the wreckage, staring up at the gray sky.
Slowly, he raised an arm, shielding his eyes.
Tears slipped free.
They froze mid-fall.
"…So that's it," he whispered. "I really… gave everything."
Itoyea lowered his blade, breathing steadying.
"You did," he said quietly. "No one will forget this."
The stadium erupted.
"UNBELIEVABLE!! THE FROST MONARCH—DESTROYED! ARIZEL FROST IS DOWN!! ITOYEA PILTON ADVANCES!!"
The forest lay in ruins.
Ice and thunder.
Shadows and resolve.
Two battles nearing their end—
And power yet to be revealed.
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Spiritual Energy (SE)
Spiritual Sea (SS)
Spiritual Signature (SST)