Burning Storm trudged toward the complex's fountain, his boots heavy against the shattered ground.
His weighted steps betrayed his exhaustion from the recent battle, visible only to the keen observer who might notice the slight drag in his otherwise purposeful stride.
He circled the fountain, its once-delicate design barely clinging to existence, as if the world itself had taken a blade and cleaved it cleanly down the middle.
On the balcony above, a figure stood leaning against the railing. Despite the great structure being split in two, it remained upright, though a deep groove scarred its massive form.
The man on the balcony seemed unconcerned by the damage, simply watching as Burning Storm approached with measured steps.
Black hair with streaks of white danced like silk ribbons in the gentle breeze as the sun sank beneath the horizon, casting a cantaloupe glow across the ravaged landscape.
Even the sun appeared eager to hide from the devastation that would surely follow when two dangerous Paragons clashed.
Paragon Raizel tilted his chin upward, raising his hand in a half-hearted wave.
"Seriously! You still lack a sense of surprise! All this charade for a welcome party?! And the party wasn't even difficult—your men fell like autumn leaves."
The man on the balcony shifted his gaze to the young soldier sprawled unconscious on the ground.
He scoffed, his expression returning to its usual cold indifference.
"Burning Storm. Such an exemplary Drifter."
A smile crept across his face, cold as winter frost.
"Ah, if Reimgard did not exist, I'm certain you'd be the strongest Paragon in all the Central Plains. You've grasped the core of your true name and the thread connecting it to your soul with remarkable depth. Most Drifters these days are too lazy for such dedication."
He eased away from the railing, fingers tapping a soft rhythm against the metal.
"You managed to release your will upon the physical realm without fully manifesting your essence. Defeating a Paragon without Essence Manifestation is an impossible feat, yet you make it look like child's play."
Burning Storm tilted his face skyward, a wry grin splitting his lips.
"You're just going to sing my praises?"
"Tsk! You truly are formidable! Damn! Acknowledging it again makes the reality of your strength hit me like a hammer!"
His voice faded to a whisper.
"Which makes me grateful for my meticulous planning."
Paragon Raizel fixed him with an unwavering stare, barely containing the inferno of rage smoldering in the depths of his emerald eyes.
A heartbeat passed before his voice thundered forth, each word a seismic tremor through the air.
"Dante. Where is my wife?"
A maniacal grin sliced across Lieutenant Dante's face. Despite the smile, he radiated an arctic menace as he shrugged with calculated indifference.
"...she's quite stubborn, that one. Clinging to life by threads, yet still refusing to give me what I seek."
Raizel's face transformed into a tempest of fury.
"Dante! If anything happens to my woman, killing you will not be enough!"
Dante arched an eyebrow before curling his lips with contempt.
"Oh please! After everything you've endured in Lithia and here, you're nothing but a walking corpse. You think you can even scratch me? Even if you summoned your Essence Manifestation, it would be pitiful. You've already drained yourself releasing your will upon the world."
His gaze pierced the Paragon like ice shards.
"Your body might never know fatigue because of your talent's nature. But your essence pool is as finite as anyone else's. And when it runs dry, you become more vulnerable than the weakest among us!"
Raizel glared up at his former friend, hatred blazing in his eyes.
Lieutenant Dante wasn't wrong—in fact, he struck devastatingly close to the truth.
Despite his reluctance to tap his essence reserves, Raizel had done just that. What happened in Lithia had forced his hand, and the eleven-hour flight here had drained him further.
A Paragon's essence pool might appear bottomless to outsiders, but Paragons themselves knew the cruel reality of its limits.
In this case, the situation grew dire because Dante's particular talent made him a nightmare opponent for Raizel specifically.
In Essence Manifestation, Dante wielded phantasmal forces of echo—an ability to replicate his own attacks or those of his enemies in devastating cascades.
Fighting someone like him with Essence Manifestation spelled doom under normal circumstances. Attempting it while essence-depleted was suicide.
Yet Burning Storm allowed none of these fears to betray themselves on his weathered face.
Instead, he scowled at the Lieutenant.
"Spare me the lecture. You've never bested me in the past twenty years. Weakened or not, I'll make you quake before I'm done."
Lieutenant Dante's expression twisted with visible contempt.
He swung his legs, shattering the balcony railing. Stone fragments exploded in every direction like shrapnel.
Walking the length of the broken railing, he launched himself into the air—a leap that defied physics, covering large distance before cratering the ground mere feet from Burning Storm.
"Raizel! Must we walk this path? Think about it—the dream we shared as innocent children. I've never abandoned it! I've clung to that vision with stubborn devotion. If anything, serving in the government strengthened my resolve, opened my eyes to the necessity of disciplined evil in this world. It showed me the wisdom in Gafarè's vision."
Compassion threaded through his voice like silk.
"You remember, don't you? Our childhood debates? You once argued Gafarè was justified in his actions. You said that while many perished, his cause birthed an age that far outweighed the cost. People die every day—whether for noble causes or simple mortality, death never ceases. People understood their death and followed Gafarè anyway."
He paused, boring into his friend's eyes with an expression shadowed by melancholy.
"You taught me these truths, Raizel. What changed you? What happened to the man who showed me the way? Why are you becoming everything you despised? Why are you growing weak? Why are you becoming like your father?"
Raizel didn't flinch, but something flickered behind his eyes—an ache, old and buried.
He took a single step forward, each movement deliberate as granite. His voice emerged calm, yet a storm writhed beneath its surface.
"Indeed, I was a fool once. I thought logic alone could justify sacrifice. That the dead were merely numbers in our grand equation."
His gaze locked with Dante's—unyielding, sorrowful.
"I told myself Gafarè was right. That the future demanded blood as its price. That we were architects of tomorrow, not executioners of today."
His breath came sharp, ragged.
"But then I watched my father sign away the lives of an entire city like it was ink on parchment. No regret. No hesitation. And I realized—he had become blind to everything but his vision."
Raizel's fists clenched at his sides.
"He stopped seeing people. Mothers. Children. Men begging for one more sunrise. And I—I was marching down that same blood-soaked road."
Dante scoffed, but Raizel pressed on without pause.
"Then she found me."
His voice softened, dropping into reverence.
"She taught me that every soul carries weight. That the true strength of a dream lies in the hands it uplifts, not the ones it crushes beneath its heel."
His eyes blazed—not with rage, but with unshakeable conviction.
"She made me see what we never could, Dante. That even a single life remains worth fighting for if it means preserving our humanity."
Dante's face darkened like thunderclouds gathering. His jaw tightened into stone.
"She made you soft."
A smile tugged at Raizel's lips, gentle as morning light.
"No. She made me see. For the first time in my cursed existence, I looked upon the world and wept for its beauty."