A Duel of Legends

  Damian could have left with the others.

  He could have done exactly what his father told him to do.

  It might have even been the smart thing to do.

  But it just didn’t feel like the right thing to do.

  Of course, his father was the Silver Fox—the man who had supposedly defeated the infamously powerful Dread General. If anyone could face a Beast of War and come out alive, it was him.

  Yet, Damian knew better than anyone that his father was still just a man—a man who bled as easily as anyone else. Besides, he wasn’t the same warrior who won that fight all those years ago. These days, he could barely get out of bed without grumbling about some ache or pain.

  And now he was going to try and take on some sort of demigod?

  This was just like him. Taking on more than he should. Always playing the hero, just like everyone expected him to. If he could fight the whole war himself, he probably would.

  But he shouldn’t have to.

  He should be enjoying the peaceful retirement he had always mentioned.

  At very least he shouldn’t be going out there alone. Someone should be with him.

  "I should be going with him," Damian thought.

  But Damian had no magic. No real power. And maybe he never would.

  Still, he couldn’t just leave. If no one else was brave enough to stay, then he would. He might not be able to fight, but maybe—just maybe—he could find some way to help. Perhaps, if he could find some weakness or advantage he could find some way to help tip the scales, if even in the slightest.

  He didn’t know what.

  But when the moment came, he’d recognize it.

  So he snuck away.

  With all the chaos of the evacuation, it wasn’t that hard. General Dominique and Vera were too focused on watching over Ignacio to notice his absence, and Dante had his hands full guiding people out through the tunnel.

  So, it didn’t take much effort to slip away into a side room unnoticed. He even managed to grab a slugger from one of the downed guards left behind—just in case.

  The room he found was just a servant’s storage space, used to prepare for guests in the foyer. It was small and dark, with little of note besides a sink, some boxes, and a few shelves stocked with supplies.

  But more importantly, it had a window—one that wasn’t covered by the wall General Dominique had created earlier. With the help of a few stacked boxes, he could reach it and keep himself hidden.

  Carefully, he peeked outside, revealing as little of himself as possible.

  The wooden stage and most of the rally decorations had been blown into the corners of the surrounding walls or burnt to ash at this point. The cobblestone floor was hardly visible under a thick layer of dust. The courtyard had essentially been flattened and completely open, leaving nowhere to hide.

  Damian noticed that even the bodies of the fallen had somehow vanished.

  How had they moved them so quickly?

  Had the Raven somehow moved them in such a short time?

  And why?

  In fact, where even was the Raven?

  Damian could see his dad’s back as he stepped out towards the center of the courtyard. But then he came to a stop, seemingly, with no Raven in sight.

  He saw nothing—until he noticed the slight upward tilt of his father’s cap. His breath caught as he followed his father’s gaze upward.

  And for the first time, Damian could see the Beast clearly.

  Its body was almost impossible to comprehend. At first glance, it resembled a figure draped in a long, flowing cloak—but there was no fabric, no seams, no openings—just a thick, shifting shadow, jet-black mist that bled off its form like a flowing fog.

  It descended weightlessly, as if utterly unaffected by gravity, and its presence alone made the air feel still—as if the wind dared not move against its will. Its shadowy form spread wide, like the wings of an outstretched bird, looming over Dalten as it lowered down to his level.

  And then it landed.

  Or at least, at least it looked like it did.

  The impact barely disturbed the earth. And as it touched down the black mist began to recede into itself, until it resembled a more humanoid form.

  It stood tall and slender. Even hunched forward while inspecting the man before it, it loomed at least seven feet tall. And with it finally, still at ground level Damian could now finally make out its face.

  Or rather, its mask.

  What had seemed almost like a beaked face from a distance was, in fact, a gas mask. Sleek, dark, and featureless, with a sharp, angular design, tapering into a circular respirator.

  And then—those eyes.

  Those impossible, searing, violet eyes.

  Damian had seen a crystal engine before—had felt the raw magical energy of an industrial crystal reactor core running at full power.

  This glare put that to shame.

  Even behind the darkened glass of its mask’s lenses, they shone through clearly. It was like looking through a small window that led out onto an endless ocean of power.

  And then, the Raven spoke.

  Its unnatural voice echoed through the courtyard, hollow and distorted. It’s tone, cold and hollow.

  “Silver Fox. We finally meet face to face. It’s quite the honor. Though, I’ll be honest—you’re a bit older than expected. More gray around the edges than that old footage, I suppose.”

  It tilted its head slightly in eerie curiosity.

  “Though, I guess it goes well with the title. Still, I am a bit curious—why a fox?”

  Dalten’s gaze never wavered. “Is that what you came all this way to ask me? About my name?”

  The Raven let out a low chuckle. “No, that was more of a… personal curiosity. It would be a shame to let this opportunity to pick your brain go to waste. This might be my only chance, after all.”

  The creature leaned forward slightly, as if savoring its next words.

  “For instance—why does the Empress speak about you the way she does?”

  Dalten narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  “When she speaks of most Solaran commanders, she hardly has anything decent to say.” The Raven’s tone took on a mocking lilt. “Bloodthirsty hate-mongers. Sadistic manipulators. Fat, sloven fools—”

  Damian had a good idea who that last one was aimed at.

  “But you… No insults. No disdain. No… anything.”

  The Raven’s glowing eyes bored into Dalten.

  “What makes you so special among all her enemies? Perhaps, even more so than some of her allies?

  “Respect for a worthy adversary? Acknowledgment for another so skilled in the arcane arts? Or maybe, she just knows better than to look down on the one man who is constantly standing in the way of her victory?”

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?” Dalten questioned. “You’re her champion aren’t you? Or does she not trust you enough to even share her opinions?” Dalten said, his suspicious gaze unfazed as he stared back at the Beast.

  The Raven let out a short, bitter laugh. “Hmph. If only.”

  “And what about you?” Dalten asked, now turning the questioning back on the beast.

  “What do you mean?”

  “From my understanding, you are a millennia-old demigod who fought against gods. A relic from as far back as the before recorded history—or so I’ve been led to believe. So why fight under the orders of a human monarch? Is it loyalty? Fear?”

  The Raven’s eyes narrowed.

  “Do you think someone needs a reason to fight people like you?”

  From within the Raven’s mist-laden form, a limb emerged.

  A pair of heavy, mechanical gauntlets, the fingers sharp and jagged like talons, rose out of its side, attached to the Raven’s body by ethereal arms of smoke, destending unnaturally long, as bending unnaturally as if hollow.

  Then the Raven reached a hand toward the sky.

  Then, in an instant, a violently spinning blade tore out of the storm above in a spinning blur. It rushed toward the Raven as if summoned. Without hesitation, it snatched the weapon mid-flight, metal ringing against metal.

  The weapon in the Raven’s grasp was clearly no ordinary weapon.

  It was a scythe—sleek, jagged, and as unnatural as the entity wielding it. The whole thing seemed like an extension of the Raven itself.

  Its long, curved blade was a wicked crescent of void-black metal, its spine adorned with a jagged, feather-like pattern—reminiscent of a raven’s wings. Near where the blade met the shaft, a hollow eyelet gazed outward, a gaping hole in the metal that seemed to whistle as air passed through it. Its crooked, jagged shaft seemed more grown than forged—a twisting length of dark metal, ridged and uneven like a metallic stick. At its base, a small, fine blade waiting like the sting of a scorpion’s tail.

  But the most notable part was the blade’s edges. A searing violet glow, the same unnatural radiance that shone in the Raven’s eyes, pulsed through the blade, as though the weapon itself was part of the Beast. The glowing edge roiled and shifted, as if barely containing a violent storm raging within.

  The Raven brandished its scythe, and Dalten’s hand hovered over one of his slingers, ready to draw.

  But the beast did not advance or attack.

  Instead, it gripped the scythe in one jagged claw and swung it upward toward the sky.

  From its blade erupted out a powerful gust of wind into the sky, slicing into the raging storm as the winds suddenly began to break.

  The impenetrable wall of wind and dust, which had seemed like an inescapable prison, suddenly began to unravel—dissipating with nothing but a single swing of the Beasts’ weapon. Everything that had been caught in the storm—debris, dust, wreckage—suddenly slowed, then plummeted in a rain of scattered ruin around the castle.

  And for the first time, Dalten—and Damian—looked up in horror, seeing the outside for the first time since it had all started.

  They saw the formations of bombers stretched across the horizon, their silhouettes dark against the glow of distant fires. From the burning city below, they saw plumes of black smoke coiled into the sky, sirens wailed in the distance, and the distant crackle of destruction reached their ears.

  Then the Raven spoke.

  “Look around you! Do you see this destruction? This terror?

  “This is just a fraction of the suffering your people's obsessive campaigns of greed and lust for power have wrought upon the world.

  “Did you believe you could keep the war at arm’s length? That your precious golden city was somehow untouchable?"

  The Raven's voice rose, sharp as a blade.

  “Now, finally, you can feel what so many others have. To watch their homes, their lives, their loved ones burn around them.

  “And you—the supposed hero.

  “You think that because you aren’t there yourself—because you don’t give the orders—that you are somehow free of the sins of your peers?”

  “You think you can just wipe your hands clean while others commit atrocities in the wake of your victories?"

  The Raven pointed its scythe towards Dalten, its violet glow burning like embers in the dark.

  "No. Karma has come for you all the same.”

  “So, simple revenge then? You don’t actually believe this will bring an end to the war, do you? Think that your side is the only one suffering?”

  His voice dropped lower, the simmering heat of a veteran’s warning.

  “This won't break the Solaran people’s resolve. If anything it will only inspire them to fight more desperately and brutal than before.”

  “Then they will die,” the Raven stated with grim conviction. “Enough of this! I’m done debating ethics with you.”

  Dalten felt it with his veteran’s intuition—the unmistakable tension right before guns were drawn. His muscles tightened instinctively, every nerve on edge as the Raven’s cold, threatening stare pierced through him like an icy blade.

  “I was sent here for a reason,” the Raven began, its voice dripping with a sinister threat. “The first is a message from the Empress herself.

  “She wanted me to tell you: ‘You’ve run out of time.’”

  Dalten gaze suddenly grew more intense—as if those words signaled some deeper threat to him.

  “And the second?” His voice was taut as a bowstring, his fingers subtly creeping toward the slingers at his hips.

  The Raven tightened its grip around the scythe in response, its keen instincts noticing the man’s rising killer intent.

  “A question,” it finally replied, before its voice darkened. Slowly, it shifted into a down battle stance, as if preparing itself for battle.

  There was a pause.

  A stretching moment of silence as the two locked eyes, waiting for the other to make a move. They stared each other down, as if both knew the words that would follow would set off a powderkeg.

  Then the Raven spoke—slow yet demanding.

  “Where…

  is…

  the Beast?”

  Without warning it began.

  And to Damian’s surprise it was his father that struck first.

  His hands moved like a blur, drawing his slingers in the moment between heartbeats, and brandishing his weapons with the speed and agility of a master gunslinger. The barrels ignited instantly with flashing silver light.

  He fired over and over in quick succession. Every slug was fired with intent to kill, as he fired away with the ferocity one could only expect of one called the strongest Mage Soldier. Each shot roared like a juggernaut’s cannon, slugs flying out with a power and force one might think impossible from a heavy slugger, let alone two tiny slingers. The hems of his trench coat flailed wildly as shockwaves rippled outward sending dust up around him.

  The Raven, for its part, did not hesitate.

  It dodged in an instant, weaving effortlessly through the barrage of heavy slugs, its amorphous body thinning and fluttering as though struggling to keep pace with its own blistering speed. The entire volley missed its mark, slamming into the castle walls behind in a series of thunderous explosions scattering chunks of wall in all directions.

  When it saw an opportunity, it launched forward, leaving a sonic boom in its wake. With blistering speed, it closed the distance in less than a second and came to a halt just as quickly, bringing its scythe down in a deadly arc, slicing straight through Dalten.

  Damian’s heart skipped a beat as he saw the blade pass through his father.

  But before Dalten’s body could even begin to fall, it flickered rapidly before disappearing entirely.

  And as it did, the Silver Fox reappeared fully intact, just a step to the side, his slinger aimed directly at the Raven’s head.

  He fired point-blank.

  Yet, with inhuman swiftness, the Raven reacted even before Dalten finished pulling the trigger. It dashed backward, twirling its scythe in a blur of motion to deflect the slugs it couldn't evade from such a close range. Each slug scattered and dissipated upon contact with the unusual scythe, the strange weapon seemingly absorbing the magical energy, giving the Raven an opportunity to pull back.

  Even as it retreated, the Raven's assault never wavered. With one hand on its scythe blocking attacks, it extended the other toward Dalten, its palm outstretched. Several powerful bursts of air surged forward, aiming precisely at him. But as each blast closed in, Dalten’s form flickered away at the last moment, revealing himself elsewhere. His exact movements hidden behind a constant mirage, all while maintaining his relentless barrage of slug-fire in return.

  Having narrowly escaped Dalten’s relentless attack, it gripped its scythe tightly, drawing it back with a focused intent. The violet blade began to shimmer brighter, intense shearing winds coalescing around it, swirling violently as if preparing to tear apart the air itself.

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  Then, with a sudden, fierce swing, the Raven released its attack.

  The blade cut through the air, releasing a violent arc of wind that echoed with a loud, piercing caw.

  The impact was overwhelming. Dalten disappeared into a cloud of destruction, the courtyard's ground and walls shattering under the brutal assault. Dust and rubble billowed outward, obscuring the aftermath in a cloud of dust.

  As the dust cleared, a deep, jagged gash was etched into the castle wall, a layer of stone carved from the floor. Yet, standing defiantly at the epicenter was Dalten—completely unharmed. A translucent, glass-like barrier flickering briefly in front of him, revealing the Hard-light Shield he summoned just in time.

  It was incredible. Damian had seen his father’s magic before. But this was nothing like when he had shown it to him in their backyard. Nor could the comic book panels ever compare to seeing the real thing in action.

  The precision. The power. The gunwork.

  Every movement, no matter how small, had a precise purpose. The Raven may have possessed overwhelming strength and speed, but Dalten had experience. He was holding his own, even against an inhuman monster like this.

  Damian realized he wasn’t merely watching his father anymore.

  He was finally seeing the real Silver Fox in action.

  The one his father had always tried to keep hidden from him.

  The Raven seemed to pause its assault momentarily, speaking in a strangely amused tone.

  “I must admit, you're proving rather difficult to kill. Most Aces I’ve ended wouldn’t have been able to survive that assault. You're far more… wily than most opponents I've faced.” It let out a small, almost uncharacteristic chuckle. “Heh, I figured out the name.”

  There was no such amusement in Dalten’s demeanor. Only an intense, desperate focus.

  With a practiced flair, he spun his right slinger at his waist, swiftly raised it, and unleashed another slug toward the Raven.

  The Raven swiftly raised its scythe again, prepared to deflect as it had several times before.

  However, just before impact, the slug abruptly changed course, ricocheting off the air as if hitting an invisible mirror. It ricocheted wildly around the Raven, its path erratic and unpredictable. Barely keeping pace, the Raven narrowly evaded the erratic projectile, but the relief was fleeting—the slug instantly redirected, looping back for another attack.

  The Silver Fox seized the advantage, rapidly firing multiple tracking slugs to intensify the pressure. The Raven, despite its supernatural speed, began to struggle visibly, its movements turning into a frantic dance as its misty body twisted and turned trying to keep up with the zigzagging silver projectiles.

  Recognizing the impossibility of maintaining its defensive stance, the Raven quickly shifted tactics, choosing instead to interrupt the Silver Fox’s spellcasting.

  It tried once again to send several blasts of air in his direction as it dodged, only to be met with the same result as before as he flickered out of place again and again. Noticing that, it seized a brief gap between evasions, and swung its scythe aggressively, releasing another arc of splitting of wind towards the Silver Fox he wouldn’t be able to avoid..

  Reacting swiftly, Dalten twirled one of his weapons around, and fired off a spell that instantly summoned his barrier once again. The barrier absorbed the impact flawlessly. Without delay, Dalten spun his slinger again and unleashed another shot.

  Only now did Damian notice his father had used three different spells—Flicker, Tracer Bolts, and the Hardlight shield—yet he had never once paused to swap a spell cartridge. He had two slingers of course, but how was he casting the third?

  Then Damian looked closer.

  The gun flourishes weren’t just for show. Every time his father spun the slingers, they passed by his waist, flipping the tails of his coat above his belt line. In that fleeting moment, Damian caught sight of a descending row of spell cartridges secured to a rack along both sides of his belt.

  He wasn’t just twirling the slingers for show—he was changing out spells—all in one seamless motion, without even looking.

  For most mage soldiers, the greatest limitation was the time it took to reload or swap a spell cartridge. But for him, it was almost as if weakness simply didn’t exist. Not only could he maintain two spells at once—an impressive feat of concentration in and of itself—but he could fluidly switch spells while sustaining another simultaneously.

  This was how the Silver Fox fought—overwhelming his opponents with an unrelenting barrage of magic. Constantly switching. Constantly firing the next step. Maintaining an unstoppable momentum that few could ever hope to keep up with.

  The Silver Fox fired off yet another spell. A slug flew halfway before splitting into a volley of a dozen or more, all streaking toward the Raven simultaneously.

  For a moment, it seemed to Damian like the Raven was done for. It was already struggling to stay ahead of the ricocheting slugs. Now flanked by two different spells, there was no way it could keep up.

  But once again, the Raven displayed its inhuman reaction time. In an instant, it dodged backward, catching both incoming spells before it. Then, with a single, mighty swing, its scythe unleashed a forceful wave, obliterating every projectile in a single strike.

  Now, the two legendary warriors stood across from each other in silence once more. The battlefield around them was scarred and pockmarked, but both combatants remained completely unscathed.

  “I’m beginning to tire of these games,” the Raven growled. “Perhaps you will be more forthcoming with answers once I remove your hands from your wrists.”

  With that, the Raven surged forward, and the Silver Fox braced to contest it once more. But this time, with a display of precision and a mere flick of its hand, it pulled the air from behind Dalten’s feet. Before he could react, an abrupt force yanked at his leg. It was barely enough to unbalance him—but in a battle of this caliber, even the slightest misstep was enough to tip the scales

  The Raven seized the opening instantly.

  Dalten attempted to conjure another barrier, but it wasn’t enough. A single, powerful swing of the Raven’s scythe tore through the hastily formed shield, shattering it into a spray of glimmering, glass-like shards. The Silver Fox stepped back, but the Raven’s strike carried through, its blade slashing downward. The keen edge bit into one of Dalten’s hands, cutting through one of his slingers. Sparks flew as the weapon clattered to the ground, broken.

  Dalten adapted quickly, despite recoiling in pain from a new gash, his hand darted to a concealed device around his neck. A sudden, blinding flash shone forward, forcing the Raven to recoil. Momentarily blinded, the Beast retreated back,

  From his vantage point, Damian’s exhilaration quickly curdled into fear. He saw his father bleeding and disarmed of one of his slingers. Dalten had barely held the Raven at bay even with both slingers. Now, with one destroyed and his hand injured, the fight had turned. The gap between them was closing. And Damian knew his father couldn’t keep up much longer.

  Watching the fight slip out of his father’s control, Damian’s pulse quickened, and he quickly remembered his own presence. He had stayed behind for a reason, not to watch the battle like some sort of sporting event.

  He started looking around in a flurry trying to think of some way he could help. An unnoticed weapon, some key environmental advantage, a distraction—anything.

  But then, he noticed something in the room move.

  At first, he thought it was a trick of the light. But no—something stirred just a few feet away.

  It was like a shadow, maybe some sort of void. A patch of pure, empty blackness hovering in the air, no bigger than a few inches across. It was as if something had torn a strip of existence right out of the air.

  Then it was gone.

  A mirage? A hallucination?

  Then he saw another, another appear further back in the room, before disappearing as quickly as the first. And another, appearing quickly outside the window before disappearing again. More and more appeared sporadically seemingly all around, had he not been looking he would have missed them entirely.

  It was at this point Damian recognized that he had seen this before, from something his father had shown to him a long time ago.

  And it seemed like the Raven, its focus so firmly pointed at his dad, hadn’t noticed it.

  Damian’s confidence returned and a small chuckle escaped his lips as he realized—the Silver Fox wasn’t done yet.

  “Surrender.” The Raven demanded. “You are injured, and you stand no chance. A normal human, even one as skilled as you, can never defeat a Beast of War. Now tell me what I want to know, and you might still live to see tomorrow.”

  Dalten exhaled slowly. His posture shifted, his grip on his slinger loosening as he let the weapon hang at his side.

  The Raven took notice of this sudden lack of resistance. It lowered its guard in return—just slightly—to give the man the chance to surrender.

  And for the first time since the fight began, Dalten spoke.

  “You know, when I was little, we didn’t have all these fancy magical gadgets. Magic was a luxury, something only the well-connected were allowed to experience. The closest thing we had in my little town when I was a kid was a man who called himself a magician.”

  “No real magic, of course. Just tricks. He could make a coin disappear from his hand one moment and reappear behind your ear the next. Pull flowers from an empty hat. Pick out which card you had hidden in your hand. Probably not things you’d find impressive now. With all the exciting things we can do with magic these days, people forget about simple tricks like that.”

  The Raven’s gaze hardened. “What are you blabbering about?” It adjusted its grip on its weapon once more, growing suspicious of his odd shift in behavior. “Delaying for time won’t help you. No one is coming to save you.”

  But Dalten disregarded the remark and continued.

  “Even before I could use real magic, I loved it. And to a simple kid who had never seen a spell in his life, those tricks were as amazing as the real thing. So much so, I asked the magician to teach me a little. It was nothing compared to what I can do now with my light magic, of course, but it was enough to make my friends laugh. And that was a start.”

  The Raven’s patience wore thin. It raised its scythe, voice tightening. “I asked for the location of the Beast. Not your life story. Get to the point.”

  Dalten smirked.

  “My point is, no one cares about magic tricks these days. It’s a lost art. But some things I learned back then—they stuck with me—even now.”

  Dalten’s lips curled into a confident smile. With a dramatic flourish of his bloodied arm, his sleeve fell back, revealing a pulsing silver light beneath.

  “Like the art of misdirection.”

  As Dalten’s sleeve slipped down, the glow became unmistakable—a small device strapped to his wrist. A caster watch—a custom one—this one had a single spell cartridge slotted into it.

  Damian smiled proudly as he realized what his father was doing. He hadn’t been casting two spells at once—he was casting three.

  The Raven’s glowing eyes widened in shock. Realizing it had been fooled it quickly jerked its head in every direction, until its sight landed on something above it.

  A glowing orb of silver light, hovering high just above the height of the castle walls. It had been dimmed, its light hardly seeming like more than a dim light bulb. But the moment the Raven noticed it, the entire thing shone bright, revealing its true power. The orbs form trembling as though barely able to contain the sheer energy it had accumulated.

  Damian recognized this spell instantly—there probably wasn’t a single person who knew of the Silver Fox that didn’t.

  When he was younger, he begged his father to show it to him time and time again—Starfall.

  Bit by bit, the spell had been draining the light from the surrounding area. That was what those dark tears Damian saw earlier were—light being siphoned away, slowly being absorbed into the floating sphere. Damian hadn’t recognized it at first. The ones he had seen as a child had been even smaller, his father had to point out the dark spots to him to even notice.

  But clearly his father had been holding back then. The spell he remembered had just been the size of an inflated ball.

  This one must have been the size of a whole magicar.

  Despite its legendary reputation, Starfall was not a spell meant for fast-paced, one-on-one duels. It took time to build, rendering it virtually impractical in most duels. It had worked against the Dread General years ago, when no one had ever heard of it before. But now? Any opponent familiar with the Silver Fox would know to interrupt it and would likely expect him not to use it in a fast paced fight like this—an assumption he was clearly was more than eager to take advantage of.

  It would seem that even past his prime, the Silver Fox still had his tricks.

  He must have begun casting it before he even fired his first shot. Maybe even before he stepped into the courtyard to confront the Raven in the first place. Even going as far as dimming its glow so that it would go unnoticed, all while keeping his opponent distracted with an onslaught of spells.

  And now, the spell was ready to burst. Its surface pulsing, swollen with searing light.

  Damian was in awe.

  The practice.

  The dedication.

  The foresight.

  This was it—this was the peak. The pinnacle of Mage Soldier prowess. The greatest Mage Soldier in the world, no—the greatest hero in the world. This was what he had longed to see all along.

  The true Silver Fox.

  “You… When did you have the time!?” The Raven roared, fury twisting its voice. “I won't let you—!”

  It was about to lunge, desperate to stop what was coming—but it was already too late.

  The orb of light burst.

  Hundreds of shimmering stars scattered across the sky, their glow drowning out the fiery backdrop above. For a single, fleeting moment, the battlefield fell silent, in an eerily peaceful silver beauty. The war, the rage, the chaos—all of it faded beneath the breathtaking brilliance of the lights twinkling in the night sky.

  And then they fell.

  One by one, then all at once, the stars began plummeting. Streaking downward, faster than the eye could track, each leaving behind a brilliant trail like a shooting star. Even with its inhuman speed and reflexes, the Raven could not dodge, nor could it deflect.

  They were too fast.

  And too many.

  For what it was worth, the Raven did try to counter. It blocked the first few with a spin of its scythe, and when it realised that there were too many to deflect it even attempted to blast forward its strongest burst of wind yet. But there was no way any broad ranging burst of air could stop the concentrated power in each of those shooting stars.

  The Raven was quickly engulfed as the stars slammed into the ground. A hollow wail tore from the Raven’s throat, but it was quickly swallowed by the hail of booms that followed.

  Each star struck the ground with the force of a grenade, detonating once it collided into brilliant eruptions of light. The barren courtyard erupted into chaos, every impact sending shockwaves through the earth. The ground shook violently beneath Damian’s feet as he clung to the window frame, barely keeping his balance atop the unsteady stack of boxes.

  Dalten stood firm before the destruction, his eyes ablaze with determination. He brought down each and every star with relentless precision, hammering the Raven with an unyielding barrage, from which there was no escape.

  The barrage did not relent. The stars just kept falling.

  Again. And again. And again.

  Until—at last—the final star crashed to the earth.

  The sky went dark once more. The trembling earth began to still. And before the Silver Fox, only a thick veil of smoke remained.

  He did not relax. He kept his stance firm, his breath steady, his eyes locked on the swirling smoke. He was waiting—ready.

  The seconds stretched in agonizing anticipation. Damian held his breath, his heart hammering as he prayed it was over.

  Then—silence. Just the settling of earth and stone.

  Finally, Dalten exhaled, releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, relaxing for just a moment.

  A moment too long.

  Because just as he did, the eerie glow of twin violet eyes pierced through the haze.

  Dalten’s instincts flared. He moved, trying to raise his slinger—

  Too late.

  The Raven struck mercilessly, shooting out of the smoke, parting it like a tunnel, its scythe already arcing downward toward his shoulder.

  Dalten’s form flickered, the scythe slicing only air.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  He reappeared only a few inches back, and had barely managed to dodge the first strike; the second came too quick.

  The Raven pulled its scythe back, slamming the blunt spine into his hand as pain erupted through his fingers with a sickening crunch, and the slinger flew from his grip, spinning into the distance.

  Before he could react, a heavy metal gauntlet clamped onto his arm, its grip crushing the device on his wrist—along with the bones beneath—in a sickening crunch.

  Pain ignited like fire through his nerves, but before he could even cry out, the Raven released its scythe, letting it hover in the air beside them. Then, in one swift motion, it seized him by the throat and lifted him off the ground.

  “Enough!” The Raven’s voice was a distorted snarl, raw with fury. “This is your last chance! Either your next breath is spent telling me where the other beast is or it will be your last.”

  The Raven itself did not look like it came out unscathed. The fog around it seemed to thin and erratically wavered, and its visor now bore cracks. Its voice gasped in pain. But still it stood victorious, his father disarmed and his strongest spell overcome.

  Even after everything his father had thrown at it, the Raven still lived. And now, he could only watch in horror as his dad dangled helplessly, his body limp, gasping for air against the iron grip around his throat.

  Damian was frozen, horror tightening around his chest like a vice. Even after everything—everything—his father had thrown at it, the Raven still stood.

  This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen.

  He had said he would escape if things went wrong, everyone had probably made their way out by now.

  So, why didn’t he try to sneak away? Why did he fire the first shot? Why was this other Beast so important?

  Was he really going to have to watch his father die right in front of him, completely powerless to stop it?

  No.

  He couldn't let that happen. He was the only family he ever had.

  Everything he had—

  everything he was—

  he owed it to him.

  Even if he wasn’t around much anymore, he couldn’t let that happen. He could hardly imagine life without at least the hope of him walking through that front door again. And there was no way—no way!—he would let him die here, alone.

  But what could he do?

  Nothing his father had done had stopped the Raven, and he could barely fire a slugger half the time. That Beast would turn him to paste with just a glance.

  But this is why he came here in the first place.

  To make a difference.

  And he wouldn’t back down now.

  This was it.

  This was his moment.

  It had to be.

  His mind raced.

  His eyes scanned desperately for something—anything—he could use. Some way to help. He likely had only a moment before the Raven acted.

  Then, he saw something.

  There—behind his father’s flapping coat, tucked in his back pocket. A glimmer of silver, hidden away.

  Of course—the Silver Fox always had another trick!

  But with the way things were—with his father suspended and being closely watched—he’d never be able to reach for it without the Raven noticing.

  He needed the Beast to look away. Just for a moment.

  He needed—

  “A distraction,” Damian muttered under his breath.

  That was it. That was all he needed to do. The Raven still thought they were alone. I wouldn't expect a shot now. And even if he couldn’t hit it, it might still be enough for his father to do what he needed to do.

  All Damian had to do was fire one good shot.

  Just enough to give his father an opening.

  He grabbed the slugger he had taken prior and mounted it on the window. Looking down the sights he aimed towards the Raven.

  For a split second, his eyes met his father’s.

  His expression said it all—a silent plea, edged with panic. Damian knew exactly what he wanted to say.

  Run. Escape. Get out.

  But it was too late for that. Damian had already made his choice, and he would follow it through.

  His focus snapped back to the Raven.

  Damian aligned the sight of his slugger at the Beast—

  He had one shot to get this right.

  He didn’t need anything fancy—

  just one clean shot.

  One chance to bring the Beast down.

  They say magic draws its power from one’s spirit. Well, Damian poured every ounce of his into this moment. His focus, his determination—all channeled into a single pull of the trigger.

  The slugger’s crystal flared to life,

  pulsing with a sharp silver glow.

  Then it wavered…

  Shining bright one moment—

  dimming the next…

  —then flaring up again.

  No—he couldn’t afford that now, this had to work.

  It would work.

  Damian breathed and closed his eyes.

  And the light of the crystal stabilized.

  He opened his eyes again—ready.

  And then he pulled the trigger.

  A deafening crack split the air, and suddenly the world around Damian slowed to a crawl.

  In that moment everything became so clear as his perception seemed to reach some sort of heightened state in this most critical of moments. Every move, every sound, every speck of dust.He saw it all.

  He saw the perfect silver slug rip from the barrel.

  He saw it fly true, straight for the Raven’s head.

  He saw the Raven’s eyes flicker towards it, tracking the shot even as it approached.

  He saw as it twisted, spinning away just in time, the slug grazing its visor—shearing through the dark glass.

  He saw Dalten fall free, released from the Raven’s grip, already reaching for the device hidden in his back pocket.

  He saw the Raven whip around to face towards him, violet eyes burning unobstructed through the fractured mask.

  He saw Dalten land, arm snapping forward, a silver glow in hand.

  He saw the Raven, its scythe, power surging, the blade screeching with power.

  And then—

  The Raven looked away.

  And then the scythe came down.

  But not towards Damian.

  It turned.

  Arced.

  And plunged straight into the chest of his father.

  Damian screamed in horror, body tensing, ready to throw himself through the window—

  But he never got the chance.

  The Raven didn’t even look at him. With its blade still buried in his father’s chest, it lifted a free hand toward him then gave a simple flick of its wrist.

  An unseen force crashed into Damian like a sledgehammer.

  The air was torn from his lungs as he was hurled backward—

  The stone wall collapsed around him.

  Pain exploded through his body.

  And then—darkness.