"His mana… it smells pure," the old elf muttered, voice nearly swallowed by the air as his blade skimmed past Dravion's shoulder—a slice so close it left heat trailing in its wake.
A guttural snarl rippled from Dravion's throat, low and feral. Fangs bared, breath harsh, his eyes seethed with that ancient hunger, the kind that demanded not fear, but total submission. He didn't want to frighten the elder. He wanted to end him, to tear flesh from bone and consume until only silence remained. The urge was instinct—raw, absolute.
He twisted with the dodge, every muscle coiling, then sprang low in a single, fluid arc, claws flashing for the elf's legs. Yet the old warrior slipped away—body arching in a high, impossible backflip, so light it seemed even gravity could not hold him.
He expected the threat to pass above, not below.
Dravion surged upward, a claw slicing for the elf's exposed flank as he soared. The old man's eyes narrowed, body twisting away at the last heartbeat—he missed a fatal blow by less than a breath.
How can he move like that… The elf landed in a spinning crouch, breath shallow.
If I'm right, he was only just born. But this… if he keeps fighting, if he survives… one day, there won't be a single genius on this continent who could match him.
He swept a finger along his blade's edge. It shimmered, wrapped in green fire—forest-born, divine, vibrant with power.
"The wind of the divine spirit… lend me your strength to cut down my enemy," the elder whispered, the words barely a prayer.
Wind shrieked from the blade, a surge of invisible knives. It crashed into Dravion and drove him to one knee, pressure like stone grinding into bone. He snarled, one hand gouging the earth for purchase as the weight pressed harder, refusing to yield.
A bitter tang coated his tongue. Metallic and familiar.
Blood.
It welled from his mouth, thick and hot, dripping in scarlet lines.
Red. Not gold. Not the blood of a god he once was. This… was a mortal blood.
The elf hovered above, watching from the air like a spirit more than a man. His gaze flickered, cold and sharp, yet deep beneath it, something shifted—curiosity, maybe surprise.
How can a mortal's blood shine so brightly? Not divine-born, but close. Could he… could he reach the heights of the old gods? The thought pressed against old memories, stirring warnings and hope in equal measure.
Wind gathered, a serpent of air swirling around the elf's arm, thickening, hungry.
"Better dodge this, little one." No speeches. No arrogance. Just a quiet warning.
Wind shrieked down his arm, into the blade, then exploded. A crescent of raw force ripped free, roaring through the world with the power to split mountains, and aimed straight for Dravion.
But Dravion's spirit surged to meet it, his blood answering the challenge. Fire boiled up from his core, thick and wild. His jaws yawned open. The inferno that followed was hotter, denser, more furious than anything he'd ever released—so much more than the flames that had turned the tiger to ash.
This was the kind of fire that could erase a forest.
The attacks met—
BOOM!
A thunderous roar cracked the sky. Elemental titans collided—wind and flame, each desperate to devour the other. Shockwaves tore through the woods, trees shredded, earth split wide, both combatants hurled backward as if by a god's hand, spiraling through the dust and splinters.
Dravion slammed to the ground, body rattling, ash curling around him.
"That old geezer is strong… damn." His words slipped out, rough and surprised, his mind suddenly sharper than before.
He blinked once. Then again. Thoughts formed, then grew clearer. Every fight… it's doing something to me. Every blow… every breath… waking something up inside.
The haze inside his head began to thin. Not all at once, but piece by piece—memory flickering in with each heartbeat. A stance, a word, a breath.
First came the urge to fight, then the movement. Now… speech. I'm not just a beast, am I?
He stared at his hands—blood-slick, claws trembling. The changes within him were undeniable. He was no longer driven by instinct alone. Reborn into this fractured world, his soul scattered across memory and time, yet each battle seemed to gather those lost pieces closer, drawing him back together—slowly, relentlessly.
With every shard that returned, his eyes grew brighter, not just with animal hunger, but with a new, burning clarity. Hunger was no longer the only thing that fueled him. Something deeper was rising now—a sense of purpose, a reason to survive that went beyond the next kill.
Suddenly, a voice drifted through the thinning dust, soft and almost regretful.
"This fight will take us nowhere, little one…"
The elf stepped out of the wreckage—tall, battered, but unbowed. His blade rested carelessly on his shoulder, more wanderer than warrior, though the edge in his eyes betrayed how much of him was still locked in battle.
Dravion's muscles tensed, instincts shrieking again—fight, kill, survive. His claws pressed into the earth, coiled and ready, refusing to surrender.
But the elf raised his hand, palm open—a gesture of peace.
"I see it now. I can't defeat you so easily," the old man said, words heavy with reluctant respect. "And, to be honest… these old bones are nearly spent."
He sighed, the smallest smile flickering—tired, not mocking, just bone-deep weary.
"How about we end this? Just for now. Forget what's happened, at least for a breath." The offer drifted between them, soft as falling leaves.
"It isn't in our blood to chase revenge," he continued, gaze sliding from Dravion to the blood-stained field behind. "We elves survive because we learn to let go. To forgive…" His eyes darkened with memory. "If my son had learned that… maybe he'd still be alive."
No anger lived in his voice—only emptiness. Grief carved into him, cold and endless as roots buried in stone.
He never wanted this. But he couldn't turn away, not after what happened.
"I sensed your presence long ago. But I was trapped by ritual. By the time I arrived…" He shook his head, shame clouding his face.
"If I'd come sooner, maybe I could've stopped them. Held them back. Maybe kept them alive."
His blade dropped, his shoulders sagged.
"And maybe… I could've spared you from all this bloodshed too, little one."
For a moment, his features slipped out of reach—neither kind nor cold, just veiled, unreadable.
Then, suddenly—
"Here! Catch this."
Something gleamed through the dust. A sword.
Dravion's hand snapped up, catching it midair. Instinct guided him. He sniffed the blade, curious, half-feral.
"Hah! Not food, little one," the elf laughed quietly, warmth threading through his fatigue. "It's my parting gift. You're a monster in hand-to-hand, but a sword will help you blend in. They'll underestimate you. Maybe it'll even teach you a bit of restraint."
Bronze leaves began to gather at the elf's feet, swirling up in a lazy dance. The illusion of youth crumbled from his face, old age settling across his features, spine curving once more.
"I hope we meet again... but not as enemies." His voice cracked, just for an instant. "Even if I can't ever truly forgive you… I won't chase vengeance. That was never our way. If my son had remembered that, perhaps he'd have lived."
He hesitated—eyes widening as he watched.
The sword in Dravion's grip had begun to glow.A golden light flickered along the blade's edge, wrapping his fingers, pulsing in time with his heart.
The old elf's smile returned, softer this time, bittersweet.
"So… the blade's chosen its master after all…"
The wind caught him then. The leaves scattered.
The elf faded, dissolving into the bronze storm—until only Dravion, the gleaming sword, and the hush of aftermath remained.