Tsaral stepped out from the shadows at the edge of the garden.
His white hair gleamed in the moonlight, almost luminous. His white eyes glowed faintly, unblinking, inhuman. His purplish-dark skin shimmered strangely, as though light passed through him rather than reflecting off him. The jagged scar on the left side of his face seemed to pulse faintly, as though it were a living thing.
And around him, the dark energy coiled like serpents, writhing, wailing, filled with the souls of the damned.
Tsaral walked slowly, deliberately, his movements smooth and controlled. His hands were empty, but Teleu could sense the presence of weapons—spectral blades, conjured from the astral, waiting to be called.
Tsaral's pale eyes fixed on Teleu, studying him with the detachment of a hunter evaluating prey.
"You're stronger than I expected," Tsaral said quietly. "Most would not have sensed me. Most would already be dead."
Teleu's expression remained cold, unreadable. "Why don't you make me die?"
The corner of Tsaral's mouth twitched—a faint, humorless smile.
"Bold words," he said. "But boldness won't save you."
Teleu shifted his stance, his daggers raised, his body coiled like a spring.
"Since you're already here," he said, his voice steady, "let's get this over with."
Tsaral's smile widened slightly.
He was a cautious man. Any other Elite-tier mystic, upon determining that Teleu was of a lower tier, would have rushed in immediately, confident in their superiority.
But not Tsaral.
He had prepared. He had performed the rituals. He had made the pact with the vengeful spirit. He had brought the backing of entities from the Ethereal Drift.
He had done everything right.
And that was where his confidence stemmed from.
If I am perfectly prepared, he thought, then what can stop me?
He moved.
Fast.
Not supernaturally so—but efficiently. His body blurred as he closed the distance across the garden path, drawing two thin blades from his sleeves mid-step. They gleamed faintly in the moonlight, edges coated in something dark and wet.
Teleu's hand snapped to his blade, drawing it in a smooth arc.
CLANG!
Steel met steel with a sharp clang that echoed across the garden, but it could not escape.
Tsaral had used the vengeful spirit's help to isolate the garden, trapping the sound within an invisible barrier.
Tsaral's strikes came in rapid succession—slash, thrust, feint, slash—each one flowing into the next with the fluidity of water, aiming only for vitals.
It was a style Teleu recognized from his constant survival struggle. This guy was a professional assassin: He fought to kill, No wasted motion. No predictable rhythm.
But Teleu's Scholar Route gave him an edge. His mind processed the patterns faster than his eyes could see. He parried, dodged, twisted—each movement calculated, not instinctive.
Block high. Step left. Anticipate the low thrust.
A succession of rapid, technical exchanges erupted between both men, blade meeting blade in a deadly dance across the moonlit garden.
Splurt!
All of a sudden, his blade caught Tsaral's wrist, forcing the assassin back a step. Flower petals scattered in their wake.
Tsaral's eyes narrowed. "You're better than expected."
Teleu said nothing. His breathing was controlled, his stance balanced. But inside, his mind worked furiously.
Elite tier. First Grade, maybe Second. Experienced. Prepared. Backed by entities.
This wasn't a fight he could win through skill alone.
Tsaral straightened, his expression hardening. "Fine. I should not waste time."
Tsaral was a cautious man. One not to underestimate his enemy. He did not want to give Teleu a single chance at winning—or even stalling.
Although Gold Land neglected their spirituality, old masters who had served in the past were surely still there, hidden in the palace shadows.
If something happened to the barrier placed by the vengeful spirit, if the noise escaped and drew attention, then he was done for.
That was why he licked his blade, tasting his own blood.
"manifest your sorrow, embrace your wrath, destroy the path, draw their heart"
He began chanting incantations he had received during his drift in the Ethereal Plane, a method to become a vessel, allowing the vengeful spirit to fill him with its energy.
The moment the words left his lips, the atmosphere began to shift.
He raised one hand, and the temperature in the garden plummeted. Frost began creeping across the grass.
The air grew heavier, oppressive, like a weight pressing down on the garden. The flowers that had already withered now turned to ash, crumbling where they stood.
The wraiths—dozens of them—suddenly screamed.
Not audibly. But spiritually. A wailing that tore through the astral plane, clawing at Teleu's consciousness.
His Spirit Eye flared painfully, and he saw them—dozens of lesser wraiths surging toward Tsaral, merging with his aura, wrapping around his arms like armor.
Teleu's eyes narrowed. His Scholar's mind screamed at him: Don't let him finish.
He lunged.
His daggers flashed in the moonlight as he closed the distance in three rapid steps, aiming for Tsaral's throat.
swooosh!
Tsaral twisted his body smoothly, his chant never breaking, and sidestepped—Teleu's blade missed by inches, slicing only air.
Teleu didn't stop. He pivoted on his heel, slashing low at Tsaral's ribs.
Tsaral leapt back, his feet barely touching the ground, his lips still moving in that guttural, ancient tongue. The wraiths shrieked louder, their forms growing more solid.
Teleu pressed forward, relentless. He feinted left, then drove his dagger toward Tsaral's exposed side.
Tsaral spun, his body flowing like water, evading the strike by a hair's breadth. He backstepped again, chanting faster now, his pale eyes glowing brighter.
Teleu surged forward once more, slashing in a rapid cross-pattern—left, right, upward thrust—each strike aimed to kill. But Tsaral was always a step ahead, weaving between the attacks with the practiced ease of a man who had danced with death a thousand times.
His boots barely scraped the stone path as he retreated, chanting, chanting, chanting.
And then—
BOOM!
The air exploded with dark energy.
Teleu stumbled back, his eyes widening.
Behind Tsaral, the garden itself seemed to tear open.
A massive shape began to materialize—tall, broad-shouldered, armored in spectral iron that dripped with ghostly, blackened blood. Its face was a cracked mask of bone, jagged fractures running across its surface like lightning scars. And its eyes—burning, hateful, ancient—glowed with a fire that had been stoked by centuries of rage and war.
The vengeful warrior spirit.
Dark energy poured into Tsaral's body, flooding him like water into a cracked vessel.
His muscles bulged unnaturally, veins standing out like cords beneath his purplish skin. His aura surged, no longer just a presence but a storm—thick, choking, suffocating. The wraiths around him screamed in unison, their voices merging into a single, terrible wail.
Tsaral's pale eyes snapped open, now glowing with an inhuman light.
He grinned.