You Already Won

Sšurtinaui didn't stop firing.

Green Ryun arrows screamed through the air, each one faster, sharper, more desperate than the last. She danced back and forth along the upper ledges, her bowstring a blur of motion, phantasms notching themselves before she even finished exhaling.

Below, chaos reigned.

The guardian was a storm with a center that would not break. He blocked Jonathan's erratic, lightning-fueled bursts. He deflected Tinsurnae's molten rushes. And still—still—he twisted his body in perfect tandem to block the arrows raining from above.

Even mid-spin. Even mid-slash. He was an unbroken rhythm.

"Damn," Sšurtinaui muttered between volleys. "He's adjusting too well."

Caroline crouched beside her, watching closely, glyphs circling her fingers. "Yeah. I can't even get in without messing one of you up. He's forcing the fight to revolve around him."

Sšurtinaui nocked another arrow, pausing only long enough to ask, "So how do we crack it?"

Caroline's eyes scanned the battlefield, flaring bright with UI runes. "That Ballet of New attack… it was his ace, right? He burned so much Ryun pulling that off. And it almost worked."

"But it didn't. And I don't think he can do it again."

"Exactly. Which means…" Caroline adjusted her stance. "We're in phase two. He's beatable. Just expensive."

Sšurtinaui nodded, heart racing. "We break his focus. Open the path behind him."

Caroline's voice lowered, serious. "That narrow corridor? That has to be where the gem is. We gotta get someone in."

"Me. Just need a way around without him noticing." Sšurtinaui said calmly while still firing.

Caroline sighed. "We'll figure it out. Just a bit more pressure—"

And then Tinsurnae slammed through the wall to their left like a meteor.

Stone exploded outward. Dust clouded the ledge. His body tumbled once, twice, before skidding to a stop—smoking, burned, and groaning.

Caroline flinched. "Right…we're on the clock."

Sšurtinaui didn't waste a second. She leapt down beside his broken form, already charging another arrow.

"Tinsurnae! You alive?"

He coughed. "Depends. Is everything spinning?"

"Yes."

"Then yeah. Mostly."

He started rising—and Sšurtinaui covered him with a series of staggered shots, forcing Zavrien to pause, just for a second.

It was enough.

Caroline activated her glyphs. "We're moving now."

Zavrien was holding his own—and then some.

Each clash against Jonathan cracked the air like thunder. Black lightning hissed along the guardian's blade, parried each time by an elegant twist of his shield or a sidestep that turned what should have been a killshot into a harmless arc. Jonathan cursed under his breath. No matter how hard he pushed, how wild his lightning surged, he couldn't land anything decisive.

Tinsurnae circled wide, launching bursts of molten earth and razor wind, trying to break the pattern. Zavrien responded effortlessly—his movements exact, his defense a dance of war-hardened rhythm.

Caroline knelt beside the recovering Tinsurnae and whispered quickly. "The corridor behind him. That's the goal. Sšurtinaui can do it, if we give her the window."

Tinsurnae, still wheezing, nodded.

Sšurtinaui's bow twanged.

Predator's Thornstorm lit the ceiling with a rain of emerald fury. The arrows paused midair like a constellation of death—then screamed downward, hunting with predatory precision. Zavrien glanced up, shield raising on instinct as he stepped back.

Caroline surged forward like a blazing star, her tails burning brighter than ever. Around her, chaos erupted—Jonathan and Tinsurnae unleashed relentless barrages against the guardian. Tinsurnae bent the earth and summoned the wind, shrouding the battlefield in swirling dust and debris. Amid the obscured mayhem, Jonathan cupped his hands, forming a pulsing, spiked sphere of energy. With a fierce shout, he launched it.

Meanwhile, Caroline darted in and out of the fray, a comet of death striking with precision. Each pass tore into the guardian, her speed and fury leaving glowing scars in the air. She was relentless, a force of pure momentum and rage.

Sšurtinaui vanished in a blur, her mask sealing over her face as her Ryun compressed into her legs.

Verdant Pounce.

A flicker in the air—and then she was airborne, behind him, a split-second while using the chaos as cover.

She didn't strike.

She ran.

Toward the gem. Toward the passage. Before the fight got worse—before it all collapsed.

Zavrien noticed.

Even in the chaos of battling the other three, his eyes locked on her trajectory—and his expression changed. Not anger. Not panic.

Resolve.

He moved.

In one continuous motion, he stabbed Caroline clean through the gut, twisting the blade with merciless precision. Her breath hitched. Blood sprayed. Then he flung her across the chamber like a doll, her body crashing through two stone walls before crumpling.

Tinsurnae screamed. He raised a stone shield, already pouring Ryun into a countermeasure.

Too slow.

Zavrien's shield smashed into his own, shattering it into dust. The follow-up punch cracked through his chest and sent him flying in a sonic boom, folding midair before he slammed into a far ledge with a crunch.

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Jonathan barely had time to react.

The guardian was already there.

A Ryun-infused fist smashed into the side of Jonathan's skull, the impact popping an eye from its socket and sending him skidding across the floor in a spray of blood. His limbs spasmed. He tried to rise.

Too late.

Zavrien blurred again—straight toward Sšurtinaui.

She was mid-leap, cloak trailing behind her. Too early. Too exposed. The guardian's blade was already mid-swing, a blue arc singing through the air to cleave her in half.

Her eyes widened.

She couldn't dodge.

She couldn't block.

She could only watch.

And then—

Jonathan appeared.

In front of her.

His body slammed into place like a wall of meat and lightning, and the sword bit deep. Blood exploded outward as the blade sang through his side—bone, muscle, marrow—and did not stop.

It should have cut him in half.

But it didn't.

Zavrien blinked.

The blood—it was wrong.

Alive. Corrupted. Reacting.

He jumped back instinctively, grip tightening as he landed in a cautious stance.

Sšurtinaui stared at Jonathan, who now stood swaying, mangled beyond recognition. One eye, jaw cracked, ribs visible through the gash. Lightning danced through his veins like wild serpents. His blood boiled around him in a halo of defiance.

"GO!" he screamed the best he could. Blood squirting out his face with each twitch.

She didn't hesitate. She ran.

Jonathan was surprisingly clear-headed.

That alone was unusual.

His body was wrecked—but his mind? Calm. Focused. Centered.

He had respect for the warrior before him.

Zavrien was old, yes. But not weak. A man who had lived a life worth remembering. Who had chosen his end, drawn a line in the dirt, and stood upon it with grace. A man who didn't rage against death—but invited it in with purpose.

Jonathan wasn't sure he could live that kind of life. But damn, he could at least match that kind of resolve.

His lips twisted upward. As much as a shattered face could manage.

He took a stance.

And then—he flared.

Red lightning crawled up his body, wrapping around his limbs like serpents. But this was no ordinary flare. From his back, a cyclone of black and crimson uncoiled like a living nightmare. The cavern darkened. The air trembled. A screaming maw of power opened wide above him, all jagged eyes and wailing death.

Zavrien froze, eyes narrowing behind the visor.

This was no normal aura. This was a declaration of legacy. A monster birthed not from blood—but from belief. And that belief roared through every inch of Jonathan's battered body.

He wasn't using blood this time.

He probably needed it.

But he would prove his resolve another way.

Across from him, a second wave of madness rose.

The wind screamed.

The earth sang.

And Rhan's shadow—no, Tinsurnae—answered.

A green-black vortex of spiraling essence wrapped around him, rising like the ancient howl of hunted gods. His body shifted subtly, beastlike. Horns arched from his head, spectral and wild. A monstrous aura loomed behind him—half deer, half nightmare—with hundreds of eyes and the scent of rain-soaked death.

Together, the two Jujisns stood in silence.

Jonathan's form—a crimson storm wrapped in lightning and entropy.

Tinsurnae's—an omen beast born from the primeval whisper of the trees and stars.

Zavrien… smiled.

Never in his six hundred years had he faced anything like this. Not in the Ranks. Not in the Realms. Not in his youth, nor at his peak.

Two warriors—no, two inevitabilities—stood before him. And for the first time in centuries, he felt the quickening beat of battlelust.

"Good," he whispered. "You honor me."

Jonathan exhaled.

Tinsurnae whispered something to the dirt—an invocation, a binding. The wind coiled around his wrists, wrapping him in whispers.

Then both of them pulsed—Sryun poured through their forms, fusing with aura and will. The darkened cavern lit up with flickering emerald and crimson streaks. Their very presence buckled the air.

Zavrien braced himself.

"An excellent strategy," the guardian murmured, raising his blade. His aura responded, refined now to the edge of perfection. A blade that had never dulled. A shield that had never cracked. "Let's see," he said, "if you can live long enough for it to matter."

He moved. And war began again.

The mountain groaned.

It wasn't a sound, but a sensation—like the bones of the world were cracking beneath the weight of gods pretending to be mortal.

Tinsurnae moved like the earth was his breath. Lava spires and carved stone blades erupted beneath his feet, reshaping the terrain with a flick of his fingers. The wind itself seemed to follow his rhythm, dust and ember spiraling in obedience. His aura twisted upward like a green inferno, wrapping the battlefield in a forest-birthed tempest.

Beside him, Jonathan was no longer just a fighter—he was the storm incarnate. Black and red lightning hissed across his skin, his aura bleeding with thunderous intent. Every time he moved, it was like reality shuttered to keep up, like the air gave way in reverence or fear.

And Zavrien stood tall amid the chaos. His shield glowed under his will, flowing with white-hot Ryun. His blade was an extension of his breath, his footwork timeless. If this was to be his last stand, then it would be carved into the roots of this world.

Sšurtinaui leapt over crumbling ledges, her mask shimmering with invisibility. Phasing and dodging boulders as they rained around her. The fight behind her was no longer just a battle—it was a legend in motion. She glanced back once, and what she saw would haunt her dreams: elemental firestorms, lightning strikes coiling like serpents, and Tinsurnae ripping the land apart with a scream that split the mountain.

Tinsurnae slammed into the guardian's shield, cracking and shattering it with a tectonic roar. Jonathan followed, lightning forging around his fists, and drove a hammering blow into Zavrien's left arm. The armor snapped. Bone groaned. The arm fell limp, Sryun flooding his system.

With a snarl of sheer will, Zavrien twisted his body, using only his sword and a pivoting heel to perform a spinning counterattack. A whirlwind cut through the field in a deadly arc, knocking them back in tandem.

But Sšurtinaui reached the gem.

The instant her fingers touched the glowing relic from the mural, the guardian flinched—turning instinctively.

He shouldn't have.

Vines of Ryun-warped stone whipped from the ground, latching around his legs and arm. Caroline seeing her chance, appeared in a blink, chasing forward, blood still pouring from her gut wound. The guardian sneered, ripping through the stone vines and hurled his blade—glowing white steel humming—as it sliced through both her legs at the thigh.

Caroline slammed her palms into the ground, breath catching in her throat.

"System Override!" she screamed.

A pulse of anti-aura exploded from her, latching onto the guardian's core. His aura control—his precision, reflexes, and battlefield presence—was temporarily disrupted. For ten full seconds, the edge he'd maintained faltered.

The air shimmered.

Zavrien's aura flickered.

Then, he looked up.

Jonathan crouched on a stone ledge, lightning howling around his arm—red and black energy spinning like a miniature cyclone.

Then he vanished.

To an outside eye, it looked like space itself folded. Zavrien could read light and aura like breath, but this—this wasn't speed. It was something deeper. Something hungrier.

Jonathan's strike landed.

It tore through the old armor, through the chest plate, out the back. Electricity screamed. The voltage surged with violent promise—but not alone. His blood responded against his will, lashing out in silent defiance.

Zavrien's knees buckled.

But he didn't fall.

Instead, he smiled. A soft, distant smile. "Fitting," he whispered, voice low. "This… is a fine end."

The storm passed.

The mountain cracked open and ruined.

Sunlight from three suns lit up the battlefield as silence settled like snow.

Sšurtinaui exhaled deeply, her chest rising and falling in slow rhythm as the last fragments of her emerald-green barrier faded into the still-choked air. The mountain groaned one final time, then fell quiet, the aftershocks subsiding like the breath of a sleeping beast. She stood among the settling rubble, her form illuminated by streaks of gold breaking through the dust-thick air. The purple gem had already been sealed into the pendant. Safe. Claimed.

She allowed herself a small smile.

All of this—days of chaos, training, bloodshed, and willpower—just to bring down one man protecting a gem. One old, weary ranker who had chosen to end his story with dignity. And though he'd faced them with the intent to kill, deep down they all knew: if he had truly wanted to, if his heart had been set on survival rather than farewell, Zavrien would have buried them long before they touched the threshold.

He was kind to the very end.

From the outside, it would have looked mythic.

A lone warrior in shattered armor stood motionless in ruin, the suns haloing him in light. Around him: three fallen bodies. Bloodied. Burned. Dismembered. Jonathan lay collapsed, one eye open but unfocused, breath rasping through broken ribs. Tinsurnae crouched beside a wall of rubble, arm limp and bruised, his aura still flickering weakly in stubborn defiance. Caroline—carved but conscious—dragged herself to a boulder, her hands red and twitching, her legs left somewhere in the aftermath.

To the eyes of history, the image was clear: One story had ended. Graceful. True. The others would now rise—not from victory, but from survival—to begin again, forging a path not carved by legends, but earned through pain and persistence.