The second clash was worse.
The Ashbound Tyrant did not rush blindly again. It adjusted.
Its next charge was slower, heavier—each step deliberate, claws digging deep into the stone as it altered its angle. Heat surged outward in controlled waves, not bursts, warping the air and forcing Arav to move before the beast even reached him.
Arav sprinted sideways, fire reinforcing his legs just enough to keep speed without strain. The Tyrant's horned head dipped as it swung, a massive shoulder slamming into the ground where Arav had been a moment earlier.
The impact shattered stone.
Fragments tore across the chamber like shrapnel.
Arav raised his spear instinctively, deflecting what he could—but one shard struck his left arm hard enough to spin him off balance. Pain flared, sharp and immediate.
He hit the ground and rolled.
Too slow.
The Tyrant's shadow swallowed him as a claw descended, its talons glowing white-hot.
Arav twisted at the last instant, the claw tearing through stone inches from his head. The shockwave slammed into his ribs, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Crack.
Something gave.
Arav gasped, rolling again as the Tyrant pulled back, molten breath spilling from its jaws. His chest burned with each inhale. Not broken—but close.
He forced himself upright, vision narrowing for a brief, dangerous moment.
This wasn't like before.
Efficiency alone wasn't enough.
The Tyrant advanced again, slower now—but unstoppable. Each step reduced the space Arav had to maneuver, herding him toward the chamber's edge.
Arav planted the spear and braced.
Fire surged through his arms as he met the charge head-on—not to stop it, but to redirect.
The spear struck true, driving into a fissure between scales along the Tyrant's neck. Arav twisted sharply, flame threading into the wound.
The beast roared, pain finally registering.
But it did not fall.
Instead, it reared up, slamming both forelimbs down with catastrophic force.
The ground collapsed.
Arav was thrown back violently, his body skidding across fractured stone before slamming into a pillar. The impact rattled his bones, darkness creeping at the edges of his vision.
He slid down, breath ragged.
Too much.
Too soon.
The sealed scripture within him pulsed faintly.
Not offering power.
Demanding choice.
Arav clenched his teeth, forcing himself to stay conscious. He pushed himself up using the spear, fire flickering weakly along its shaft.
"I know," he whispered hoarsely. "Not yet."
The Tyrant approached, molten veins blazing brighter as it prepared to end the fight. The pressure in the chamber intensified, heat rising rapidly.
Arav straightened despite the pain.
His stance changed.
Not aggressive.
Grounded.
He did not summon more fire.
Instead, he focused inward—on rhythm, on breath, on the slow, deliberate circulation of aether through the Aether Heart Rune.
The pain dulled.
Not gone.
Managed.
The Tyrant lunged again.
This time, Arav didn't dodge.
He stepped inside the strike.
The claw tore past his shoulder, searing heat grazing his skin—but Arav was already moving, spear driving upward with every remaining ounce of strength.
Fire condensed.
Focused.
Not explosive.
The spear pierced deep beneath the Tyrant's jaw, flame erupting inside the wound in a tight, devastating spiral.
The beast staggered, roaring in fury and pain—but still standing.
Arav ripped the spear free and stumbled back, chest heaving.
Blood—his and the Tyrant's—steamed on the ground.
Neither fell.
The chamber trembled violently.
This was no longer a test of skill.
It was a contest of will.
And Arav realized something as he steadied himself, pain screaming through every nerve.
If he won this—
It would not be because the dungeon allowed it.
It would be because he refused to stop.
The Ashbound Tyrant drew itself up for one final charge.
And somewhere deep within Arav, something ancient shifted—
Not unlocking.
Not awakening.
Preparing.
The next exchange would decide everything.