You Already Won

Rankers are powerful.

But power does not mean invincibility.

The title itself carried weight, but not all who bore it lived up to its myth. There were billions of Rankers across the realms—each forged in strife, tested by chaos, and hardened by time. Yet the vast majority of them were better described as ordinary. Dangerous, yes. But not divine. Nor as intimidating as Intermediate Rankers.

High Rankers…

Well, that was a different conversation. And not one relevant to what now stood before them.

Because even if Zavrien was not the highest tier, he was still something daunting—an old Ranker, one who had endured long past the point most fell. A man who had fought not just for glory or realm-wide acclaim, but for love. And that made him dangerous.

Now he stood between them and the gem.

Between four legendary cadets—two Jujisns, one heir of Varics, and a outlander gamer—

And his final vow.

The odds weren't impossible. But they weren't comfortable either.

The battlefield ignited in chaos.

Jonathan's hands snapped together, blood arcing as Ryun surged through his limbs. A pulse echoed from his chest—then the storm began.

Black lightning roared into existence, swirling into a tightly wound tornado that clawed at the stone with greedy static. Cracks spidered through the ground as the vortex pulled everything toward its heart, the red lightning inside it thumping in slow, deadly rhythm like a war drum. One burst. Two. Three. Anything caught within began to fry, compressing into static-laced ruin.

But Zavrien wasn't just anything.

The guardian stepped through the outer winds, cloak whipping, body weaving like he was dancing between blades. The red pulses sparked against a shimmering barrier of refracted Ryun—a Shield Vow, hexagonal patterns glowing across its surface. In his other hand, a silver blade gleamed—not large, but impossibly dense. He twisted his wrist and Ryun gathered along the length, turning it into a blazing streak of momentum.

Then, he moved. Fast.

"Dammit!" Jonathan shouted as his own lightning turned against him, disrupting his aim.

Tinsurnae was already reacting, slamming a fist into the ground.

The floor cracked and ruptured—jagged spires of stone erupted in a violent ring, blocking Zavrien's advance. But the Ranker didn't stop—he vaulted off one pillar mid-sprint, arcing in the air as he spun, slashing down. The momentum tore through a spire and nearly clipped Jonathan's shoulder.

"Okay," Tinsurnae muttered. "Time for plan B."

He raised both arms. Fire licked around his legs, then exploded outward in every direction. Flames roared across the cave floor like a living sea. Walls of fire formed and surged like serpents, boxing Zavrien in, redirecting him, pushing him—until the guardian launched off a stone wall with terrifying grace, his Ryun-enhanced body blurring past the heat.

Tinsurnae barely dodged a clean cut to the side.

"He's strengthening his whole body with Ryun," he called out.

Zavrien's movements were precise, impossibly fluid. He fought like a man who had seen every trick—adapted to every threat.

Jonathan panted, dragging lightning back to his hands. "If we don't step it up, he's gonna write our obituaries." His feet skidded back against cracked stone, lungs wheezing as Ryun danced wild and angry beneath his skin. Blood surged in his ears louder than the battle.

"Alright," he muttered, "time to get stupid."

His aura flared.

The red-black lightning that had once coiled around him now raced into his body—into his veins, his marrow, his soul. Every nerve lit up like molten copper. The cave distorted around him, movement slowing and sharpening all at once. His eyes glowed crimson, pupils almost serpentine.

He charged forward with a cry.

Zavrien met him head-on, sword a blur of silver light—but this time, Jonathan matched him. Their clash was a chorus of cracks and screams, Jonathan's body sparking with internal agony as the overload pushed past safe limits.

But he wasn't done.

He jumped back, gathering the electric storm into one massive orb of churning lightning—black wrapped in bloodred, a volatile sphere that hissed as if alive. With a final heave, he hurled it upward.

The orb burst midair in a soundless flash.

Then the cave rained fire and debris.

Screaming bolts of molten red lightning wrapped in twisted black arcs fell like divine judgment, vaporizing stone and punching holes into Zavrien's defenses. The guardian weathered the storm, but even he stumbled as an arc slammed into his shield with force enough to crater the ground beneath.

"On it!" Tinsurnae shouted.

Slabs of stone rose like jagged petals around him and Sšurtinaui, forming a defensive dome that pulsed with earthy Ryun. The air thickened, magic deadening inside.

Then he slammed a hand into the ground.

The battlefield shuddered. A massive golemic hand erupted beneath Zavrien's feet, stone fingers trying to seize his body. Zavrien leapt, blade spinning midair—but the hand caught his ankle, jerking him downward with seismic force.

Now.

Sšurtinaui's fingers glided across her bowstring.

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"Whisperfang Shot."

Green Ryun shimmered in the air—then vanished. The arrow loosed with no sound, no visible path. It reappeared inside Zavrien's guard, already buried in his side.

The guardian grunted, eyes widening.

He spun free from Titan's Grasp with a burst of Ryun force, armor cracked and cloak singed—but still standing.

Bleeding, yes. Winded, yes.

But undefeated.

And smiling.

"Well done," he said, voice gravel-smooth. "Let's see what else you've got."

Zavrien's blade burned brighter.

His shield expanded—an aura-forged barrier rotating with carved Ryun rings that shimmered like ancient inscriptions. With one swift motion, he twisted his stance, redirecting a burst of Jonathan's lightning with the curved lip of his blade. His sword and shield weren't just weapons—they were extensions of his will.

Tinsurnae snarled.

"Enough of this old man kung-fu."

He slammed his palms into the earth.

The ground exploded in a geyser of lava-tipped spires. Dozens of crimson pillars tore from the stone in a spiraling pattern, surrounding Zavrien like an infernal cage. Then—collapse. The spears shattered inward, melting into a spreading pool of molten rock, the very terrain reshaped into a death zone.

Zavrien leapt back, but Tinsurnae followed through—

Stone dust erupted into a vortex of howling wind and razor-sharp sand, slicing visibility to nothing. The air thickened with choking particles, cutting at skin, burning into lungs.

From above, Jonathan vanished in a flash of blood-red light.

He reappeared mid-air—lightning claws trailing behind him.

He crashed down like a god made of fury and storm. Black lightning burst from his heels like spears as the impact shattered the ground into a jagged demonic symbol, pulsing red. The very sound of his landing caused nearby boulders to roll. Zavrien blocked with a crossed blade and shield—barely—but was knocked back, feet carving trenches in the molten stone.

Caroline zipped forward—Sigil Brawler glyphs activating across her hands and boots.

"Ember Spiral Glyph!"

She launched a spiraling disc of fire that carved through the fog and sand. As it passed through five sigils already laid out from her dashes, it grew—faster, hotter, heavier—until it slammed into Zavrien's shield just as he recovered, forcing him further into the molten terrain.

That was when Sšurtinaui struck.

"Predator's Thornstorm."

The cave turned green.

Dozens of arrows launched upward, suspended in the air for a heartbeat—then dove like fang-tipped comets, targeting Zavrien's blind spots and pressure points with unnatural precision.

Even a ranker staggered under that kind of pressure.

Zavrien's shield moved with inhuman control, redirecting three arrows, absorbing one, sword lashing to cut down another five.

But the others hit.

Armor cracked. One arrow embedded in his thigh. Another in his upper back.

The guardian growled—not in pain, but in thrill.

"Well played," he muttered, blood now dripping onto the scorched stone.

Then his eyes flared, and the battlefield shook once more.

"Now… I show you what it means to endure."

Zavrien exhaled.

The air shifted—not with weight, but intent. His aura stopped pulsing and began to sing. A low, haunting hum that reverberated through their bones.

Then he moved.

Not with force. Not with speed. But with grace.

Each step he took danced against the molten earth like he floated above it. His sword extended—no, multiplied. Phantom blades spiraled into existence, orbiting him like twin galaxies of steel and memory.

"Ballet of New."

One pirouette—and the battlefield broke.

A slash carved horizontally, and the molten stone that had flooded the area disappeared—not shattered, not displaced—erased, as if the lava had never existed. Jonathan dashed left but was caught in the tailwind, flung like a doll against a spire. Tinsurnae raised a stone bulwark, only to watch it blink out of existence with a single flick of Zavrien's wrist.

"Shit!" he spat, barely reforming the ground beneath his feet before another arc sliced upward—cutting his shoulder open and hurling him into Caroline.

She caught him, but her UI blinked red from the contact. "He's not just attacking—he's rewriting the goddamn map!"

Another spin—four phantom slashes danced outward.

Sšurtinaui's Ryun-sharpened legs bent just in time to dodge the first—but the second clipped her ribcage, tearing flesh and sending her flying. She tumbled across the stone with a sharp cry, mask sliding halfway off her face.

Jonathan tried to rise, blood dripping from his mouth. "No—"

Another step. Another flourish. Another section of the battlefield wiped clean.

Zavrien wasn't fighting them.

He was undoing them.

His movement wasn't brutal—it was beautiful, like a god inscribing poetry in blood and silence. Every arc of his blade left behind a brief glimmer of silver-blue flame before the world folded under it.

A final spin.

The phantom blades whirled around him like falling stars.

Then detonated outward in a spiral.

Jonathan shielded his eyes just as a black wave of lightning burst from his pores in instinct. Tinsurnae dropped a last-ditch Terrashield Fold, folding himself into a cocoon of groaning stone. Caroline vanished mid-blink using a coded Dodge Glyph. Sšurtinaui barely managed to roll behind a ledge—but even that crumbled seconds later.

When the spiral stopped, the battlefield was still.

Charred lines etched a perfect radius around Zavrien, whose armor now bore fresh cracks—but whose expression beneath the helmet remained calm.

"I am sorry," he said softly. "But endings require elegance."

The four of them groaned, struggling to their feet. Bleeding. Winded.

But not broken.

Not yet.

Jonathan stood fully last, wiping his mouth. "Okay…" he coughed. "So he's good at ballet. Big deal."

Tinsurnae grunted. "You're bleeding from your eyes."

"Details."

Jonathan's head pulsed like a war drum.

He wiped the blood trailing from his eyes, grimacing. Shit. Shit. Shit. Not now. Can't afford a Jafar movie night right now. His vision flickered—just briefly—red lightning arcing at the edges. But he bit down on the rising buzz, forcing it back. Not yet.

Across the field, Tinsurnae hauled himself to his feet. His legs trembled. His chest heaved. But his determination didn't falter.

The guardian had changed—his movements sharper now, his form tighter. No wasted motion. That last barrage wasn't just a display.

It was a warning.

Jonathan's lip curled. He liked that.

He liked all of this.

Adrenaline thrummed through his veins—no, lightning—charged, wild, and hot. He should've been scared. Should've been thinking tactically. Instead, he felt himself grinning. Was he having fun?

Hell yeah.

Did he care what happened next?

Hell no.

He slapped himself across the face—hard. The sharp crack echoed. Tinsurnae turned at the sound, raising an eyebrow.

Jonathan met his gaze, laughing through gritted teeth. "Focus, idiot."

Tinsurnae snorted. "Takes one to know one."

Meanwhile, Caroline and Sšurtinaui regrouped, Sšurtinaui's arrows already nocked in phantom tension, Caroline muttering quick commands to her UI glyphs.

The guardian stood still. Sword tilted just slightly downward. Not aggressive. Not charging.

But no one missed it.

Not the twitch in his right boot. Not the faint flicker of light coiling tighter around his shield. He was waiting.

Or pretending to wait.

Jonathan smirked.

"Ready?"

Tinsurnae's mouth curled into a savage grin. "Of course."

Then they moved.

A blur of red, green, black.

Jonathan surged forward in a crackling snap of black lightning, Tinsurnae rushing just beside him, his footsteps heavy but sure, dragging flame and stone in his wake. They collided with the guardian like twin storms crashing into a glacier.

Fist met shield. Lightning met steel. Earth met resolve.

The guardian held his ground.

But only just.

Jonathan ducked under a swing, his fist glowing red as he aimed a punch at the chestplate—only for it to be parried mid-motion. The guardian twisted, shield slamming into Tinsurnae's ribs and sending the younger man skidding across molten gravel.

Tinsurnae coughed blood, then stood. "Still hits like a mountain. That's comforting."

Jonathan launched another Wrathcurrent Descent, disappearing into a burst of red flash and reappearing overhead—fist aimed downward. This time, the guardian raised his shield but staggered half a step under the blow.

Contact.

Tinsurnae joined him, swinging from the side with molten spikes erupting from his path. His knuckles glowed as he triggered Stoneburst Knuckle, the eruption clipping the guardian's boot and forcing him off-balance for the first time.

And then—Jonathan saw it.

A fracture. Barely noticeable. In the edge of Zavrien's blade.

Tinsurnae saw it too.

He laughed, breathless. "Sixty-eight failures. Guess they weren't a waste after all."

Jonathan grinned wide.

Zavrien said nothing. But his stance shifted slightly. And for the first time… he looked tired.