"Let's see how long you last," Tsaral said.
He lunged.
This time, it was different.
Faster. Stronger. Each strike carried the weight of the spirit behind it. Teleu's blade met Tsaral's, but the force drove him back, his boots tearing through the garden soil. He deflected another strike, but the third one—fast, impossibly fast—slipped through.
Slash!!
Pain.
Sharp, cold, burning.
Teleu's side tore open, blood spraying across the white garden stones. He stumbled back against the fountain, one hand pressed to the wound, his breath hissing through his teeth.
Tsaral stood as an Elite Warrior—a full tier higher than Teleu in the spiritual hierarchy. Without the enhanced perception and analytical capabilities granted by his Scholar mind, Teleu would have found himself hopelessly outmatched, struggling to track Tsaral's movements and failing to keep pace with the sheer velocity of his attacks.
Now that Tsaral had further refined both the quality and quantity of his spiritual energy, amplifying his already formidable capabilities, Teleu discovered that even with his Scholar-enhanced awareness, maintaining any semblance of parity had become exponentially more difficult.
Tsaral raised a hand, his fingers curling like claws, and the wraiths surged forward.
Dozens of them—translucent, skeletal figures with hollow eyes and mouths stretched in eternal screams—launched themselves at Teleu like starving wolves. They moved with unnatural speed, their spectral forms flickering in and out of reality.
Teleu raised his daggers, slashing through the first wave. His blades cut through their ethereal bodies, dispersing them momentarily—but they reformed, screeching louder, angrier.
Then one got through.
It lunged, claws outstretched, and pierced into the wound on Teleu's side—the same gash Tsaral's blade had opened earlier.
SPLURCH.
Teleu's body seized. His mouth opened in a silent scream as the wraith didn't just touch the wound—it entered it. Black smoke poured into the torn flesh, burrowing deeper, spreading like poison through his veins. The wound began to fester, the edges turning black, oozing a thick, dark substance that wasn't blood.
More wraiths followed.
One after another, they dove into the wound, their spectral forms compressing, squeezing through the opening like parasites infesting a corpse. Teleu's body convulsed violently. His veins turned black beneath his skin, dark lines spreading from the wound like cracks in glass.
And then the emotions hit.
Hate.
Raw, burning, all-consuming hatred flooded his mind. Not his own—theirs. The wraiths' residual fury, their centuries of rage and bitterness, crashed into his consciousness like a tidal wave. He wanted to destroy, to tear, to kill.
Rage.
His vision turned red. His muscles tensed, trembling with barely contained violence. His breathing became ragged, harsh, his chest heaving. Every nerve in his body screamed for blood.
Lust.
Not desire—hunger. A gnawing, insatiable need to consume, to devour, to take everything and leave nothing. His mind fractured under the weight of it, thoughts scattering like broken glass.
Teleu staggered, his daggers slipping from his fingers and clattering to the ground. His hands clutched his head, nails digging into his scalp. His Scholar's mind—his greatest weapon—fractured. The patterns he could see, the calculations, the precise predictions—gone. Replaced by chaos. By noise. By madness.
But even through the haze, some primal instinct remained.
Survive.
He darted forward, a roar tearing from his throat.
His fist swung wildly at Tsaral's face—but it was off, his depth perception shattered. The punch sailed past Tsaral's head, missing by a full hand's width.
Tsaral sidestepped easily, his expression calm, clinical.
Teleu spun, kicking at Tsaral's ribs—but his balance was gone. His foot swung too high, too wide, connecting only with empty air. He stumbled, nearly falling, his body moving like a drunkard's.
Every punch, every kick—out of range. Out of control.
His Scholar abilities were shattered. The precise pattern recognition, the calculated movements—all of it drowned beneath the wraiths' negative presence. Only fragments remained. Instinct. Reflex. Survival.
Tsaral moved in.
BAP!
His fist connected with Teleu's jaw, heavy and oppressive, carrying with it the weight of the vengeful spirit's energy. Teleu's head snapped to the side, blood spraying from his mouth.
BAP!
Another punch—this time to Teleu's ribs. The impact was devastating, the spiritual energy behind it crushing, suffocating. Teleu's breath whooshed out of him in a pained gasp. He felt ribs crack.
BAP!
Tsaral's knee drove into Teleu's stomach. Teleu doubled over, retching, blood and bile spilling from his lips.
Tsaral didn't stop.
He moved with ruthless efficiency, each strike calculated, brutal. A punch to the side of Teleu's head. An elbow to his spine. A kick to his knee that sent him crashing to the ground.
But even as Teleu fell, some part of him—some fragment of his Scholar's training—screamed at him.
Move.
Tsaral's hidden blade flashed in the moonlight, aiming for Teleu's throat.
Teleu rolled.
The blade missed his neck by inches, instead slashing across his shoulder. Blood sprayed, hot and thick, soaking his tunic. The pain was immediate, searing, but Teleu forced himself to move.
Tsaral's foot came down where Teleu's head had been a second before, cracking the stone path.
Teleu scrambled backward, his movements clumsy, desperate. His Scholar's mind was gone—but the minor abilities, the reflexes, the instinctive awareness of spatial positioning—those remained. Just barely.
Tsaral advanced, his blades spinning in his hands. He slashed downward. Teleu twisted, the blade grazing his side instead of gutting him. Another slash—Teleu ducked, the blade whistling over his head.
But he couldn't escape them all.
SLASH.
A blade cut across Teleu's thigh, carving deep. Blood spurted, and Teleu collapsed to one knee, gasping.
SLASH.
Another cut—across his forearm. The wound opened wide, blood pouring down his arm in thick rivulets, dripping onto the garden stones in heavy plops.
Tsaral circled him like a predator, his expression cold, detached. "You lasted longer than I expected," he said quietly. "But it's over."
He raised his blade for the killing blow.
Teleu's head hung low, blood dripping from his mouth, his body trembling. His vision blurred. His mind was chaos—hate, rage, lust, pain.
But somewhere, deep beneath the wraiths' influence, a thought surfaced.
Quiet. Calm.
Of course. It's only by reaching into the darkness that one survives.