Elias lowered his foot, a faint wisp of smoke rising from his boot. "No. I sense. And right now, I mostly sense that I'm about to get some intense exercise while I'm still digesting a greasy meal. I'm really not in the mood." He shifted the shoulder carrying Borin. "And I'm lugging a dying guy around. Not ideal for big moves."
The masked man spread his hands, palms open. "I can't let you leave."
Elias let out a sigh so deep and genuine it was almost comical. "Listen, Mr. Mask. Me, running off carrying a two-hundred-pound bleeding colossus over rough terrain for dozens of miles…" He shook his head. "Honestly, that sounds even more exhausting. Option rejected."
He glanced sideways at Borin, whose breathing was turning wheezy. "Borin, just one thing. Don't die on me, okay? Death-on-mission paperwork is a nightmare. And your vice-captain looks like the type to do everything in triplicate."
Borin opened his mouth to reply, but before a single word could form, the world flipped.
Elias moved, flickering into existence at different spots in short bursts. He left a trail of blurry afterimages behind him. And with each flicker, the sharp metallic ring of a blade slicing air echoed.
Clang! Clang! Vshiiit!
Sparks burst from empty space in random spots around them. Elias, Borin still slung over his shoulder, seemed to be fighting invisible barriers—parrying strikes that came from nowhere. His movements were tight, precise: a quick slash, a block, a subtle shift to dodge an unseen counter. He didn't look rushed, but every motion was so perfectly timed it shut down each attack before it could fully land.
Then, in one of those flickers, Elias didn't reappear where expected.
He was right in front of the masked man, his short sword—a thin, straight blade drawn who-knows-when—already mid-swing, aimed at the seam between mask and neck.
The masked man stepped back. It was the first real defensive move he'd made. But the blade followed, relentless. He raised his right arm—not to block with a weapon, but to take the hit on his bare forearm.
The impact didn't sound like steel cutting flesh. It was a deep, resonant GONG.
The shockwave kicked up another layer of dust. Both figures were hurled backward, sliding across the ground.
Elias landed lightly, knees bending to absorb the jolt, Borin groaning from the impact. The masked man slid twenty meters, feet carving shallow trenches.
He looked down at his forearm. The sleeve was intact. The skin beneath—where the blade had struck—was unmarked. Yet the arm trembled. A fine, uncontrollable vibration, as if every muscle and nerve was resonating at a destructive frequency.
"Interesting," the masked man murmured.
He didn't get to say more. A storm of sword strikes engulfed him. Elias had blurred forward again, and this time the afterimages multiplied. Five, six versions of him attacked at once from every angle.
The man ducked, twisted, sidestepped—and each blow missed by millimeters, tearing his clothing in places but never touching skin.
He leaped back gracefully, landing fifty meters away.
Elias wasn't in front of him anymore.
He was behind him.
Elias's blade streaked silently toward the masked nape.
The masked man jumped—but in a way that defied physics: his body twisted mid-air, flipping head and feet like an acrobatic cat. The blade passed millimeters from his hair, slicing off a stray lock that drifted down.
Still inverted, hanging in the air, he reached toward where Elias's torso should have been.
He grasped only air. Elias was gone.
"Here."
The voice came from his left. The masked man started turning.
Elias's kick landed first. It didn't target the head—it hit the side of the torso. Clean. Brutal. The masked man was hurled sideways, balance shattered.
Before he could hit the ground, Elias appeared exactly where he'd land, sword raised for a downward strike.
The masked man, mid-flight, raised a hand in a weary gesture.
Elias's sword came down.
And veered off.
Something invisible—massive, immovable—deflected the blade inches from the mask. It wasn't a clash; it was pure redirection. The sword's path bent like it had hit an extreme magnetic field, burying it in the ground beside the masked man's head with a heavy thud.
Elias didn't hesitate. He yanked his blade free, abandoned the follow-up, and leaped back—carrying Borin with him. He landed a hundred meters away, setting Borin down somewhat roughly against a mound of baked earth.
The masked man rose slowly. He scratched his head through the mask.
"The reports," he said, voice back to its neutral tone, "weren't nearly clear enough about you, Captain Elias Mercer of Jaeger Company. 'Lazy.' 'Inconsistent.' 'Charismatic.'" He shook his head. "Nothing about this instinctive precision. Nothing about sensing my projections. Nothing about this… density."
He turned his white mask toward Elias.
"In the end, killing you will be worth far more than just dodging punishment for this operational failure. It'll be… a pleasure."
Elias stood between the masked man and the dying Borin. He scooped up a handful of dust and let it sift through his fingers. He looked at his hands, then the starry sky, and finally his opponent. He frowned.
"Great," Elias sighed. "I'm gonna sweat buckets, my outfit's ruined, and I'll probably miss my episode." He glanced over his shoulder at Borin, whose eyes were drifting shut. "Borin, if you somehow survive this blood loss, you'd better be grateful forever. Like, lifetime grateful. Gifts and everything. And no more snide comments."
Elias turned back to face the man in the white mask. He took a long breath, then let it out slowly.
"Come on," he said, voice calm again. "Show me what's so special about your invisible tricks. But hurry up. I've got an idiot to save."