The Aetheric Lake churned beneath them, its corrosive waters trying and failing to consume both warriors. Steam rose in curling tendrils from the surface, illuminated by the emergency lights still blazing from the academy above. The distant sounds of battle—explosions, screams, the crash of collapsing stone—carried across the water like the heartbeat of a dying world.
Winston stood on the lake's surface, his blue aura pressing down in a perfect circle around him. Where his feet touched, the water didn't freeze or boil—it simply obeyed, flattening into solid platform under his will. The pressure was immense. Even White Fang, thirty meters away, felt it pushing against his own defenses like a constant, crushing weight.
White Fang rose fully from the water, his remaining sword gleaming in his right hand. His white hair clung to his scarred face, and his visible eye—that burning blue—never left Winston. It was scanning. Cataloging. Learning.
Divine Precision: active. [Analyzing target's aura density, muscle composition, combat patterns. Estimated time to complete analysis: four minutes, seventeen seconds.]
"I see why they call you the White Lion," White Fang said, buying time.
Winston said nothing. He simply moved.
One step crossed the distance. No elemental tricks. No ranged attacks. Just pure, explosive physical power wrapped in blue aura.
White Fang's blue eye blazed, tracking the trajectory. He threw himself sideways, but Winston's fist clipped his shoulder. The impact sent him spinning across the water, skipping like a stone before he righted himself, boots carving trenches in the lake's surface.
'Too fast,' White Fang's mind raced. 'Divine Precision shows me the path, but my body can't keep up. Analysis incomplete—need more data.'
He attacked anyway, not to win, but to gather information.
[Blade Art: Rending Fang]
His sword came around in a horizontal arc, aura coating the blade. Winston leaned back—inches, nothing more—and the strike passed over his chest. Before White Fang could recover, Winston's knee drove into his stomach.
Air exploded from his lungs. He folded around the impact, then rocketed backward, skipping across the water before crashing into the rocky shore.
Data collected: [Striking speed exceeds predictions by thirty-seven percent. Defensive reactions instinctive, not calculated. Adjusting parameters.]
Winston followed at a walking pace. Not running. Hunting.
---
White Fang pushed himself out of the crater, coughing blood. His ribs screamed—two were definitely cracked. He scrambled up and sprinted inland, leading Winston away from the lake, toward the city.
Analysis: [seventy-three percent complete. Need more engagement time.]
He led Winston through the shoreline ruins, using every piece of cover, every shadow. His blue eye tracked the King's approach, calculating trajectories, searching for patterns.
[Blade Art: Silent Thorn]
A strike from a collapsed wall. Winston deflected it, but the blade drew blood from his palm.
Data collected: [Regeneration rate moderate. Pain response minimal. Psychological profile: focused, patient, lethal.]
[Blade Art: Ghost Step]
An attack from behind, aimed at his kidney. Winston twisted, took it on his forearm. Another cut.
Data collected: [Prefers to deflect rather than dodge when surprised. Maintains distance control at one point seven meters. Adjusting.]
White Fang pressed the advantage. His sword work was flawless—decades of skill compressed into every motion. Divine Precision showed him every path, every possibility. For the first time, his body began keeping up as the analysis filled in gaps.
A thrust toward Winston's throat. Deflected, but close.
A slash at his hamstring. Dodged, but only just.
A flurry of strikes that forced Winston back three steps.
Analysis: [eighty-eight percent complete. Fighting style mapped. Weaknesses identified. Physical limitations cataloged.]
White Fang's lips curled. 'He's not untouchable.'
Then Winston stopped retreating.
The aura around him condensed. Not into projections—just into him. His presence intensified. When he moved this time, the ground beneath him cracked.
Warning: [Target shifting combat parameters. Adjusting analysis—]
White Fang's blue eye screamed warnings. He moved anyway. He needed the final data points.
[Blade Art: Blue Moon]
His ultimate technique—a slash that carried the weight of everything he was, everything he'd learned, everything he'd killed. The blade sang as it arced toward Winston's neck.
Winston caught it.
Bare-handed. Again.
But this time, the blade bit. Blood dripped from Winston's palm where the edge pressed against bone. He held it there, staring at White Fang over the crossed steel.
"You're better than I expected," Winston admitted. "You'll still die."
He twisted. The blade snapped.
Analysis: [one hundred percent complete. Divine Precision protocol: finished.]
White Fang stumbled back, clutching the broken hilt. His blue eye flickered—not from failure, but from completion. He had what he needed.
Every strength. Every weakness. Every pattern. Every limit.
Now came the real fight.
---
Around them, the city burned. Families fled through smoke-choked streets. Emergency vehicles screamed in the distance. Through a collapsed wall, White Fang could see a mother carrying her child toward a shelter, her face streaked with tears and soot.
Winston advanced. His aura pulsed, and for a moment, the lion was fully there—not projected, but him. His eyes burned gold. His white hair flowed like a mane. His entire being radiated predator.
White Fang looked at his broken sword. His exhausted body. Then he reached up with his good hand and tore away the patch covering his left eye.
The eye beneath was red.
Blood red. Deep as an abyss. Ancient as sin. The Demon Eye of Judgment.
When it opened, the air around them changed.
A new aura erupted from White Fang—not the controlled blue of Divine Precision, but something else. Crimson. Thick. Wrong. It coated his broken blade, repairing it with dark light that seemed to drink the surrounding illumination. The temperature dropped. Frost crawled across the rubble.
White Fang straightened. His cracked ribs knitted audibly. His exhausted muscles flooded with strength—borrowed power from somewhere deeper, darker. When he looked at Winston with both eyes now open—blue mapping, red empowering—his expression held nothing human.
Demon Eye active: [elevating combat parameters to King-rank. Attack protocol: each strike will drain target's core energy and life span.]
"You wanted to see what I really am," White Fang said, his voice layered, echoing with something older than himself. "Look closely, White Lion."
His crimson aura flared, and the street behind him exploded—not from attack, but from simple presence. Buildings crumbled. The ground split. Civilians miles away felt the pressure and collapsed unconscious.
Winston's eyes narrowed for the first time.
"What is this?" he said quietly.
"The Demon Eye of Judgment." White Fang smiled—a terrible expression. "Divine Precision mapped you completely. Now the Demon Eye uses what it learned."
He raised his restored blade, and the crimson aura condensed around it until the sword seemed made of solidified murder. The air itself recoiled from its presence.
"Let's finish this."