The air in front of the camp gate thickened with the stench of troll blood and burning flesh.

  Gray stood frozen on the watch tower platform, one hand gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turned white.

  Tamemoto was beside him, breathing shallow, small chest rising and falling rapidly — “Haa… haa…” — his bandaged wound pulling with every inhale.

  Below them, Gauis stood alone against the two remaining warg riders.

  He shifted his stance — 70% of his aura channeled to his feet, 30% layered across his entire body in a thin, invisible film. The pressure in the air changed — subtle, sharp, like the world itself held its breath.

  Then he moved.

  It wasn’t running. It was erasure.

  One moment Gauis was standing still. The next, he was gone — a blur too fast for the naked eye. Dust exploded behind him in a straight line. The wind howled in his wake.

  The two warg riders — Kragthar (spear wielder) and Vrothgar (mace and chain) — froze for half a heartbeat.

  Kragthar shouted, voice guttural and panicked.

  “Dodge!”

  He hurled his jagged spear with full aura force — a red streak of light cutting the air.

  Gauis twisted mid-motion — graceful, effortless. The spear missed by inches, embedding itself in the ground with a thunderous CRACK! The earth split around the impact point.

  Gauis’s hand snapped out. He caught the spear’s shaft — aura coating his palm in a thin layer — and spun it once.

  Then he threw it back.

  The spear flew faster than it had come — a whistling streak of death. Kragthar’s eyes widened.

  He leaped off his warg, but the wolf wasn’t fast enough.

  The spear pierced clean through the beast’s chest — “GRRAAAGH—!” — the warg’s howl cut off in a wet gurgle.

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  It collapsed, skewered to the ground, legs kicking once before going still.

  Vrothgar roared and commanded his warg to lunge.

  The wolf charged — jaws wide, claws tearing earth.

  Gauis adjusted — aura surging back to his feet. He sidestepped — a single, fluid motion — and drove Dawnbreaker straight into the warg’s eye. The blade sank deep — “SHLCK!” — then twisted.

  The wolf screamed — “RAAAGH—!” — a sound of pure agony — and Gauis ripped the sword upward, slicing from eye to throat.

  Blood sprayed in a hot arc. The warg dropped, convulsing.

  Now the two troll riders stood on foot — side by side, facing Gauis.

  Kragthar snarled, spear retrieved. Vrothgar swung his spiked club, chains rattling.

  Gauis’s aura didn’t flare visibly.

  But the pressure in the air sharpened — like the edge of a blade pressed against skin.

  He ignored the pain tearing through his damaged channels.

  His arm burned. His core flickered. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. But he didn’t care.

  He just wanted to show his sons.

  Gauis spoke one word — low, calm, final.

  “Dawn’s Verdict.”

  Rebecca — still on the watch tower — choked on a cough.

  “No…!” she gasped, voice cracking. “Don’t use your Anima! Gauis—!” She clutched the railing, knuckles white, blood flecking her lips again. “You’ll tear yourself apart…!”

  Gray and Tamemoto stared down.

  Gauis’s sword — Dawnbreaker — shone with a different light.

  It wasn’t a glow. It was radiance — blinding white-gold, like the sun itself had been forged into steel. The runes along the blade flared to life, the air around it shimmering with heat and pressure.

  The trolls hesitated.

  Gauis moved.

  He jumped — aura exploding in his feet — and the world blurred again.

  He swung Dawnbreaker in a single, perfect arc.

  Two beams of light erupted from the blade — pure, searing, unstoppable.

  The beams struck the trolls’ necks — clean, surgical, like tofu sliced by the sharpest knife.

  “GRRAAAGH—!” “RAAAGH—!”

  The trolls’ heads flew — bodies collapsing in sprays of black blood.

  The light faded.

  Gauis landed lightly, sword lowered. Blood dripped from his mouth. His arm trembled. His aura guttered — flickering, unstable.

  But the trolls were dead.

  From the watch tower, Sir Rowan Hale stared down in awe.

  He saluted again — fist to chest.

  “The signature skill of the Duelist,” Rowan said, voice hushed. “The lore was true. Killing enemies without them seeing him… it’s real.”

  Marek watched from the gate, eyes wide.

  The camp was silent for a long moment.

  Then the cheers erupted — ragged, exhausted, triumphant.

  Gauis looked up at the tower.

  He smiled — small, tired, proud — at Gray and Tamemoto.

  Then he staggered once — “Haa…!” — and dropped to one knee, sword planted in the ground to hold himself up.

  The cost had come.

  But he had shown them.