Chapter Eighteen

  The gray-haired woman smirked, taking a slow sip of her coffee. The steam curled lazily above the dark liquid as she regarded him with calculating eyes.

  "Where are the people you took from the van?"

  Her shoulders lifted in a languid shrug, the leather of her jacket creaking softly with the movement. "I think I'll keep that to myself."

  Ambrose's expression darkened, his single visible eye narrowing dangerously. The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. "That's not a good idea."

  Her lips curled into a feral smile, her eyes gleaming with challenge. She set her coffee cup down with deliberate slowness, her fingernails tapping once against the ceramic. "What are you going to do about it?"

  Ambrose had tried to talk. He had tried to take a different path. But every moment he wasted here allowed the captives to get further away or gave his enemies more time to prepare. Preparation wouldn't save them, there was too much disparity between their power and his. Yet, his patience was wearing thin.

  The challenge in the woman's eyes told him everything he needed to know: she wanted a fight.

  Some people were like that. They thrived on the foreplay of battle, pushing their opponent until violence became inevitable. He'd encountered the type before, individuals who couldn't resist testing themselves against a clearly superior opponent, driven by pride or madness or some twisted combination of both.

  Ambrose didn't indulge her. He flung Akaroth at her, the axe sparking with blue-gray lightning, its deadly power superheating the air around it. The weapon hurtled toward her with impossible speed but was promptly stopped by a wall of shadow that flickered into existence mere inches from her face.

  "I guess we're getting this party started," she purred, rising to her feet in one fluid motion.

  The shadowy barrier morphed, stretching into claws of utter blackness that lashed toward him like striking snakes. Ambrose opened a portal, channeling [Hellfire Manipulation], and the claws slashed through it, bursting into harmless tendrils of smoke and flame as they connected with the infernal energy.

  The woman vanished in a swirl of shadows, reappearing a moment later with a silvery laugh as she hurled the pot of coffee toward him, the dark liquid arcing through the air.

  "Oh, poo," she pouted when the burning liquid splashed against his shield, streaming harmlessly to the floor in rivulets of steaming brown. She placed her hands on her hips, mock annoyance on her face. "That was going to be really funny, spoilsport."

  She's mad, Ambrose thought, recalling Akaroth with a flick of his hand. The dragon axe slapped into his palm with a satisfying weight, and he surged forward, the weapon arcing downward in a flash of lightning that illuminated the room in stark white brilliance.

  The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  The woman moved smoothly, weaving out of the way with practiced ease, her body bending at impossible angles. Her Icon clashed with his, her spiritual strength refusing to yield as the pressure between them built in the confined space.

  "I must thank you," she said with a grin, sidestepping another strike that left a deep gouge in the floor where she had stood. "I haven't had this much fun in a long time."

  Ambrose didn't reply. Each swing of his axe was deliberate, not just aiming to strike her but guiding her toward a spinning portal he had conjured behind her. Its edges blazed like a saw of infernal fire, ready to slice through flesh and bone.

  But she was no fool. Shadows wrapped around her again, and she disappeared, reappearing across the room as dark blades lanced toward him like spears, their edges ragged and hungry.

  The weapons struck his shield, shattering against the combined power of his Icon and spiritual skill, dissolving into wisps of darkness that faded into nothing.

  "That skill is very annoying," she murmured, her gray eyes studying him with an almost academic curiosity, head tilted slightly to one side. "How did you get to be so strong in spirit and Icon?"

  Ambrose ignored her, his mind running through his options. A pattern was becoming clear to him.

  When two System users of relatively equal power clashed, battles often reached a frustrating stalemate. Their spirits counterbalanced each other, their skills and Icons too evenly matched to deal decisive blows. This was the fundamental principle behind duels in the new world—find an advantage or face a prolonged, exhausting battle.

  This woman's shadow skill gave her unparalleled mobility, allowing her to evade his attacks with ease. Meanwhile, her own strikes couldn't pierce his defenses. She was clearly enjoying the dance, but Ambrose had no interest in prolonging it.

  It was an impasse, a meaningless exchange of blows.

  But Ambrose had something she didn't: a word of power.

  He hesitated. The word was a devastating ability, but using it drained him severely, leaving him vulnerable. Still, he didn't have time for a prolonged battle. Every moment wasted here was a moment lost in his pursuit of the Red Hand's captives.

  Drawing on his Icon and spiritual skill for support, Ambrose spoke the word into reality.

  The air shivered, and the room seemed to warp around the sheer weight of his command. He targeted the woman entirely, his mana draining at an alarming rate, rushing out of him like water through a broken dam.

  "Break."

  The word sank into her, targeting every fiber of her existence. Reality itself bent around her form, straining against the fundamental rules of the System.

  There was no scream, no dramatic finale. Just a faint pop as she vanished, her place in reality erased as if she had never existed at all.

  Ambrose sagged, exhaustion slamming into him like a tidal wave. His body hit the ground hard, his mind throbbing as though it had been battered by a hammer. His vision blurred, colors smearing together in a nauseating swirl. For the first time in years, his iron control over his skills faltered.

  Vaguely, he registered the sound of footsteps and muffled voices entering the room.

  "Got you, you son of a bitch," someone snarled, the words barely penetrating the fog in his mind.

  A sharp muzzle flash caught the edge of his vision, followed by the searing pain of something piercing his hand. He tried to summon his Icon, to shield himself, but whatever ammunition they used sliced through his defenses like water through cracks.

  Ambrose's body refused to respond. His limbs were leaden, his attempts to move futile. Pain radiated through him, hot and unrelenting.

  Rough hands gripped his arms, wrenching them behind him with unnecessary force.

  There was a soft click, and all of his abilities vanished. The oppressive weight of silence settled over his mind, his connection to the System severed. It was like suddenly going blind after a lifetime of sight.

  "Fucking got you!" the voice crowed triumphantly.

  "He's exhausted," another voice said, calmer but tinged with awe. "Did you feel that? That was a word of power, Corey."

  "Yeah, and good thing, too," Corey replied. "Made it easier to bag him. We came in at the perfect time."

  "Maybe. But that power…" The voice trailed off. "He's on another level."

  "Eh. It wasn't high enough," Corey retorted.

  "You're kidding, right? If it wasn't for the word of power, I think he might've even resisted the paralysis."

  "Knock him out," the other voice ordered. "I don't want any surprises."

  Ambrose strained, pouring every ounce of willpower into moving. His right hand twitched, a small victory, but a testament to his unrelenting resolve.

  "As you wish."

  A boot slammed into his face, a burst of scarlet light filling his vision.

  Why? Ambrose wondered, confusion swirling in his mind. He had used the word of power before, against Fenrir, even, and had never felt this drained.

  The thought slipped away as darkness overcame him.