Hope stood still, his body weak, but his mind sharp.
His parched throat begged for water.
His muscles burned with exhaustion.
But he ignored it all.
His gaze was locked onto her—
She moved like a specter, sidestepping the fiend's brutal swing with the elegance of a flowing river.
Not a wasted movement.
Not a single moment of hesitation.
And as the crab-fiend's monstrous claw sliced through empty air,
She countered.
A flick of her wrist.
A sharp slash.
Her blade found its mark—a weak spot in the fiend's hardened shell.
A crack splintered across its dark exoskeleton, a spray of thick, black ichor splattering the ground.
The fiend screeched, its multiple legs skittering in distress.
But she didn't stop.
Didn't falter.
She pressed forward, blade in hand, her movements smooth and unbroken—
Like she had done this a thousand times before.
Hope's Calculations
Hope narrowed his eyes.
He wasn't just watching—he was analyzing.
If I fought her... would I win?
The answer came almost immediately.
No.
Not in a direct fight.
Because Hope didn't fight like her.
She fought with grace.
With fluidity.
Her attacks were effortless, a natural extension of her body.
She weaved through battle like she belonged there.
It wasn't power.
It wasn't brute force.
It was mastery.
In contrast, Hope relied on cunning.
On deception.
On finding openings and exploiting them.
He measured. Calculated.
He fought to survive.
And if he ever clashed blades with her in a fair duel—
He knew.
She would win.
For a brief moment, Hope simply watched.
The sun was high in the sky, its golden light casting a glow over the battlefield.
Her white tunic billowed with each movement, the fabric catching the light in a way that made her seem almost ethereal.
Like she didn't belong in this cursed land.
Like she was something untouched by the horrors of the Veil.
The way she held her sword—
The way she flowed between strikes—
It was mesmerizing.
"Like a dream," Hope thought absently.
Then—
Something shifted in the distance.
Hope's sharp instincts kicked in immediately.
His eyes snapped away from the battle, scanning the area.
And then—
He saw it.
Another figure.
Standing far away, barely visible against the cracked expanse of land.
But watching.
The figure was hooded, its face concealed beneath a deep cowl.
A long cloak draped over its form, similar to Hope's black cloak—
But this one was green.
Hope's gaze flicked downward.
The figure held a staff, its hands gripping the worn wood.
And though he couldn't hear the words—
The figure's lips were moving.
Whispering something.
A spell?
Something was happening.
Hope's body tensed.
Was this an enemy?
Or something else?