Chapter 34: The Duelist's Dance
Zandagar's foot scraped along the cracked stone floor, the sound harsh and deliberate, dragging a thin line in his wake. His hands hovered at his sides—fingers slightly curled, trembling not from fear, but from a strange, unfamiliar tension that clung to him like static. His dull orange eyes narrowed, focused on the figure ahead.
"She doesn't even breathe hard…" His jaw tensed. "How long has it been since I felt cornered?"
Then Seraphina moved.
She didn't lunge. She shifted. Her sword lifted slowly, deliberately—tip gliding through the air like a calligrapher's brush. Her left foot slid forward with quiet precision, boot anchoring. Her right knee dipped into a subtle bend. Her shoulders angled, her head tilted—not centered, but slightly off, leaving a narrow profile.
A duelist's stance. No wasted energy. A killer's patience.
Then—
She vanished.
To the untrained eye, she disappeared. But Zandagar saw. Just barely. The blur of motion. The flick of silver steel. The faintest tremor in the air.
He reacted—not with a slash, but a sharp, predatory hook of his claw, curving to catch her neck. His motion was raw and heavy, a weapon forged from instinct. But—
She dipped.
Just low enough. Her upper body snapped down beneath the sweeping claw. The air cracked above her as her braid sliced free—severed clean by pressure alone.
She twisted.
Her torso rotated, left shoulder rolling back as her hips turned. Her blade curved upward—a low, rising crescent, from his exposed hip to the bottom of his ribs.
Clang!
Steel screamed against flesh that refused to yield. The impact jarred her wrist. Zandagar didn't flinch.
He tried to lock eyes with her—
But she was gone.
A blur again.
He turned—too late.
Clang!
Another strike came from the other side. A mirrored arc. Precision. Brutal speed.
"Why can't I track her down? What kind of speed does she have?" He froze, grounded himself, eyes scanning. Calculating.
Clang!
Pain—no, impact—rang from his knee.
She was behind him now.
And when he turned, she was already in position.
Her stance was low and calculated: one leg outstretched in a straight line behind her, the boot angled, sole scraping lightly against the floor for balance. Her other knee bent forward, thigh parallel with the ground, thigh-guard facing down. Her back was straight but tilted slightly forward. Her arms extended, both hands on her hilt. Her hair fluttered still, caught in the wake of her movement.
Zandagar kicked— But his motion staggered him. Too wide. Too forceful.
She used it.
She stepped in and struck harder.
Crack!
A line split along the edge of his steel body. Not deep. But real. Black blood spilled, thick and sluggish.
Then—
Clang!
Another strike—more forceful, her entire body behind it. Her grip tightened. Her blade came down, almost like a hammer forged from grace.
Zandagar fell to one knee.
A first.
He snarled—but before he could rise, her blade sang again.
A silver blur. A curved flash across his vision.
Then stillness.
She stood now, directly opposite. Her posture was perfect. Both feet together, boots aligned, back tall. Her left hand hung loosely at her side. Her right still held the sword—but not aggressively. Calmly. Like it was simply part of her body.
Her voice was cool, unwavering. "This is dull. Stop holding back, and face me properly. You haven't touched your magic yet."
Zandagar's lips curled.
Then—
Boom!
He surged upright with a violent push of his knee. The stone cracked under his foot. Dust exploded outward. But Seraphina stood still, untouched. Not a hair moved out of place. Her long silver strands cascaded down her shoulder, flowing gently into stillness.
Zandagar tilted his head, a smirk ghosting his face.
"You catch on quick, human." He raised his clawed hand, flexing it with a metallic scrape. "I think you've earned the right to hear my name. I'm Zandagar."
Seraphina's gaze lingered. Assessing. Cold.
"Zandagar, you say?" Her voice held no fear—only curiosity. "But what kind of monster are you?"
"Me?" he said, almost amused. "You humans don't have a word for what I am."
He stepped closer, claws twitching at his sides. "But if you must call me something… the old ones used to say: Demon."
That word echoed.
Seraphina's breath caught—but only briefly. Her expression didn't falter, but her thoughts churned. "Demon? That's… not a name I've heard before… Humans. Elves. Beastkin. Dwarves. Vampires. Spirirts. Dragons. Monsters. Those are the known kinds. Eight races. That's it."
She spoke with doubt. "Demons, you say. But what kind of species is that? There is no such race as demons."
"Or perhaps," she said, voice soft, "you're lying."
Zandagar chuckled—low and sharp. Believe what you like." His claws tightened into a loose fist. "Besides, it's not going to change the outcome. You'll die here."
Seraphina's eyes narrowed, mind racing. "I've read countless records… and never once… no mention of Demons."
And yet—
Here he stood.
Seraphina's gaze didn't waver. Her eyes, pale and sharp as frosted glass, held a stillness that made the wind seem loud. She didn't flinch, didn't blink. Just watched.
Then, quietly, with a voice that carried like silk over steel, she spoke.
"I still can't believe you." Her tone was even, calm—measured like a tactician reviewing a battlefield. "So come at me—with everything you have."
Zandagar's obsidian jaw flexed into a smirk that looked carved from rock. His eyes glimmered with golden fire, glowing deeper with every breath. He raised one arm slowly, as though savoring the weight of it. His fingers opened, spreading wide like blackened claws, and the air around him began to thrum.
"Inferno Burst?" he thought to himself. "No... She's too nimble. Too precise. But this—this should break her."
His wrist tilted downward, subtly, as if it were no more than a twitch. But the intent behind it was pure death.
Seraphina didn't so much as shift her stance. Her arms hung relaxed. Her boots planted in the dirt. Her breathing? Unchanged.
Then she spoke again, softer than before. "Finally..." she whispered, her eyes narrowing. "You're treating me like a real opponent."
Zandagar let out a low, dry chuckle that crackled like burnt parchment. His voice carried an air of ancient arrogance, timeless and cruel.
"Don't flatter yourself, human," he said, voice echoing with disdain. "You're still just prey that thinks it's a predator."
Then—his hand began to glow.
Not red. Not orange. But gold. Liquid, molten gold, radiant and terrible. The light surged through the cracks in his obsidian skin, as if something divine—and violent—was trying to escape.
The space behind him twisted. Warped.
The space trembled.
One by one, golden rings of fire began to form in the air behind him. Each portal swirled with pulsing heat, spinning slowly like burning halos. First five. Then ten. Then twenty. The count didn't stop. They multiplied like cells in a sickness, until over fifty rings floated in the air like a constellation of doom.
From each one, a sphere emerged.
They weren't mere fireballs. No, these were core-burners—each the size of a man's head, wrapped in molten rock that cracked and shifted with unstable pressure. They hissed, groaned, and shimmered with volcanic fury. Their glow wasn't light. It was weight. It bled heat into the world, warping the air. The soil beneath Zandagar's feet blackened. Stones turned to sludge.
Seraphina observed.
Still she didn't move.
"Fire magic…" she murmured, barely above a whisper. "But weaponized as suppression. You're trying to overwhelm my defense with area saturation."
Her voice held no fear. Just analysis. Cold, noble. Like a queen reading a war report.
Zandagar laughed again, louder this time. He threw his arms wide, basking in his own magic like a god before mortals.
"You think you can read this?" he sneered. "You think naming it gives you power over it? Pathetic." His voice thundered with malicious joy. "Witness true destruction! Witness the might of Zandagar, Flame Sovereign of the 9th Pyre!"
He curled a single obsidian finger inward.
The fireballs reacted instantly—locking on.
He flicked.
A single fireball launched.
Then another.
Then a dozen.
Then they all followed—like war-hounds unleashed from a flaming gate.
The space turned red as they descended.
From all angles they came—left, right, above, behind. Spiraling, curving, screaming with pressure and speed. Each sphere left a comet's tail, a streak of superheated air that ignited anything it touched. The battlefield became a vortex of light and fire.
Seraphina stood her ground.
The first orb neared her face.
Then—
Slash!
One clean horizontal motion. Her blade cut the fireball mid-air. It exploded, a shockwave of light and smoke bursting outward.
Before the debris settled—
Slash! Slash! Slash!
Each movement was exact. Her body flowed like a ribbon on wind, feet pivoting with ghostly grace, blade carving a perfect pattern.
Each strike caused another detonation, another flare of fire. But not one touched her.
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(Chapter Ended)