The laws of physics seemed to buckle and snap as Izochi came to a jarring, impossible halt. He hung in the air, his body contorted at a sharp, unnatural angle that should have sent any mortal tumbling toward the jagged rocks below. Yet, there he stayed—fixed like a star in a frozen sky. A heavy, rhythmic hum began to vibrate from his very essence, distorting the light around him.
Mr. Fate's breath hitched, turning into a jagged gasp that rattled in his chest.
"Class 6..."
He murmured, the words barely escaping the dry cage of his throat. It wasn't just surprise; it was the realization that the hierarchy of the battlefield had been rewritten in a single, agonizing heartbeat. He had expected growth, but this was an evolution that defied his most cynical projections.
"To think you would pierce that ceiling in the middle of a death-match... Simply magnificent!"
With a practiced, fluid motion, Fate's right hand whipped the **Windtalker** from its holster. The weapon felt alive in his palm—a heavy, brass-framed beast that bore the scars of a thousand skirmishes. He slammed his left hand beneath the grip for stability, his boots grinding into the scorched earth until he felt the solid resistance of the bedrock beneath the topsoil.
This was no ordinary handgun. Forged in the dying embers of Xevora's Great Revolution, the Windtalker was a relic of a darker age, designed for one purpose: localized devastation. It didn't fire lead; it fired concentrated kinetic shocks that detonated on contact, turning the target's own surroundings into shrapnel.
"Let's witness the weight of a Class 6 soul,"
Fate hissed, his finger tightening on the cold trigger.
_CRACK-BOOM!_
The muzzle flash was a blinding violet streak. The projectile didn't seek Izochi's flesh; it buried itself into the loam directly beneath his suspended feet. The ground didn't just break—it erupted. A violent geyser of pulverized stone, blackened soil, and superheated air roared upward, a wall of debris intended to swallow Izochi whole.
But as the dust began to settle, drifting away like gray ghosts, Izochi remained. He hadn't flinched. He stood three inches above the smoking rim of the new crater, his boots resting firmly on the empty air as if the atmosphere itself had calcified into a slab of diamond beneath him. The pieces of the shattered earth that had been thrown upward didn't fall back; they remained suspended beneath his soles, caught in an invisible, solid medium.
"You truly are a marvel,"
Fate chuckled, a dark, melodic delight dancing in his voice. His smile didn't reach his eyes—it was the grin of a hunter who had finally found prey worth the kill.
Izochi's left hand reached back, his fingers wrapping slowly around the worn leather hilt of the blade strapped to his spine. His face remained a terrifying void—a mask of cold porcelain where neither fear, nor anger, nor triumph dared to linger. He brought both arms forward, crossing them in a defensive 'X', the steel of his blade catching the dim light of the Balkan sky.
Then, he moved. He didn't fly; he _pushed_. With every stride, the air behind him boomed like a drum as he used the empty space as a physical platform. In a blur of silver and shadow, he was upon Fate. His sword swung in a horizontal arc, a killing blow intended to end the dance.
Fate barely reacted in time, whipping out a serrated combat knife. The impact was deafening. Sparks showered the ground like falling stars, and Fate's arm shuddered violently, the vibration of Izochi's sheer force threatening to splinter his radius bone.
"Always... just a second..."
Fate grunted through gritted teeth, the veins on his neck bulging with the effort of the block.
A viscous, pearlescent white aura began to bleed from Izochi's pores, swirling upward like sentient steam. It gathered around his face, weaving and hardening until it formed a jagged, bone-like mask that covered his features. The only sound coming from him was his breathing, a steady, mechanical hiss that sounded more like an engine than a man.
"Fascinating,"
Fate whispered. He suddenly lashed out with a mud-caked boot, a desperate kick aimed at Izochi's ribs. The force sent the boy hurtling backward, skidding through the sky for ten meters before he dug his heels into the air and snapped back to a dead stop.
"A Breaker in the truest sense,"
Fate praised, his eyes narrowing as he checked his weapon.
"You're every bit as dangerous as the words promised."
Fate leveled the Windtalker and pulled the trigger again
__Click__
A dry fire. The chambers were empty, but the psychological trap was set. Izochi didn't wait to see if it was a ruse. He kicked off the air behind him, darting in a chaotic, jagged zig-zag. He blurred to the right, then snapped to the left, his movements devoid of any rhythm. Fate's eyes darted frantically, his grip on his knife tightening as he realized he was trying to catch a lightning bolt in a jar.
Miles away, the ruins of Balkan City felt like a tomb. Bruno D. Vanguard stood amidst a graveyard of dissolving Enigma husks, a pout of pure, unadulterated boredom on his face. He swung his massive weapon with a lazy, practiced flick, severing a low-level spirit's torso with the same effort one might use to swat a fly.
"Boring... so incredibly boring,"
He droned, his voice dripping with a sadistic, childlike playfulness. He didn't just kill the Enigmas; he toyed with them, cutting them piece by piece, watching them fade with the clinical curiosity of a boy pulling wings off an insect.
He turned his gaze toward the horizon, sensing a familiar tremor—the massive, flickering energy of Marco Nierman.
"The men are putting on a show, and I'm stuck here playing with garbage,"
Bruno sighed, leaning his weapon against his shoulder. He looked at the remaining monsters, then back at the horizon.
"Duty is a heavy shackle. Fine... I'll finish this chore first. Then, I'll see if Marco has any life left in him to keep."
Back at the crater, Marco's world was a hazy blur of iron-tasting blood and gray dust. He coughed, a ragged sound that tore through his chest, spitting out grit. His eyelids felt as heavy as leaden doors, but as the ringing in his ears faded into a dull throb, he saw the flickering shadows of the titan-like struggle occurring above him.
"Well, look who decided to rejoin the living,"
Fate called out, his eyes never leaving the masked Izochi.
"A fast recovery, Mr. Entertainer. You truly are full of surprises."
Marco groaned, a low, guttural growl of defiance. He slammed a trembling palm into the dirt, trying to heave his weight upward. His muscles screamed in protest, and for a moment, his arm buckled, sending him back into the dust.
But on the second attempt, he forced his right arm straight, then his left, his entire frame shaking with the sheer effort of existing. He finally managed to sit up, his gaze fixing on the sky where Izochi and Fate were locked in a lethal stalemate, a cycle of steel, shadow, and shattering air where neither side was willing to break.