Dread Mage

Without further hesitation, Inure launched himself at Vell, his sword cutting through the air with practiced precision. Yet, as his blade clashed with his foe's, it merely skidded off without causing any damage, the collision sending a jolt through Inure's arm.

Despite the setback, Inure kept up his onslaught, raining down strike after strike on the Dread Mage. But regardless of his efforts, Vell's defenses were unyielding, effortlessly repelling every attack.

Blow after blow landed, yet none seemed to penetrate. Inure noticed that the Dread Mage would occasionally shift his hands, and then a soft light enveloped him after the mage did.

He was wounded, but the pain was nothing more than a mere prick of a pin.

The injuries he couldn’t discern healed instantly.

Inure's expression shifted from one of anger to one of bewilderment, his attacks growing less focused.

"Why won't you fight me properly?" Inure demanded, his voice laced with frustration.

Vell repelled the warrior with a forceful push to his chest, one that Inure couldn’t intercept or guard against.

“I am, don't you see?” Vell retorted.

“No, I do not. I see nothing, I hear nothing, and I have yet to feel the strike of a blade.”

It appeared that only then did Vell realize the true nature of his opponent.

“Oh, my apologies. It’s been such a long time since I've had a real fight. I've forgotten how sluggish and slow things are.”

“Sluggish?” Inure felt slighted.

“I don't mean to offend. It's merely a statement of fact. I'll demonstrate what I mean.”

Vell brandished his blade and struck at Inure, who parried it with his own weapon.

In that exact moment, Vell invoked a spell. “Tar,” on himself to decelerate his movements, and “Eie,” on Inure to accelerate his, so he could perceive what was happening.

The instant their blades made contact, Inure noticed six additional strikes had passed through his body, slicing cleanly across. In the moments following their clash, the Dread Mage had hit him six more times without him even being aware.

Despite the mage’s enchantments, he was still unable to fully grasp how or when it had occurred.

Almost immediately after the blades moved, the wounds healed, preventing him from falling into pieces.

Inure reeled back, his breath coming in short gasps as the reality engulfed him like a frosty tide. Each of the strikes he had suffered, though invisible and unfelt at the time, had carved through his mind, just like his body, with precision. The fact that he still stood felt like a cruel joke, seemingly mocking his skill and determination to fight against the mage.

His only reaction was to let his sword fall from his grasp.