Back in the courtyard, Nyric dashed backward, red constructs flaring around his feet. Each step cracked the stone as he narrowly avoided Scarborn's claws. One swipe grazed his chest, slicing clean through his shirt.
He's faster. Faster than before.
He side-stepped as Scarborn's massive fist crashed down. The impact obliterated a stone pillar, the shockwave tearing a meter-long scar across the courtyard floor.
A claw raked his cheek. Another slashed for his eye. More followed in a brutal flurry, aiming to tear him limb from limb.
He's gone full Scarbeast, Nyric thought bitterly.
Scarborn's claws stretched unnaturally, glowing red chains linking them back to his body. The chains pulsed with a monstrous rhythm, like veins feeding a grotesque heartbeat.
Nyric weaved through the strikes, slipping into gaps no normal body could fit through. He dodged the ones meant to kill—but let others strike. Claws lodged deep into his thigh and foot, embedding like barbs.
Shit...
Scarborn's smile widened. With a jerk, the chains snapped taut, tearing the lodged claws back toward him.
Flesh ripped open.
Nyric collapsed to one knee, panting. Blood soaked his leg, hot and heavy. The coppery scent filled his lungs.
Scarborn licked the blood from his claws.
The glow around Nyric's legs dimmed, flickering like dying embers.
Veinfire's low. I'm running dry.
Then Scarborn disappeared.
A flicker of movement—then he was at Nyric's flank, already mid-swing.
A red glow burst from Nyric's forearm, forming a hastily summoned shield.
Boom.
The blow shattered it instantly, and Nyric's body exploded into red dust, scattered by the shockwave.
Scarborn paused, scowling. "Tch. Forgot you could do that."
But then he froze.
Figures emerged from the edges of the dust. Not one—many.
All Nyric.
All injured.
All charging.
Each bore twin shortblades, glowing red in their hands.
Scarborn laughed, low and cold. "You think you can fool me again?"
He locked eyes with a clone—too confident, too centered.
Boom.
He struck. The clones dissolved to dust in his wake.
"How—" Nyric choked, as Scarborn lifted him by the throat.
Scarborn grinned. "Because you're weak. This wasn't even fun."
He ignored the remaining clones—distractions, harmless. He knew better now.
His grip tightened. Bones cracked.
"Is this all you've got?"
Nyric coughed blood, smirking through the pain. "No... b-but... glad you asked."
One of the Nyrics stepped forward, hands merging together. The other clones burst into dust—swirling toward him, fusing into a single burning shape.
A red-glowing star.
The energy pulsed violently.
Nyric's smirk sharpened. "Red Sutra: Exploding Star."
Scarborn's instincts screamed. He tried to drop Nyric—but Nyric grabbed his arm and held fast.
Boom.
The explosion was deafening, the shockwave ripping through the courtyard like a tidal wave of flame and force.
Flames engulfed them both.
Smoke and rubble filled the air.
A guttural laugh echoed from the dust cloud.
Scarborn staggered forward, right arm mangled beyond recognition, flesh blackened and steaming. The right side of his face was flayed open—fur and skin stripped away, exposing writhing muscle.
"I see you still had some tricks left," he growled, facing the last remaining Nyric.
Nyric stood bleeding, panting, blades gone, knees trembling. He stared at Scarborn's slowly healing flesh.
He's still not done...
"You're weaker than you think," Nyric said, chest heaving. "You couldn't even tell that one wasn't me."
Scarborn growled, the bones in his arm snapping back into place.
He lunged.
Nyric leapt back, narrowly dodging.
He's slower. Healing's failing. But me...
More blood spilled from Nyric's thigh.
...I'm barely holding on.
Clones burst from his back again—erratic, twitching, less stable. The energy was thinning.
Scarborn laughed. "This again? You don't have enough Veinfire left. That trick won't save you twice."
"I know," Nyric said, voice low. "That's why I'm not using it the same way."
He turned and ran—limping but fast enough.
Scarborn snarled and prepared to chase.
"Red Sutra: Supernova."
The clones exploded—but this time into finer dust, lighter, charged with Veinfire residue.
It floated through the air like red snow.
Scarborn paused mid-strike, frowning at the drifting flakes. Too slow. Too weak.
Then the dust touched his skin.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.
A cascade of explosions ignited—each small but relentless, detonating on contact.
Scarborn vanished inside a cyclone of flame and smoke.
Nyric reached the courtyard's edge and dropped to one knee, gripping the wall.
Blood dripped steadily from his wounds. He was pale, but still conscious.
If he survives that... I don't want to be h—
The thought cut off as a stabbing pain ripped through his chest. Blood surged up his throat and he vomited crimson onto the ground.
His legs buckled again—but he caught himself, barely staying upright.
He looked back at the roaring inferno.
Then turned and limped toward the house.
"I really hope the witch isn't the vindictive type," he muttered, dragging his foot. "I did save her son."
He reached the steps.
Paused.
Groaned.
"...Left my cloak back there..."
He coughed a dry, painful laugh.
"...Forget it. Let the bastard keep it."
And then he limped away—Veinfire spent, wounds bleeding, but alive.
Leaving the blood, the dust, and the burning Red Sutra behind him.