The dungeon stretched infinitely in every direction, massive pillars looming like silent titans. Dust and faint echoes swirled as Kazane and Elric stood facing their opponent.

  Samael, with his title of The Sword Saint likely proclaimed once by his people long ago.

  Even from a distance, his presence radiated power, a cold, cutting aura that made the very air vibrate. Around him, dozens of floating swords shimmered with white-gold light, each hovering like a predatory hawk ready to strike.

  Kazane tightened his grip on his katana. Elric adjusted his stance, sword resting against his shoulder. Both of them were wary, their senses screaming caution as there was no opening for carelessness.

  The battle began immediately with Samael moving with supernatural grace, his swords slicing through the air with precision that made them almost invisible. In a blink, he struck at Kazane and Elric with a barrage of attacks, each swing so fast it left trails of light.

  The two fighters tried to intercept, but it quickly became evident that this was one-sided.

  Samael’s blades danced, weaving intricate patterns of slashes that forced Kazane and Elric to dodge, parry, and counter constantly. Every strike carried the weight of decades of mastery, the culmination of true skill refined over millennia.

  Kazane was grazed along his shoulder, armor scorched, his katana leaving sparks as it deflected a fatal slash. Elric’s sword tremble and barely held against a spinning strike, the ground beneath him cracking from the force. Dust and debris filled the air around them.

  Through gritted teeth, Kazane said to Elric, “This one is really strong! We need to risk everything we have… or the one returning will not be us!”

  Elric nodded, exhaustion evident, but his determination still burning.

  Without another word, Kazane shifted his stance. The entire dungeon fell silent in an instant.

  No wind. No vibration. No whisper of sound.

  Samael froze, eyes narrowing in confusion. A silence spell? Impossible… But there was no incantation, no magic pattern. The stillness emanated from Kazane himself.

  The surrounding mana began to flow into him, spiraling like a dark river, pooling around his body. A layer of black energy slowly enveloped him, coating his katana and arms in a living shadow. It was as if darkness itself had become flesh, merging with his very being.

  Samael’s eyes widened and thought. This is troublesome… i don't know what he is doing but i got a gut is telling me not to let him completes that form…

  He surged forward, intent on cutting Kazane down with a single attack before the transformation finished—but this time, Elric stepped in.

  The sword swung like a living extension of his arm, intercepting Samael’s blade. The force sent both combatants skidding back, dust and stone cracking beneath their feet. Samael staggered slightly.

  What…? He blinked. This mortal… since when did his strength become matchable to mine?…

  Elric met Samael’s gaze, breathing hard.

  “Hmph,” he said, voice steady despite the exertion. “You are strong indeed, and we alone are no match against you. But if we risk all we got together, we can take you down.”

  Samael’s brow furrowed.

  Elric continued, “You angels… are so prideful, just like vampires. And we had experience dealing with the prideful, even if there are gaps in our strength.”

  He took a deep breath, drawing from the reservoir mana deep within his core from years of meditation. His mana, stored and refined over decades, flowed outward like molten gold, suffusing every fiber of his being. The pressure radiated from him, palpable even to Samael. This was the secret technique passed down to every pure blood of the Callus family from their founder himself.

  “Since you wish to see how far humans have progressed,” Elric said, voice rising, “then let us show you!”

  Samael’s eyes narrowed as he sensed the shift. The golden glow from Elric’s aura now rivaled his own. The floating swords around him multiplied, spinning faster, sharper, each a lethal extension of his mastery.

  Elric did not falter. Instead, he advanced. Sword and Body moving as one, deflecting and overpowering the Angel’s attacks. Every strike carried the weight of Callus bloodline techniques—an art centuries in the making, perfected by the passing generation of his family.

  The air shimmered with impact as Elric’s swings shattered the alignment of Samael’s swords. Despite the angel’s barrier, some blades were obliterated outright, leaving him exposed.

  Kazane watched, black energy swirling, heart steady but tense. Patiently and calmly waiting for the opportunity to appear.

  Elric shouted over the clash, “Do it now!”

  His sword struck with unrelenting force, obliterating the remaining swords and leaving Samael momentarily defenseless.

  Kazane moved. The Dismantling Draw, a forbidden technique that bent the very law of space, activated. In a single, fluid motion, his katana sliced across Samael’s left shoulder. The strike bypassed his barrier entirely, leaving a shallow, bleeding wound.

  Samael staggered as he look at his bleeding wound dripping. Injured by a mortal… impossible!

  Rage flared. He summoned hundred more swords to merge and form into a single, massive sword and hurled it at Elric.

  Elric met it head-on, sheathing his sword momentarily to grab the tip with both hands. The force threatened to tear him apart; the floor cracked beneath his feet. Blood began to leak from his strained muscles and ruptured vessels.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  “Tchh! Dammit!” Elric gritted his teeth. Yet he held. As the giant sword halted on it trajectory by Elric bare strength. It dissipated, returning to Samael’s side. Elric fell to one knee, panting, blood dripping through the gaps in his armor.

  He looked at Kazane. “I’m tapped out. It up to you now.”

  Kazane remained in the state of a serene mind. Silent. Calm. Lethal.

  Samael laughed, thinking the fight won. “Hahaha! That is all you can muster? humans… weaklings! All you had was a lucky hit—and you think you can defeat me!”

  He summoned three more giant swords, pointing them at Kazane and Elric. “End of the line, humans!”

  Time itself seemed to pause.

  Kazane vanished from Samael’s sight and reappeared behind him, still in the same posture, the black energy dissipating slowly.

  “Since breaking it didn’t work fully,” he said calmly, “might as cut through everything in between.”

  Samael’s eyes widened in incomprehension.

  Before he could react, the three giant swords crumbled midair. Multiple slashes erupted across his body at impossible angles, bypassing space itself. Blood sprayed, wounds forming in perfect coordination with Kazane’s strikes.

  “What…? How…?” Samael coughed, staggering.

  “I cut you,” Kazane said simply.

  “Cut? I didn’t see you move!” Samael spoked as he struggles on the floor.

  “Because you couldn’t,” Kazane replied. “I cut through the space between us. No physical object nor magical in this world can resist that. I targeted your mana source along with your body. But with your special physiology… I could not dismantle you completely.”

  Samael’s golden eyes went wide, his breath ragged.

  “To think… I… would be cut down by a human… haha…the Sword Saint… what a joke”

  The life drained from him. His sword saint title, ancient and revered, had fallen.

  Elric collapsed beside Kazane, catching his breath. “He was a tough one … had to give everything just to stop one serious attack. Imagine if he went all out from the start.”

  Kazane exhaled slowly, sheathing his katana. “He truly deserved the title, but he had lost purpose. Complacency had set in… he became tired of strength, and in that… pitifully predictable.”

  He allowed a faint smirk. “Had I failed to strike the fatal point, we would have being the one laying on the floor. The Dismantling Draw… can only be used twice. The toll is immense limited by the physical body as a human.”

  Elric nodded, bloodied but resolute. “Now… it’s up to the others to deal with their side.”

  The dungeon fell silent again, the echoes of battle slowly fading. But beyond the pillars, footsteps approached—the war outside would continue.

  Far beyond the chamber where Samael had fallen, another vast expanse lay hidden beneath the Holy City.

  Anathiel, the Winter King, stood alone before the path leading out of the underground chamber. The air around him was unnaturally still, frost drifting lazily despite the absence of wind. The pillars surrounding him were coated in thick layers of ice, veins of frozen mana crawling across stone like living arteries.

  Theoren and Mereth emerged from the opposite side, their presence instantly acknowledged.

  Anathiel paused.

  He felt it.

  The tremor that had rippled faintly through the dungeon moments ago—and then, the abrupt silence that followed.

  The Winter King slowly lifted his gaze. His eyes closed.

  For a brief moment, the cold receded.

  “…So,” he murmured quietly, almost reverently. “You have fallen already.”

  The name was not spoken, yet it did not need to be.

  Anathiel inclined his head slightly, as if in respect.

  “Rest now, brother,” he said. “I will come to you soon.”

  His presence shifted.

  The air temperature plummeted further, ice forming instantly where breath once lingered. The playful edge he had carried earlier vanished completely, replaced by something far heavier—far more dangerous.

  His eyes opened again.

  And they were fixed on Theoren and Mereth.

  “Once I have dealt with them.”

  He took a single step forward.

  That was all it took.

  The chamber groaned as frost surged violently outward, the floor whitening in seconds, ice crawling up the pillars like a spreading disease. The cold was no longer environmental—it was intentional.

  Mereth sucked in a sharp breath.

  “It’s freezing in here,” she muttered, tightening her grip on her greatsword. “Theo… I don’t think I’ll be much help. Ice is your specialty afterall.”

  Theoren stepped forward instinctively, placing himself between her and the advancing Archangel. His broad frame became a shield without conscious thought.

  “It’s fine,” he said calmly. “Just guard my rear.”

  Mereth looked up at him, surprised.

  “I’ll handle this.” he said.

  For a moment, she wanted to argue. To tell him this was madness. To tell him not to shoulder it alone.

  But she knew him too well.

  When Theoren said he would walk out alive, it was never bravado—it was resolve. A warrior’s resolve carved from experience and conviction.

  She exhaled slowly.

  “…Leave your back to me,” she said. “I’ll make sure it remains untouched.”

  Theoren nodded once.

  They moved forward together.

  When they stopped, only a few paces separated them from Anathiel.

  Up close, the Winter King’s presence was overwhelming. The cold around him was absolute, refined to perfection, as if winter itself bowed willingly to his will.

  Anathiel spoke first.

  “A true warrior does not hide behind another,” he said, his voice smooth and resonant. “I like you already, human.”

  Theoren met his gaze evenly.

  “I do not hide behind her,” he replied. “Nor does she hide behind me.”

  He shifted his hammer slightly, the head scraping against ice.

  “She is not only a warrior,” Theoren continued. “She is a huntress. If I were you, I’d be mindful of her fangs as well.”

  Anathiel regarded him for a moment.

  Then, surprisingly, he nodded.

  “I shall heed your advice.”

  Before Mereth could react—

  CRACK.

  Ice erupted behind Theoren.

  Walls surged upward in every direction around Mereth, encasing her in an instant. The frost thickened rapidly, layers upon layers reinforced by dense mana, forming an ice prison that sealed her completely from the battlefield.

  “Mereth!!” Theoren shouted, spinning around.

  Inside the frozen enclosure, Mereth slammed her greatsword against the wall, sparks flying—but the ice barely cracked. It was no ordinary frost. It was layered, compressed, alive with Anathiel’s power.

  Anathiel raised a hand slightly.

  “Do not worry,” he said calmly. “I do not intend to harm her—for now.”

  Theoren’s grip tightened around his hammer.

  “Since I require your full attention,” Anathiel continued. “So here is my proposal.”

  The ice around Mereth stabilized, becoming still.

  “Let us have a contest of ice,” Anathiel said. “A clash of mastery to determine the victor.”

  Theoren turned slowly back toward him, eyes blazing.

  “If you win,” Anathiel went on, “you may leave this chamber alive together with her.”

  “But if you lose,” Anathiel with a smirk, “you may also leave this chamber alive. But she will remain.”

  Theoren growled low in his throat.

  “And what are you planning to do with her?”

  Anathiel smiled faintly.

  “Nothing crude. Nothing violent. She will be preserved… until the end of the day.”

  Silence followed.

  Then—

  “As if I’d allow that.”

  Anathiel’s smile widened.

  “Then we have a deal.”

  The chamber exploded with power.

  A violent burst of freezing wind erupted from Anathiel’s body, a roaring tide of cold that slammed into Theoren head-on. The force drove him backward, boots skidding across ice as the pressure tried to crush him into the floor.

  Theoren dug in.

  Muscles bulged. Veins stood out. Frost crawled across his armor.

  Step by step, he pushed forward.

  His own cold aura surged outward—not wild, not dominant, but solid and enduring. Two opposing winters collided, grinding against one another in a brutal stalemate.

  Anathiel’s eyes gleamed.

  “Impressive,” he admitted. “As a mortal, you are doing exceedingly well. Too well.”

  He tilted his head.

  “Is this your will?” Anathiel asked. “Or your capability, I wonder?”

  Theoren did not answer.

  He couldn’t afford to.

  Every ounce of his strength was being poured into resisting the Winter King’s authority. His breath came heavy, his limbs numbed, yet he refused to yield an inch.

  Because behind him—

  Mereth was still trapped.

  And that alone was reason enough to stand.

  The true clash of winter had begun.