CHAPTER 17
[TRIPLE STEP TECHNIQUE INITIATED…]
And there she was.
The might of an elite core member unleashed without hesitation.
Her blade descended with absolute commitment, her focus razor-thin, her intent singular. She did not spare a thought for the calamity standing before her — the Beast of Iron, wielder of a blade that reduced existence itself to ash with a single touch.
She had seen an opening.
A moment of distraction.
And she took it.
The ten who had arrived with her had not been briefed.
There had been no signal.
No command.
Before any of them understood what was happening—
She had already moved.
What stunned them was not that she attacked.
It was how.
They stood close enough to feel the shift of air around her. Their eyes were locked on her stance.
Yet she took three full steps—
And none of them saw it.
A flawless Triple Step Technique.
So perfectly executed that even those within arm's reach failed to perceive the motion. To them, she vanished.
Only one person detected it.
The Beast of Iron.
And even she detected it a fraction too late.
There was a difference in power.
The remaining ten understood that now.
This was what it meant to stand among the elite core members of the Mercenaries of the Iron Altar.
Her movement did not resemble speed.
It resembled spatial collapse.
One instant she stood beside them—
The next, she was at the Beast of Iron's side.
Her blade carved downward in a slanting vertical arc, aimed to cleave through horn, skull, and body in a single uninterrupted execution.
The Triple Step guaranteed one thing:
Distance would not save the target.
It did not, however, accelerate the blade itself.
It collapsed space.
Nothing more.
Steel met resistance.
One of the twin horns shattered under the force of the strike.
But something was wrong.
There had been a shift.
So subtle it barely registered as movement.
Before the elite core member could consciously process it, her blade had already begun slicing through the horn instead of the skull.
The horns were long.
Several inches stretched from their tips to where the Beast's actual head began.
Those inches—
Were the difference between life and death.
In the microsecond before impact, the Beast of Iron had extended her consciousness.
Not fully.
Not perfectly.
Just enough.
She had not evaded.
She had adjusted.
A minimal shift of position — instinctive, precise — forcing the blade's trajectory to intercept horn before flesh.
She exploited the only weakness in The Triple Step technique:
It ensured positional inevitability.
Not swing inevitability.
Then she activated the Talisman of Annhul.
Not outward.
Inward.
She applied its effect to herself.
Her existence loosened.
Her body began to disperse into ash and dust, fragments lifting into the wind even as the blade continued its descent.
Time distorted.
From the elite core member's perspective, the Beast of Iron was dissolving mid-strike.
That was impossible.
She had executed a perfected Triple Step.
The Beast had been distracted.
Reaction time had been nullified the moment the third step touched ground.
Barley no one can evade a Triple Step.
Not even a calamity type.
The only theoretical counter was extended consciousness beyond normal perception—
But that required readiness.
Preparation.
The Beast of Iron had been caught unaware.
So how—
"But that's… how the hell did she—?"
Her thoughts fractured within the span of a heartbeat.
"She's… fading?"
It was identical to what had happened to Reagan.
"…Did she use the Talisman on herself?"
Shock flickered across her composure, but her blade did not stop.
"Then at this rate—"
She forced more speed into the swing, muscles tightening, aura surging, attempting to outpace the rate of dispersion.
But something felt wrong.
The Beast of Iron was dissolving faster than the blade could descend.
Not because the blade was slow—
But because time felt stretched.
Thickened.
As if the air itself resisted motion.
It took longer than it should have to cut through the horn.
Longer still for the blade to reach where the Beast's skull should have been.
The distortion was subtle.
Almost imperceptible.
But fatal.
The ash dispersed faster than steel could land.
And the Beast of Iron was becoming wind.
"You're not getting away!" she screamed inwardly.
With a violent surge, she forced her blade forward, breaching the negligible space between steel and scalp. Time compressed into a razor-thin instant as she raced against a vanishing target—the Beast of Iron already dispersing from the feet upward, her form unraveling into drifting ash.
The blade touched first a single strand of hair.
Then nothing.
Before steel could meet flesh, the Beast of Iron dissolved completely—no blood, no bone, not even a fragment left behind. Only dust, seized by the wind.
The elite mercenary's blade struck the earth where her enemy had stood.
The force generated by the triple step technique discharged violently upon impact. The ground caved inward. Webbed fractures splintered outward in every direction, racing across the battlefield until they reached the ten reinforcements stationed beyond. A shockwave followed, tearing through debris, ripping loose stone and splintered timber into spiraling chaos. Buildings groaned under the reverberation. Wind burst outward in savage rings, forcing the others to brace themselves just to remain standing.
Then—slowly—the violence settled.
To the ten witnesses, it had all transpired in less than a blink. From their perspective, the elite mercenary's blade had cleaved straight through the Beast of Iron, reducing her to ash in a single decisive strike.
"Is it over? Was it truly that easy?"
They steadied themselves, rising from defensive stances as the dust began to clear.
But the elite mercenary did not move like someone victorious.
The tension in her shoulders said everything.
The Beast of Iron had escaped.
An elite core member—trained specifically to combat calamity-types—had failed to pin her down. Reagan had sacrificed himself to buy them time. Time they had used to reach the battlefield.
And still—they had lost her.
The only consolation was information.
During that brief exchange, the elite mercenary realized two critical truths.
First: the triple step technique had not functioned as expected.
It was a killing technique—designed to compress motion into an unavoidable instant. Yet, somehow, it had felt slower. Not because she was rusty. Not because her execution faltered. But because the Beast of Iron had possessed just enough time to activate an ability before the strike landed.
She replayed the moment in her mind.
There had been a subtle positional shift—almost imperceptible. That was why her blade had met the horns of the demon mask instead of the skull beneath.
It had happened so quickly she nearly dismissed it as imagination.
But she knew better.
The Beast of Iron possessed an innate ability the Mercenaries of the Iron Altar were unaware of.
Second: the Talisman of Annhul was affecting its wielder in ways they had not fully understood.
That information would matter next time.
Because there would be a next time.
Still standing amid the wreckage, grief and fury warred within her. Reagan was dead. Her target had escaped. She ignored the factors that had led to her failure.
Instead, she lifted her face to the night sky and swore aloud that she would find the Beast of Iron—even if she had to level the entire country to do it.
Her presence intensified.
The air thickened.
The ten remaining mercenaries felt it immediately. Oppressive. Crushing. All they wanted was to go home.
But none dared approach her.
Her anger bled into the earth. The ground trembled as if anticipating catastrophe. Small reverberations rolled outward, escalating with each passing second.
One of the ten shouted her name from a distance, forcing his voice through the turbulence.
Gradually, the tremors subsided.
Then another among them looked upward.
Murky clouds were gathering overhead—thick, unnatural, swirling in patterns that defied the wind's direction.
"These clouds…" he muttered. "They're not natural."
THE SCENE SHIFTS
Deep within the woods, inside the abandoned building, the Six remained suspended in ritual.
Their bodies leaned in impossible angles, gravity rendered meaningless. Yet their consciousness had already slipped beyond physical constraint.
Each found themselves elsewhere.
Alone.
In a place vast and silent.
A realm known as The Great Tombs of Constelli.
And so one chapter closed—with Reagan and Ms. Evelyn laid to rest in consequence.
And another began.
The Six, unknowingly preparing to become vessels for something far older than themselves.