The air trembled with anticipation, a heartbeat suspended across the battlefield. Dust and shattered glyph fragments hung like a storm frozen in time. Aylen’s chest heaved as she stumbled backward, eyes wide with shock, staring down the Inquisitor who advanced with relentless precision. His fists and feet, honed for one purpose, cut through the air toward her with lethal intent. Naela and Kara screamed her name, their voices piercing the chaos—“Aylen!”—but the world seemed to constrict around her, and time slowed as the Inquisitor’s strike descended. Then—a slicing sound cut through the roar of energy, sharp and decisive, accompanied by a swirl of dust and smoke. When the particles finally drifted aside, Aylen stood, trembling, eyes locked on the scene before her: Inquisitor’s arm lay severed on the ground, blood welling from the wound, and moments later, his head slid from his shoulders, rolling to the earth with his last gaze fixed on the Grand Curator. In a whisper, barely audible, his inner voice betrayed loyalty and regret: “I failed you, my queen…”
Binyamin stood a short distance away, sword still embedded in the earth, but the air around him thrummed with a presence that silenced even the lingering echoes of destruction. The battlefield seemed to shrink around him, debris frozen midair, glyph energy rippling outward like concentric waves yet unable to escape him. Kara’s eyes widened first, a shiver running down her spine, followed by Naela stepping forward, voice trembling as she called his name, and finally Aylen, frozen in awe and terror, heart hammering as she saw the calm, unnerving control radiating from him. The Grand Curator’s smirk hardened, her eyes narrowing, as she sensed the subtle shift—this mortal, this human boy, now emanated a power that brushed against the edges of divinity itself. “So… you are back to yourself now, boy,” she said, voice laced with both amusement and challenge. “Let’s see if the calm you wear can survive what comes next.” Binyamin slowly turned his gaze toward her, voice low, deliberate: “Yeah… it’s time to get serious.” The tension on the battlefield thickened like molten air, and even the remnants of the dust and shattered glyphs seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the storm about to erupt.
Binyamin stood a short distance away, sword still embedded in the earth, but the air around him thrummed with a presence that silenced even the lingering echoes of destruction. The battlefield seemed to shrink around him, debris frozen midair, glyph energy rippling outward like concentric waves yet unable to escape him. Kara’s eyes widened first, a shiver running down her spine, followed by Naela stepping forward, voice trembling as she called his name, and finally Aylen, frozen in awe and terror, heart hammering as she saw the calm, unnerving control radiating from him. The Grand Curator’s smirk hardened, her eyes narrowing, as she sensed the subtle shift—this mortal, this human boy, now emanated a power that brushed against the edges of divinity itself. “So… you are back to yourself now, boy,” she said, voice laced with both amusement and challenge. “Let’s see if the calm you wear can survive what comes next.” Binyamin slowly turned his gaze toward her, voice low, deliberate: “Yeah… it’s time to get serious.” The tension on the battlefield thickened like molten air, and even the remnants of the dust and shattered glyphs seemed to hold their breath, waiting for the storm about to erupt.
The moment their blades locked, the Curator moved again.
The glyph weapon in her hand fractured without warning, its luminous edge splintering into dozens of spinning symbols that spiraled around Binyamin’s sword like a living storm. In the same motion, the fragments reassembled—stretching, lengthening—until the blade became a hooked spear that twisted toward Binyamin’s ribs from an impossible angle. The maneuver was flawless, executed with the kind of instinctive mastery that had ended countless battles before they had truly begun.
But Binyamin’s response was just as fluid.
His sword shifted with a subtle turn of his wrist, crimson glyph-lines pulsing brighter along the steel as the weapon moved not to overpower the attack, but to guide it. The spear’s tip slid past his side by the width of a breath, missing its mark as his blade swept upward in a clean arc. Glyph energy erupted along the motion of the strike, a crescent wave of burning symbols tearing through the dust-filled air.
The Curator stepped back just in time.
The energy arc carved across the battlefield where she had stood an instant earlier, splitting a jagged trench through the fractured stone and sending broken slabs of earth tumbling into the air.
A gust of displaced force rolled outward from the strike.
Behind Binyamin, Kara staggered half a step as loose debris skidded across the ground. Naela raised an arm instinctively, shielding Aylen as the shockwave rippled past them.
At the center of the chaos, Binyamin lowered his sword slightly, the crimson glyphs along its edge flickering like embers beneath the steel.
And without a word, he stepped forward.
The Grand Curator met his advance without hesitation.
The spear in her hand shattered into spiraling glyphs again, reforming instantly into a pair of curved blades that flashed toward Binyamin in a blinding cross-strike. Steel and light collided as Binyamin’s sword moved to meet them, the first blow ringing out like struck iron before the second came from the opposite direction. Sparks of crimson and gold scattered through the air as the weapons scraped past one another, each movement faster than the last. She pivoted sharply, one blade dissolving mid-swing into a heavy glyph hammer that crashed downward with crushing force. Binyamin twisted aside, the weapon slamming into the earth where he had stood a heartbeat earlier. The impact shattered the ground in a violent burst of stone and dust, fractured slabs erupting upward around them. Before the debris could fall, Binyamin’s sword cut through the rising fragments in a blazing arc, crimson glyph energy erupting from the blade as he countered. The strike tore through the air like a burning wave, forcing the Curator to leap backward as the energy split the battlefield between them. Broken stone tumbled into the newly carved trench, dust spiraling upward as the shock of their exchange rippled across the ruined field.
But neither of them slowed.
The Curator landed lightly atop a jagged slab of rock, her glyph weapon reforming once more—this time into a long, serrated glaive humming with violent energy.
And before the dust had even settled, she launched herself forward again
The Grand Curator met his advance without hesitation.
The spear in her hand shattered into spiraling glyphs again, reforming instantly into a pair of curved blades that flashed toward Binyamin in a blinding cross-strike. Steel and light collided as Binyamin’s sword moved to meet them, the first blow ringing out like struck iron before the second came from the opposite direction. Sparks of crimson and gold scattered through the air as the weapons scraped past one another, each movement faster than the last. She pivoted sharply, one blade dissolving mid-swing into a heavy glyph hammer that crashed downward with crushing force. Binyamin twisted aside, the weapon slamming into the earth where he had stood a heartbeat earlier. The impact shattered the ground in a violent burst of stone and dust, fractured slabs erupting upward around them. Before the debris could fall, Binyamin’s sword cut through the rising fragments in a blazing arc, crimson glyph energy erupting from the blade as he countered. The strike tore through the air like a burning wave, forcing the Curator to leap backward as the energy split the battlefield between them. Broken stone tumbled into the newly carved trench, dust spiraling upward as the shock of their exchange rippled across the ruined field.
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
But neither of them slowed.
The Curator landed lightly atop a jagged slab of rock, her glyph weapon reforming once more—this time into a long, serrated glaive humming with violent energy.
And before the dust had even settled, she launched herself forward again
The Curator did not give the ground beneath her time to settle.
The moment her boots skidded to a halt, the shield in her hand burst apart into a storm of blazing glyph fragments that spun outward like shrapnel before snapping back together along her arm. In an instant they hardened into a long chain-blade, its serrated edge whipping forward with explosive speed. The weapon lashed toward Binyamin in a violent spiral, cutting through the air with a shriek sharp enough to slice the drifting dust in two. Binyamin’s sword flashed upward to intercept, crimson glyphs flaring brighter along the steel as the chain struck. The impact rattled through his blade like a thunderbolt, but before the clash could settle the Curator twisted her wrist, the weapon coiling around his sword in a tightening loop of glowing metal. With a brutal pull she tried to wrench the weapon from his grip while the remaining length of the chain snapped toward his throat like a striking serpent.
Binyamin moved at the last possible instant.
His blade rotated within the coiling weapon, crimson glyph-lines surging across its edge as he forced raw energy through the steel. The sword erupted with a burst of power that blasted the chain apart, glyph fragments scattering across the battlefield in a storm of light. He stepped through the explosion of symbols, his counterstrike already descending in a blazing arc aimed for the Curator’s shoulder.
She twisted aside—but the strike still tore through the ground behind her, ripping a jagged trench across the battlefield as stone and dust erupted skyward.
Behind him, Kara whispered under her breath, equal parts awe and fear.
“…They’re not even holding back.”
And at the center of the devastation, the Curator’s eyes sharpened as she realized something unsettling.
Binyamin was beginning to match her speed.
The Curator surged forward again, and this time the clash became something no ordinary eye could follow.
Her weapon shattered into a cascade of blazing glyphs that multiplied as they moved, forming twin blades that flashed toward Binyamin from opposite sides. His sword rose to meet them—and suddenly the battlefield erupted into a storm of steel and light. Strikes collided faster than sound, crimson and gold arcs snapping through the air in blinding succession. One moment the Curator’s blades descended in a sweeping cross-cut, the next Binyamin’s sword was already there, deflecting, redirecting, answering with a counter that forced her weapon to fracture and reform again. The ground beneath them shattered with every impact, fragments of stone lifting from the battlefield as the pressure of their power surged outward in violent pulses.
To anyone watching, the fight had become a blur.
A storm of motion and light where two figures flickered in and out of existence between flashes of colliding glyph energy.
The Curator’s weapons changed shape with every heartbeat—spear, scythe, hammer—each transformation arriving mid-strike as she pressed relentlessly forward. But Binyamin’s sword moved like a living extension of his will, crimson glyph-lines blazing along the steel as he intercepted every attack with uncanny precision, his counters carving burning arcs through the air that forced the Curator to shift and evade again and again.
Behind him, Naela felt a chill run down her spine.
“…I can’t even see them anymore.”
And at the center of the battlefield, the shockwaves of their exchanges began to tear the ground apart in widening fractures as the duel climbed toward something even more catastrophic.
The storm of motion between them reached its most violent crescendo yet.
The Curator’s glaive shattered into radiant glyphs mid-swing, the fragments spiraling outward before reforming into a pair of long crescent blades that struck from opposite directions with lethal precision. Binyamin met them both, his sword moving in a flawless arc that deflected the first strike and slid beneath the second, crimson glyph-lines blazing across the steel as their weapons collided in a shower of burning sparks. The impact sent a concussive shockwave across the battlefield, tearing loose slabs of fractured stone that lifted into the air like drifting meteors.
But neither of them slowed.
The Curator pivoted instantly, her weapons dissolving again into swirling symbols before reshaping into a massive war hammer that descended with catastrophic force. Binyamin stepped inside the arc of the strike, the hammer crashing into the ground behind him with an explosion that split the earth apart. Before the debris could settle, his sword flashed upward in a vicious diagonal cut, glyph energy roaring along the blade as the attack carved through the collapsing cloud of dust.
The Curator twisted away with supernatural speed.
Even so—
The edge of Binyamin’s strike caught her.
A sharp tear cut across the flowing veil that framed her face, the divine fabric splitting with a soft rip as the crimson-lit blade passed within a hair’s breadth of her throat. A strip of the veil drifted downward through the dust-filled air, fluttering slowly to the ruined ground below.
For the first time since the battle began—
The Curator stepped back.
Not far.
Not in panic.
But enough.
Behind Binyamin, Kara’s voice trembled under her breath.
“…He actually hit her.”
The Curator stared at the torn edge of her veil for the briefest moment before lifting her gaze back to Binyamin.
Her expression did not change.
But something in her eyes did.
Because now she understood.
This was no longer a battle she could win through force alone.
If this continued…
The boy would eventually break through her defenses.
And there was only one method left that could guarantee control of the outcome.
Binding.
Her fingers tightened slightly around the shifting glyph weapon in her hand.
But it’s not easy even for a god to cast a binding spell while engaged in a fight.
The Curator moved again—but something had changed.
Her weapon lashed forward in another flashing strike, glyphs twisting into a jagged spear meant to pierce Binyamin’s guard, yet the motion lacked the flawless precision she had displayed before. Binyamin slipped past it with ease, his sword answering with a blazing counter that forced her to twist aside again, fragments of shattered stone exploding around their feet. Another strike followed—then another—each one faster than the last as Binyamin closed the distance, crimson glyph-energy roaring along his blade while he drove the Curator steadily backward across the broken battlefield.
But even as she fought, the Curator’s free hand began to move.
Subtle at first.
Her fingers traced deliberate shapes through the air, drawing thin strands of glowing glyph-light that did not behave like ordinary combat constructs. The symbols lingered where she formed them, ancient characters spiraling slowly into existence like stars awakening in a dark sky. One glyph became three. Three became a lattice of radiant sigils rotating around her wrist, each symbol locking into the next with quiet mechanical precision.
The air itself began to resist their movement.
With every second the pattern expanded—rings of intricate glyph-script forming around the Curator’s body, spreading outward like a slow-turning celestial mechanism. The symbols were older than any battlefield magic, layered with interlocking commands meant not to destroy—
but to restrain.
Binyamin’s sword slammed against her weapon again, forcing her to stagger a half step as another violent shockwave tore through the fractured earth. The impact nearly shattered the forming glyph-ring, yet the Curator held it together, forcing the growing structure of light to stabilize even as she continued to parry his relentless assault.
Her movements were no longer perfect.
One strike came a fraction too late.
Another deflection lacked its usual strength.
Binyamin pressed harder, sensing the opening, his blade carving brilliant arcs of crimson energy that forced the Curator to retreat again and again while the expanding lattice of glyphs continued forming behind her like a rising constellation.
Then—
Aylen’s eyes widened.
She wasn’t watching the weapons anymore.
She was watching the sky behind the Curator.
The glowing network of glyphs spreading there.
Her voice broke through the battlefield in sudden fear.
“Binyamin—wait! She’s—!”
