The warm breeze disappeared, replaced with a deep chill that swept along Mt. Sononcoly. Whether it was the weather itself or a drop in adrenaline, it sent Quin into a shiver.

  He embraced himself as he looked around the mountain meadow.

  A mixture of grass and sweat wafted the air around him and found its way up his nose. Shade stretched across the horizon as the sun hid further behind the heights.

  He couldn’t tell the time, but the day had been a long one. He heard faint voices over the edge, Quin took three steps toward it before fear induced him to reconsider.

  He turned around and his view went to Arthur, still on the ground, still unconscious.

  Quin had just won. More importantly, he won his own fight. No one had to save him. No one stepped in to carry him.

  With this victory, future victories no longer seemed far-fetched. It was a crucial first step on the path to his goals, a path cleared for even more steps.

  For now, Quin took physical steps toward his felled foe. There along with an assortment of fallen rocks, Arthur simply lay on the grass, his breaths the only indicator of life.

  Quin picked up the biggest stone he could find and his eyes went back and forth between it and his enemy.

  Axerick sanctioned for the deed to be done but now given the chance, Quin had some reservations.

  Surely, the Cosondera wouldn’t want all of the Black Nails dead. At least that’s what he thought. A few survivors could be rounded and tied up before a fitting punishment came their way.

  Quin looked at Arthur one last time when he tossed the stone away. He had won, and by his estimation, the Cosondera were about to win too.

  He’ll let the red cloaks determine what to do with the Black Nails, but he was more inclined to save lives and not take them.

  Quin looked around for any opening along the heights. Unsure how he ended up on this field, he hoped he could retrace his steps to get back to his cloak and the sandals within.

  He found a hole along the mountain and figured that was as good a place to start.

  Colder than outside, the tunnels gave Quin an even bigger chill as he hugged himself tight. His face tensed up in the cool air. He never yearned for his cloak so much.

  The series of cave networks all looked the same and by no means had Quin paid attention to his surroundings during the fight.

  He traveled through one tunnel then another, all while he searched for some hint that he was in the right direction.

  He carried himself up an incline. He figured with all the drops and falls he had taken, in his tussle, he would have to climb higher up. Screams of battle faded through the natural corridors, there were fewer shouts than before.

  Dirt amassed all over his hands. He took a moment to look down at himself and his physical state.

  His black pants had rips and smudges while dirt showed up prominently all over his white shirt. His arms were covered with red and black and a fingernail was cracked.

  Instantly, pain and soreness occupied his brain. At least he had his life though he’d feel much better if he could find his cloak.

  As he traveled through another tunnel, Quin spotted a different color among the brown and gray background.

  On the ground laid a green cap, no doubt the belonging of a Shanli mender. A dark smudge took up one side of the hat, but he couldn’t tell if it was dirt or blood.

  He closed his eyes and clapped his hands together in hope that the soul artists made it through this day as unscathed as when they started.

  More minutes passed. More steps taken. It seemed like forever had elapsed when finally, Quin happened upon a familiar path.

  He ran through one more tunnel when he entered a small cavern. There at a corner, right where he left it, laid his black cloak folded up, harmlessly hidden from the chaos.

  Quin dropped down to feel along the fabric when his hands discovered the dimensions of small sandals. A huge smile appeared on his face as he grasped the garment.

  Nothing was lost, despite it all.

  Donned, the cloak provided Quin with much needed warmth and perhaps even more so as he felt the sandals behind him.

  It felt as if Aesther herself provided him with extra warmth as the image of her bright smile lifted his heart.

  He knew he’d never find his mask though. Whether he could secure a replacement without issue had to wait. If nothing else, he’d be easier to recognize.

  Quin went back through the tunnel and out into a larger cavern. Up on a narrow path, he stood beside a slope that declined to a steep drop into darkness.

  He thanked his fortune he didn’t fall to his doom as he fought Arthur.

  When he contemplated it, Quin felt really fortunate to get out of this battle no worse for wear.

  He had close moments with death in this skirmish, but it seemed like the worst of it was behind him now. So now what, he asked himself.

  He could either find his teammates if he could at all, or he could just leave this mountain and wait for any further instructions below.

  Of that option, he could either find his way down via the tunnels or to his dread, take the express route down.

  If the battle truly came to an end, he should have rounded Arthur up and brought him down to the base. Quin thought about a turn back to his foe, but he was less inclined to go back for Arthur.

  Quin crossed his arms and closed his eyes as he considered what to do next though. Depending on his mood or even what shape Ythan would be should Quin find him, maybe the blue cloak will be content with the squad fully back together even if Quin was out of that squad.

  Or maybe the Neraviv will be so beyond himself in anger, that another casualty could be added to the list. The thought filled him with a little fear. A sudden footstep filled him with even more.

  Quin snapped over to the sound when Arthur tackled him down.

  The two tussled with each other as they tumbled down the decline. Their grunts echoed through the cave until they dangled over the edge.

  Quin laid a hand on the ledge, the only thing that stopped him from a deep drop. Arthur had both hands on Quin, and the Sentar’i seemed unbothered by the danger beneath them.

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  Arthur took a couple of shots to Quin’s unprotected sternum. The Tyroviv’s grip nearly slipped right there.

  Quin thrust his elbow erratically while he tried to keep them both from gravity’s clutches.

  Maybe he hit Arthur, maybe he didn’t. They swung as Quin’s fingers started to drag through the dirt.

  Arthur had no positive control himself; soon he started to slip down his foe until he grabbed ahold of Quin’s cloak.

  The Tyroviv felt the strain on his collarbone. He tried to get his other hand on the ledge, too much weight pulled him back.

  Only his fingers held on now. They slipped and slipped more. And just when he thought he made it.

  “Nooo,” he whispered with a tear in each eye.

  He blinked and suddenly, the weight disappeared.

  Quin quickly secured the ledge with both hands, he pulled himself up with utmost speed before he looked down.

  For just a few seconds he saw his enemy in a free fall. Fear, shock, disbelief, all over Arthur’s face, his spatial arts dormant when he needed it most.

  He couldn’t bring the Cosondere with him; just a single purple sandal followed him into darkness and beyond.

  Quin crawled up out of harm’s way. His breaths took over the background noise when a fading scream rung out through the cave.

  His ears followed the scream as it diminished ever more until the voiced ceased, its return, nevermore.

  Time and air passed through the cave. Quin remained low, horror remained on his face. At some point he sat up and turned over. His hand rummaged the cloak behind him.

  He procured a sandal, but only a sandal. Its sibling likely gone forever, a sacrifice that saved Quin’s life.

  He held the shoe tight between his arms and chest before his hands touched the ground.

  Quin looked at the singular sandal with plenty of gratitude but an ounce of despair. He couldn’t give just one sandal to Aesther and certainly not in its current shape.

  But that could wait for another day, a day Quin would live to see, he hoped. Right now he still had to navigate a dangerous scene.

  He placed the sandal back in his cloak, now held up by two distorted clasps.

  His eyes took a glance at the dark and stony locale. His mind and heart told him to not look down anymore and his spirit was eager to oblige.

  A few more breaths echoed around before Quin moved on, head pointed upward. Up felt much more comfortable to him. Up was where he’d rather be.

  There was still plenty of mountain up above for Quin to climb. Mt. Sononcoly, tallest in the area, had enough verticality to block the sun.

  The summit above still owned a great deal of sunlight and the afternoon glare spared no inch on the field.

  The fighters up above spared no time.

  Conon and Onyl swung their arms with rapidity and a near recklessness.

  Their target, Tyru, remained unmoved in both action and expression. He had a hand for both combatants as he deflected and blocked every attack.

  “Has it sunk in?” he asked under the flurry of strikes. “Are you finally aware of your futility?”

  His opponents responded with more offense. They tried to find any open spot. From the shoes to the chest, they tried their best. Futility wasn’t in their lexicon. Tyru would provide them an entry.

  His arms snapped out and in no time, the two Tyrovivs were overcome by a furious [Gust Attack].

  Onyl flew far and fast. A nearby hill caught her with no give. Air and pain escaped her mouth with force before the ground stopped her movements.

  Conon bounced across the dirt multiple times before he tumbled to a stop. He tried to get his bearings straight when he saw Tyru barrel after him.

  The old Sentar’i reached Conon right as the Tyroviv made it to his feet. Tyru wound his arm back and uncorked a ferocious hook.

  Contact was never made.

  Tyru phased right through the ghost artist. It gave Conon the opening he needed to thrust a boot to Tyru’s kidney.

  The Sentar’i swung an elbow that also went through the Cosondere and Conon responded with a hard strike to the gut.

  Tyru simply stood in front of Conon’s punch. He quickly created distance between himself and his opponent. The two stared off for a few seconds.

  “My hands won’t be able hurt you ghost artist,” the Sentar’i stated. “But my aura certainly can.”

  Tyru charged at Conon and once again his arm went through but instead of another attack, the old Sentar’i unleashed the brunt of his aura.

  Just like his hand, the smoke that exuded from Tyru traveled through Conon. This time however, the Tyroviv felt a great pain.

  Conon screamed in displeasure from Tyru’s aura. He hissed and groaned as if he felt a great burn and dropped to a knee. No longer intangible, he was at the mercy of his opponent.

  Tyru immediately went off with a volley of strikes against Conon. A punch. A kick. Then more. In a span of seconds, Tyru had belted nearly every part of Conon before he finished with a high side kick to the face.

  Conon flew and hit the ground, only his head moved while the rest of him lay parallel with the dirt.

  Tyru charged up more smoke around him when out of the corner of his eye, he saw a silhouette approach him.

  His attention turned to Onyl, off in the distance by the small hill. She tried to bring her puppet into the fight but since she faced the sun, her shadow couldn’t move without great effort.

  Still, she endeavored to trap Tyru with her puppet. Once Tyru set his sights on her, it stopped in its tracks.

  The Sentar’i took no steps toward her though. No doubt, he had no intent to walk into Onyl’s trap. It seemed like a stand still occurred between wind and shadow artist.

  “You must think you’re safe,” Tyru mentioned. “As long as you have your shadow, you can just shield yourself from a charge. As long as you have your shadow, you can keep yourself out of reach.”

  Tyru began to straighten his limbs with a string of stretch exercises. Onyl looked on slightly puzzled, but kept her eyes on her enemy.

  Soon, Tyru went into a series of fluid motions. His shoulders slid frontwards and back. His arms slowly bent than opened before they repeated, forearms twisted while his hands moved in every direction.

  Compared to his upper body, his legs made the minimum of movements. Onyl couldn’t discern what to make of it. Tyru grinned as he witnessed the confusion of his foe.

  “You poor fool,” he started. “Truly unaware of what will happen next. Here, I’ll show you.”

  All Tyru did was slowly wave his forearm to the side when out of nowhere, Onyl found herself swept from her spot by a sudden breeze.

  She simply skidded across the ground but her eyes widened in shock, now informed of some wind technique.

  “Wind arts isn’t just used to push people in one direction. The wind travels along the cardinal directions and can shift around wherever they please. An advanced wind artist can do the same.”

  Tyru gently swung his arm away and a gust swept Onyl to the side back to her original spot.

  “The better the wind artist, the better control they have over the four winds. To the point that they can more than just push people away.”

  The Sentar’i pulled his forearm toward him and like some beckoning call, Onyl’s body was unwillingly pulled toward her opponent. She quickly backed away, but Tyru’s smirk only widened.

  “What now shadow artist? You have no means to draw me into your trap, but what can you do when I draw you into mine? Caught in the winds of my [Cardinal Shift]!”

  Tyru made a sharp bend of his arm and the wind suddenly jerked Onyl forward right toward her opponent. Off the ground, she couldn’t control her puppet.

  Before he could catch her with his fist, Tyru’s shoulder felt the whip of a [Ghost chain].

  His head turned sharply toward Conon, the other Cosondere only had one foot planted on the ground. It was enough of a distraction to give Onyl an opportunity.

  She spun forward in her flight then landed both feet onto Tyru’s face. The Sentar’i groaned in pain as he lurched back. The Tyrovivs saw their chance.

  In a rush, they went back to their rapid fire offense, but this time their hits connected.

  Conon seesawed with his tangibility and made sure his attacks were felt. Onyl and her puppet alternated strikes from Tyru’s back to his gut and back again.

  Tyru angrily crossed his arms to send out his [Gusts] but the Tyrovivs backed off. They weren’t done however.

  A [Ghost Chain] wrapped around Tyru’s arm. A silhouette rose from the ground to snatch the other.

  With strength and vigor, the two fighters flung Tyru off his feet straight up. Then with equal exertion, they yanked their enemy out of the air and slammed him hard on the dirt.

  Dust and rocks kicked up off the ground and silence took over the field. The Tyrovivs looked on with heavy breaths and apprehension. For a few seconds, the fight appeared to wrap up.

  Then Tyru showed signs of movement that started with his arms, then the rest of his body.

  He slowly ascended from the small indent of his landing. Red faced and scratched up, rage prominently displayed itself between his ears.

  “You...you lowly curs! How dare you pain your betters?” he asked through his bared teeth. “Audacity,” he hissed. “You want pain? I’ll show you pain.”

  The Sentar’i charged a massive amount of aura that kept his two opponents out of reach.

  The next second, he acted.

  He made the same fluid motions from before, but much faster. Then his [Cardinal Shift] came into effect and the Tyrovivs were subjected to the shifting winds.

  Onyl arrived first and Tyru unleashed a hook punch so deep into her torso that it took all the air out of her. Just when oxygen returned in her body, Tyru whacked her in the head to send her in a spin.

  Conon blew in after; he was met with an elbow strike that smashed into his skull. Before he fell back, Conon received a wicked headbutt that put him on the ground for good. Out he went.

  Neither Tyroviv returned to their feet. Tyru however stood strong, he stared off to nothing in particular, anger still bubbled inside him.