A few minutes earlier.
Lira sat cross-legged on a woven carpet, completely engrossed in a book. A faint smile tugged at her lips—gone a heartbeat later, as if it had never been there.
"You can come out of the shadows," she murmured, eyes still on the page. "As much as I dislike Nyric, letting him die would be... inconvenient."
Something stirred in the hallway.
A man stepped into the room, tall and lean, black robes trailing like smoke. A sword hung at his hip, untouched. His hands were clasped behind his back, a smile playing across his face.
He stopped before her.
"Told them we couldn't sneak up on you," he said with a smirk. "Of course I was right. You're the Witch of Ashpire, after all."
Lira didn't look up.
Lester rubbed his nose, then offered a slight, theatrical bow. "Forgive me. I'm Lester—and a big admirer, I must say."
"You talk too much," she muttered, still reading. "And I meant all of you."
Lester blinked—then chuckled. "Come on, guys. Don't be shy."
He gestured casually at the corridor. "A legend just invited us in. No one's gonna believe this."
Four figures stepped into the room, robes flowing like a shadow tide. Two men, two women—all coiled, watchful, sharp.
Their robes bore faint silver embroidery—vein-like patterns that shimmered when they moved.
One lagged behind the others, shifting awkwardly. He had a narrow face and hunched posture, as if trying to shrink into his own cloak. Where arms should have ended, curved metal blades extended—scythes grown from steel and bone alike.
"Guys, don't be ru—"
Crack.
An invisible force slammed into Lester's chest, hurling him into the far wall with a crack.
Lira shut her book with a quiet thump and rose to her feet, brushing the hem of her robe.
"Can't you see I'm reading?" she said flatly. "Gods, I hate people like you."
She rolled her shoulders like someone preparing for a morning stretch.
"Veintouched, huh?" She cracked her neck. "You'll make decent warmup."
Then, smiling—sharp, almost bored:
"Well then. Come at me."
A split second later, the roof split open with a snap. A lightning-charged arrow screamed toward her skull.
Lira moved.
In one fluid blink, she snatched the arrow from midair, spun it in a sharp, fluid arc around her head, and flung it back with bone-cracking force.
A scream rang out above. Something hit the ground outside with a wet thud.
"Wow. That's sick," Lester coughed as he crawled out of the rubble.
The scream had barely faded when the four veintouched lunged.
One vaulted forward with a roar, slamming down a massive earthen hammer—his gauntlets pulsing with stone and weight.
Behind Lira, scythe-arms carved through the air, aiming to shred her legs at the knee.
On either side, the two women surged in—each with fists wreathed in veinfire that rippled and churned like living water. The energy coiled around their arms in tight spirals, mimicking the flow of high-pressure currents. When they punched, the veinfire surged forward in twisting jets, slicing the air with the weight and speed of crashing waves.
Lira didn't flinch.
She slipped through the chaos like silk through fingers—dancing between blades and blasts with mocking grace.
She didn't block—she redirected. A nudge here. A shift there. She let the hammer's weight fall away from her. Twisted the scythes just wide. Stepped aside as fists met each other instead of flesh.
Boom.
The shockwave from their own impact tore the room apart. All four veintouched flew backward, crashing into walls and pillars with a chorus of grunts and cracks.
The dust hadn't settled before Lira stepped forward, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
"Hm," she muttered, voice calm as ever. "You pulled your strikes at the last second. Didn't think you'd have that much skill."
The fighters groaned, struggling to rise. Spiderwebs of cracks laced the stone around them.
"Impressive," she added. Genuinely. But without warmth.
Then—
"Don't forget about me!" Lester's voice rang out, far too excited.
He came in from behind, fist cocked, arm gleaming with a black metallic sheen—obsidian-like, unnatural. Not flesh. Not quite metal.
His speed was decent. His form, near perfect.
But Lira didn't turn.
She tilted her head slightly. The blow missed her cheek by inches.
Her hand snapped up, catching his wrist mid-swing. Metal ground beneath her grip.
Before he could register it, her other hand came down—crackling with violet lightning.
Clang.
The impact rang out like striking a steel gong. Lester screamed as the reinforced bones beneath his strange alloy arm snapped, ivory shards punching through skin, nerves lit with electricity.
He dropped to his knees, gasping.
Lira raised her hand again—lightning flaring at her fingertips, ready to deliver the finishing blow—when—
A curved blade swept upward, slashing for her wrist.
The scythe-armed veintouched had risen, a desperate strike.
Lira leapt back, the blade grazing the hem of her robe, slicing it clean.
Before her feet could touch stone, a deep rumble echoed—then motion from the front.
The hammer-wielder charged again, a boulder-sized hammer head lifted high, ready to cave in her skull.
Lira twisted midair, lightning surging through her arms. She met the strike with an upward punch.
Crash.
The hammer exploded. Stone shards screamed through the air.
No pause.
Two kicks came from either side—synchronized, aimed straight for her ribs. The water-like veinfire around the women's legs churned as they struck.
Lira arched between them, her body flowing like liquid itself. She twisted, spun, and danced through the closing gaps, each motion precise enough to leave inches between her and certain injury.
And struck back.
A backhand strike sent one woman sprawling. A spin-kick slammed the hammer-wielder's knee sideways. A crackling palm blasted across the scythe-user's chest.
The chamber filled with the brutal music of combat—grunts, impact, the sizzle of veinfire on flesh.
Lester had stumbled back, clutching his ruined arm, eyes wide.
She hasn't even been touched, he thought, stunned. And she's still counterattacking. Mouse won't last. Varin's hammer's already cracked—
Right on cue, the scythe-handed fighter—Mouse—screamed. His body went airborne, crashing beside Lester in a heap. Smoke curled from his chest. The stink of scorched flesh followed. His scythes retracted with a sick click.
Lester's jaw clenched.
"What a monster…" he muttered.
Then, through gritted teeth:
"I guess I have to do it."