They didn't come one at a time anymore.
The moment Ithriel vanished, the battlefield reacted like blood in water.
Three platforms shifted closer, grinding against each other as ancient mechanisms reawakened. Runes flared—old, ugly ones, carved by hands that never expected mercy.
Nihra whispered, The courteous ones have left. The rest will not announce themselves.
Lyra moved instinctively, placing herself between Echo and the widening gaps. "We're about to get rushed."
Kieran nodded, chest tight. "Good."
She glanced at him sharply. "Good?"
"They were measuring us before," he said. "Now they're afraid."
The first attack came from below.
A chain shot up through the stone, wrapping around Lyra's ankle and yanking hard. She barely managed to slam her blade into the chain before it pulled her off the platform.
Kieran reacted instantly—Voidblade severing the chain as Lyra crashed back onto solid ground, breath knocked out of her.
A figure hauled itself up from the abyss.
A woman this time—tall, lean, her skin etched with necromantic script. A crown of bone hovered above her head, rotating slowly.
She smiled with too many teeth.
"Mireya of the Last Choir," she sang softly. "I collect heroes."
Lyra spat blood. "Get in line."
Mireya laughed, chains rattling as skeletal hands clawed up behind her—spirits stitched into weapons, screaming in unison.
Echo whimpered. "There's so many."
"Then we stop trying to be neat," Kieran said.
He stepped forward and threw the Voidblade.
Nihra shrieked—not in protest, but delight.
The blade pierced the ground between Mireya and her rising choir, detonating a shockwave of annihilation that erased half the platform. Spirits screamed as they unraveled, their bindings cut mid-chant.
Mireya recoiled, fury flashing across her face. "You'd abandon your weapon?"
Kieran cracked his knuckles.
"I don't need it to be dangerous."
He lunged.
The second rival struck from above.
The mirror-armored woman descended like a shard of falling sky, her body fracturing into a dozen reflections mid-air. Each copy struck from a different angle.
Lyra cursed. "I can't track her!"
"Don't," Kieran barked. "Break the pattern."
Echo swallowed hard, eyes darting.
She remembered Ithriel.
Don't pick.
She closed her eyes again.
The reflections flickered—some hesitated, others overlapped, collisions of possibility causing feedback.
Lyra saw the opening and took it—slamming her weapon into the true body as it phased back into singular form.
The woman crashed to the ground, armor splintering.
She laughed, breathless. "Clever little ghost."
She didn't rise again.
Not dead.
Just done.
Mireya recovered fast.
She slammed her staff into the ground, chanting—voices layering, harmonizing, rising to a shriek.
The battlefield answered.
From distant platforms, the dead stirred—fallen rivals, broken champions, echoes of gods.
Lyra's face went pale. "She's turning the whole place against us."
Nihra hissed, This one sings with debt. Dangerous.
Kieran sprinted toward the embedded Voidblade, dodging spectral hands clawing at his legs.
He ripped the blade free—
—and instead of swinging it, plunged it into himself.
Echo screamed. "Kieran!"
Void energy surged violently, flooding his veins, burning like liquid night.
Nihra roared. You mad bastard—
"I know," Kieran gasped. "Trust me."
He turned, eyes blazing with raw void.
Every spirit Mireya had bound felt him.
Not as prey.
As release.
The Voidblade drank.
Chains snapped.
Choirs dissolved into grateful silence.
Mireya shrieked, dropping to her knees as her authority collapsed.
"You—ruined—the song," she hissed.
Kieran staggered forward, blade resting at her throat.
"Find a better one," he said—and struck.
She didn't scream.
She exhaled.
And was gone.
The battlefield stilled.
For half a heartbeat.
Then something worse happened.
Applause.
Slow. Deliberate.
From the farthest platform, a figure stepped forward—tall, draped in layered cloaks, face hidden behind a cracked mask.
"You're adapting faster than expected," the figure said calmly. "That's unfortunate."
Nihra went silent.
Lyra felt cold.
Echo's breath hitched. "That one's… different."
Kieran lifted the Voidblade, exhausted but ready.
"Name yourself."
The figure tilted its head.
"I am Virex," it said. "The one who survives the winner."
Kieran frowned. "You wait until the end?"
"Of course," Virex replied. "Why fight when others can weaken you?"
It spread its hands.
"And now… I'm very interested."
The First God leaned closer.
Because this rival wasn't ancient muscle or stolen divinity.
This one was patient.
Lyra whispered, "We're running out of time."
Kieran nodded.
"Then we stop playing their game."
He turned to Echo.
"When I move, don't think. Don't choose. Just be."
Echo nodded shakily.
Virex watched, amused. "Planning?"
Kieran smiled—slow, feral.
"No," he said.
"Ending."
The Voidblade hummed, deeper than before.
Because rivals didn't fight fair.
And Kieran Vale was done pretending he would