Across the battlefield, a cacophony of fire and ice unfolded—a spectacle that left onlookers bewildered.
The flames danced with life, soaring through the air like sentient wings, riding the wind's fury while igniting everything in their path with explosive blazes.
No monster escaped the onslaught.
Flaming arrows wove through the sky before raining down, skewering monsters with brutal precision. The beasts staggered, crumbled, then erupted into wicked, immolating infernos.
The chaos left no room for others to act. By cruel coincidence, this area teemed with more students and civilians than Drifters.
When the rift tore open, many leaders had leapt to the main arena out of pure instinct—the monsters overwhelming their defenses. While Northern confronted the prophet, the beasts broke through the student line and unleashed havoc.
Drifters, civilians, students—all fell to the slaughter. Until the unassuming non-combative student stormed the battlefield wielding his remarkable ice and fire talents.
His speed defied belief. He materialized exactly when needed—just in time to deflect a killing blow meant for a young woman.
Quick enough to drive his foot into another monster's flank as it prepared to sink its hideous fangs into two female students who clung to each other, their screams piercing the air.
Without sparing them a glance, he flowed to the next threat.
His thin silvery blade cut through the air, almost harmonizing with the soft-colored atmosphere. The sound of his sword—cold, ruthless, yet eerily silent.
A monster crushed a Drifter's defense with its massive tail, sending the fighter flying backward before recoiling to strike again—then Northern burst into the fray. He tossed his sword skyward. The steel twirled in the air before he snatched it back in reverse grip, carving across the monster's hide with a meticulously practiced, pivoting dance.
He pivoted again, his hands flowing like silken banners in the wind, tearing a vicious laceration across the creature's flank. With a twist of his grip on the illusion Hefter, he buried the blade deep inside the beast.
"Black Flames."
Whoom!
Merciless obsidian flames erupted, devouring the monster whole. It had no chance to struggle before the flames silenced it with a cruel, final death.
Northern was already moving again. The four burning blue eyes of his helm flared with devilish coldness, sending chills down the spines of those who met his gaze, freezing them in place.
Monsters roared more ferociously at his approach, whipping themselves into a frenzy as he wove between them. As he advanced, terrifying blades of wind accompanied him, slicing through flesh without announcing their presence.
Beneath his feet, his shadow transformed into something darker—a singularity of pure darkness with a life of its own.
Black jagged spikes erupted from the shadows, impaling monsters in all directions. Both those he engaged directly and those beyond his immediate reach fell to these shadowy weapons.
This devastating area attack thinned the monsters' ranks regardless of who faced them.
It bought Northern precious seconds before he reached each new threat. For the fleeing civilians, it granted vital moments to escape the ferocious maelstrom.
The coliseum, with his arrival, regained some semblance of order. The monsters now fixated on him, charging toward his position as if commanded to eliminate the most dangerous threat on the battlefield.
The pressure mounted around Northern—exactly as he intended. With the beasts focusing their fury on him, the mundane humans and students found paths to safety.
He felt a flicker of relief seeing instructors already rounding up survivors, guiding them out of the coliseum.
Yet the monsters' numbers only swelled. Even as he bathed his surroundings in generous waves of flame, the creatures responded with heightened frenzy, charging headlong into the inferno if it meant breaching the fiery barrier to reach him.
The sheer volume of monsters surging toward him made even their crude attacks dangerous enough to demand his full attention.
But that wasn't his only challenge, nor the most pressing one.
The real problem lay in maintaining control over both clones. When the battlefield remained spacious with scattered enemies, movement came easily.
Now, with monsters executing a pincer attack and an overwhelming throng focusing solely on him, the delicate balance of his control began to slip insidiously from his grasp. Frustration mounted within him.
A slight misstep here, a faltering movement there—causing his sword to miss its mark. His only reliable ally became the ferocious immolating flames.
Yet even those proved insufficient as monster after monster tore through the fire wall with terrifying power, like arrows of vicious jagged fangs propelled by rippling scaled muscles, punching through his defenses.
He strained to move, struggling to execute attacks as they formed in his mind. Focus slipped away like water through fingers, fueling his frustration and further destroying what little control remained.
The consequences manifested in both locations. The two Northerns faltered, losing ground to the relentless monsters.
Meanwhile, the horde grew more enormous, pouring through the rift like a dam burst, flooding across the entire coliseum.
The one silver lining: the people now filling the arena were Drifters from clans and the academy, all engaged in desperate combat.
The grim reality: they were hopelessly outnumbered. Nothing awaited them but utter, devastating annihilation.
Not even the Enigmatic Heroic Paragon could save them from this calamity.
Yet the Paragon himself showed no signs of struggle. His strength remained terrifying, enormously powerful. His punches pulverized monsters, leaving nothing but exploding flesh in their wake.
When he smashed his leg against the ground, the floor quaked and erupted with massive stone debris. Monsters stumbled, their footing lost in the chaos.
This bought the defenders a moment's reprieve—but only a moment.
The battle lines crumbled under the sheer weight of monsters, and worse, the Paragon began to stagger.
Sometimes he appeared dizzy, disoriented. Other times, he froze mid-action, standing like a statue—like death itself had claimed him while still on his feet.
Those watching could tell something was terribly wrong. Each of these worrying signs hammered another nail into the coffin of the defenders' already fragile morale.
Northern grimaced beneath the Night Terror visor.
"Alright... let's move things up a bit."