Cassian emerged from a dark alley where she had hidden for the last twenty minutes, systematically avoiding every patrol of adventurers looking for volunteers to treat the wounded.

  She had managed to escape Lena and Lucia by slipping between two collapsed buildings while they were talking to a city guard.

  The night sky suddenly lit up as if someone had just turned on a thousand lanterns at once, transforming the darkness into a blinding clarity that made her squint.

  Raising her head, she saw lightning striking a precise point in the sky. Not a single bolt, but dozens—perhaps hundreds—all converging on the same source as if the sky itself had decided to focus all its fury in one single spot.

  The light was so intense that she could see every detail of the devastated street around her—every torn-up paving stone, every dried bloodstain, every abandoned kobold corpse.

  Constantine floated in the air, held aloft by a crackling electric aura surrounding his body.

  He held his black sword raised toward the sky, the blade pointing directly at the stormy clouds that had formed above the city.

  Multiple bolts of lightning struck the tip of the weapon with mathematical regularity—one every two seconds, then one per second, then three per second.

  Each impact made the surrounding air vibrate like a cannon shot, the shockwave spreading in visible concentric circles that shook the remaining intact windows and rained debris from the damaged buildings.

  The light was so intense that it turned night into day, casting sharp, hard shadows on the ground as if the sun were shining at its zenith.

  Cassian had to cover her eyes with her arm, the brightness becoming almost painful to look at directly.

  She could feel the static electricity in the air—her hair stood slightly on end, tingles running across her skin.

  Then Constantine lowered the blade in a slow, deliberate motion, as if he were slicing the sky itself.

  His voice resonated across the entire city, amplified by the electric energy surrounding him.

  "Wrath of the Thundering Heavens."

  For a fraction of a second, everything became silent.

  The wind stopped blowing.

  Even Cassian’s heartbeat seemed to pause, suspended in that terrible moment of anticipation.

  All the accumulated energy exploded downward in a torrent of intertwined lightning—white, blue, violet—so dense that individual bolts could no longer be distinguished, just a column of pure destruction descending from the sky like the judgment of a furious god.

  The discharge was so violent that the air itself was torn by a supersonic bang that burst the eardrums of anyone too close.

  Buildings within a hundred-meter radius shook on their foundations.

  Cracks appeared in the walls that were still standing.

  Then the thunder arrived—not as a distinct sound, but as a physical force that slammed down on the entire city. Deafening. Crushing.

  So powerful that Cassian felt her bones vibrate inside her body, her teeth chattering involuntarily.

  She clapped her hands over her ears but it did nothing—the sound passed through her bones, through her flesh, through everything.

  When the noise finally faded several seconds later, a dead silence fell over the city.

  Cassian slowly lowered her hands, her ears ringing painfully.

  She looked toward where the lightning had struck and saw a smoking crater in the ground, residual electric arcs still jumping between the jagged edges.

  Constantine is completely insane. Who uses that kind of attack right in the middle of a city?

  ---

  A kobold ran through the rubble, dodging the bodies of its fallen companions, desperately searching for its leader.

  It finally found Dariston sitting in the ruins of a collapsed building.

  The werewolf was motionless, head lowered, staring at the ground as if searching for something in the dust and debris.

  The kobold approached cautiously, its steps hesitant.

  "Boss… everyone’s getting wrecked out there. The adventurers are massacring us."

  It waited for a reply that never came.

  "What do we do now? Retreat? Try to regroup the survivors?"

  Dariston did not answer. Did not move. Gave no sign that he had even heard.

  I was too confident.

  The werewolf thought, locked inside his own head, reliving every decision that had led him here.

  I may have conquered towns and villages these past months, but those were places with no real threat.

  Peaceful places, unprepared, where people lived their quiet lives without expecting a monster to appear and devour their families.

  The guards were farmers with spears. The militias were merchants who trained once a week.

  But here… here there was a guild headquarters. Adventurers. Defense infrastructure. Emergency procedures. People who knew how to fight, who had faced real threats.

  I thought I was strong enough.

  That the kobolds had devoured enough humans to become a force capable of at least holding their own against the defenders and potentially taking the city if everything went well.

  A monumental error in judgment.

  His invisible gaze lowered even further, as if trying to see through the ground, through the earth, to the center of the world.

  "Boss?" The kobold moved closer, cautiously extending a clawed paw. "Boss, what do we—"

  "Leave." Dariston’s voice was hoarse, almost inaudible.

  "Come back in ten minutes. I’m currently thinking about our best option."

  A pause.

  "You’re disturbing me."

  The kobold hurried away, its hind paws slipping slightly on the rubble in its haste.

  It knew from painful experience that when Dariston was irritated like this, it always ended badly for whoever insisted—usually in pieces scattered over several meters.

  ---

  Constantine landed heavily on the ground, his legs wobbling beneath him, completely out of breath.

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  His ultimate attack had consumed almost all his mana in one go—he could feel the emptiness in his body where the energy should have been flowing.

  The impact of his lightning had caused the ground to collapse beneath him and Hiro, creating a crater so deep they had fallen several meters into… something.

  He blinked several times to adjust his vision to the relative darkness after the blinding brightness of his technique.

  When his eyes adapted, his mouth opened slightly in surprise.

  They were in a long, wide underground tunnel lit by torches spaced regularly along the walls.

  The tunnel stretched in both directions as far as his eyes could see, disappearing into darkness.

  "I had no idea this was under the city."

  Constantine turned toward Hiro, looking for confirmation or an explanation.

  But Hiro was on the ground about ten meters away, motionless, face down, arms spread out on either side of his body like an abandoned doll.

  Blood flowed from several visible wounds, forming a small puddle beneath him.

  Constantine caught his breath with difficulty, his ribs aching with every inhale.

  "I win then." He let out an exhausted laugh that turned into a cough.

  At the beginning of the fight, he had been seriously worried—Hiro had read every one of his attacks with disturbing precision and had even begun perfectly imitating his sword techniques after seeing them only two or three times.

  It was astonishing and frankly terrifying to fight someone who learned that fast.

  He admitted inwardly that Hiro was a tough opponent, perhaps the hardest he had ever faced.

  And to think he was officially rank C—Constantine shivered imagining what Hiro would become once he ranked up, once he had more experience, more techniques in his repertoire.

  But for now, it was over.

  He turned his back on Hiro and walked slowly toward the center of the crater above them, raising his head to look at the night sky visible through the opening.

  It’s really deep.

  We must be fifteen, maybe twenty meters below street level.

  How am I supposed to climb out without mana?

  Suddenly he felt something—a presence, a threat, an imminent danger that made every hair on the back of his neck stand up.

  His survival instinct screamed.

  Constantine spun around, his hand instinctively going to his sword. But Hiro was still on the ground, in exactly the same position as before, completely motionless. No movement. No visible breathing.

  What was that?

  He scanned the darkness of the tunnel in both directions, searching for a hidden threat.

  Nothing.

  Just silence and the torches burning peacefully.

  Maybe it’s just the fatigue.

  After all, I just used my most powerful attack and I’ve basically emptied all my mana reserves.

  My body must be exhausted.

  He began to turn back to re-examine the problem of getting out of this hole—and found himself face to face with Hiro.

  Hiro’s face was only a few centimeters from his, his dark eyes looking directly at him, intensely, without blinking. Really close. Too close.

  How—?

  Constantine didn’t even have time to finish the thought.

  Hiro made a small downward gesture with his eyes, silently inviting Constantine to look.

  Constantine slowly lowered his gaze, almost against his will, and saw Hiro’s sword cleanly planted in his stomach.

  The blade went straight through, the tip emerging from his back.

  There was no pain. Not yet. Just a strange pressure and the sensation of metal inside him.

  Hiro pushed the blade deeper, driving it a few more centimeters. The pain arrived then—sharp, burning, unbearable.

  Constantine staggered backward desperately, ripping the sword from his stomach in a frantic motion, blood spraying from the wound.

  He pressed his hands against his abdomen, feeling the warm liquid escaping between his fingers.

  How is this possible?

  Hiro was supposed to be completely defeated, unconscious at the very least.

  How can he still be standing?

  How did he move so fast without me seeing?

  Constantine staggered back, his vision blurring slightly.

  He looked at Hiro with confusion and something that almost resembled fear.

  Hiro cannot be unharmed after my ultimate attack.

  It’s impossible.

  No one can take that head-on and stay standing. No one.

  But Hiro was standing.

  Injured, yes—Constantine could see the burns on his arms, the cuts on his face, the way he favored his left leg slightly. But standing. Conscious. Dangerous.

  I have to finish him quickly. Right now. Before my body completely gives out. Before I lose too much blood.

  Constantine drew on his last reserves of mana and moved. Lightning-charged instant dash—he vanished in a blinding flash of light, reappearing to Hiro’s left. Sword strike. Flash. Reappearance to the right. Strike. Flash. Behind. Strike. Flash. In front. Strike.

  They were brief, those moments of materialization, half a second at most, but he repeated them, creating an unpredictable pattern, playing with impossible angles and staggered timings.

  Hiro blocked the first strike with difficulty, his sword rising just in time. The second slipped past his guard and slashed his shoulder. The third was blocked. The fourth hit his ribs.

  But every time Constantine managed to wound Hiro, Hiro counterattacked in the same instant, his blade finding Constantine in the brief moment he materialized. A cut on the arm. A gash on the thigh. A blow that opened his cheek.

  Constantine accelerated the rhythm even more, ignoring the screaming pain in his stomach with every movement.

  He had almost no mana left—maybe enough for ten more flashes, fifteen at most.

  He had to end it now. He knew Hiro would eventually read his movements completely, predict where he would appear, and then it would be over.

  In one final desperate strike, Constantine materialized behind Hiro and slashed horizontally with every last ounce of strength he had.

  The blade bit deep into Hiro’s back. Constantine immediately braked his momentum, using his final drops of mana to create distance.

  He turned to look at the result of his attack, panting, his legs trembling beneath him.

  Hiro remained with his back turned, motionless.

  Blood flowed from the wound, soaking his shirt.

  Constantine smiled weakly, beginning to lower his guard—then suddenly spat blood. A lot of blood.

  He looked down in confusion and saw his own shirt soaked red, a new wound opening on his body.

  When…?

  His legs gave out and he fell to his knees, his vision blurring at the edges.

  Hiro slowly turned and approached with measured, deliberate steps.

  He was clearly not unharmed—his wounds were bleeding, his breathing labored, he favored his right side noticeably—but he was in far better shape than Constantine.

  Hiro’s gaze lingered on Constantine for long seconds, completely empty of expression.

  ---

  In the guild hall, chaos reigned despite the late hour.

  Wounded adventurers came and went, receptionists shouted orders, healers ran in every direction.

  A young adventurer with short, messy hair and armor clearly too big for her stood in front of the main counter.

  In her right hand she held something massive wrapped in bloodstained cloth.

  She dropped it heavily onto the counter, the cloth partially opening to reveal what it contained.

  The werewolf’s head.

  "I want to register this thing’s death in my name."

  Her voice was high-pitched but determined, her eyes shining with excitement.

  "For the five-thousand-gold-piece quest."

  Immediate silence fell around the counter.

  The nearest adventurers turned to look, their conversations stopping dead.

  Then the uproar resumed, louder, more indignant.

  "This makes no sense!" A bearded man in heavy armor stepped forward. "She only registered at the guild yesterday! I saw her filling out the forms to become an adventurer!"

  He pointed an accusing finger. "She’s rank F! Rank F! There’s no way she could have killed that monster alone!"

  Other voices rose in agreement.

  "She must have found the body!"

  "Or stolen it from someone else!"

  "It’s obvious fraud!"

  The receptionist—a middle-aged woman with glasses and an expression already exhausted before this situation began—raised her hands to call for calm under the pressure of hostile stares.

  "The confirmation of this quest will require a thorough investigation according to standard protocol for—"

  The adventurer exploded. "ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!"

  She slammed her fist on the counter, making the papers tremble. "I spent a lot of time dragging this head across the city! It weighs a ton! And now you’re telling me—"

  "It’s protocol, miss."

  The receptionist kept her professional voice despite the shouting. "For any high-importance quest completed by an adventurer whose rank is significantly lower than the—"

  "GO FUCK YOUR PROTOCOL! I KILLED IT! ME! ALL BY MYSELF!"

  The chaos intensified. Accusations flew. Insults rained down.

  The receptionist desperately tried to restore order while the head of Dariston lay on the counter, its red eyes still open, its terrifying smile frozen for eternity.

  ---

  In a street several blocks from the guild chaos, Lena and Lucia were crouched in front of a kitten.

  It meowed pitifully while rubbing against Lucia’s hand.

  "It’s too cute." Lucia scratched behind its tiny ears. "Look at its little paws. Look at them."

  Lena was equally absorbed, tickling the kitten’s belly as it rolled onto its back purring.

  Then she stood up abruptly, shaking her head as if waking from a dream.

  "We got distracted again! Completely distracted!"

  She looked around guiltily.

  "We were supposed to be rescuing injured people, helping civilians, being useful!"

  The kitten meowed plaintively, raising a tiny paw toward her, its enormous eyes staring at her with a plea that would melt a heart of stone.

  Lena lasted less than two seconds. "Just a few more minutes then." She sat back down and returned to petting the kitten, which purred with happiness.

  ---

  Hiro was now directly above Constantine, who lay on the ground, half-conscious, breathing with difficulty.

  The underground tunnel was silent except for the sound of their breathing and the distant crackle of torches.

  There was no one around—no one to witness, no one to intervene, no one to even know what had happened here.

  Maybe I should just kill him.

  The thought was cold, practical, devoid of emotion.

  Constantine was a problem. Constantine was circling Cassian.

  It would be so much simpler if Constantine disappeared, if his body never resurfaced from this tunnel, if he were found months later.

  Hiro slowly raised his sword.

  It would be quick.

  Constantine was no longer truly conscious. His eyes were open, staring at the tunnel ceiling, but they weren’t really seeing—looking without understanding, as if he were already halfway somewhere else.

  In his mind, in that strange place between consciousness and unconsciousness, he faced a younger version of himself.

  Little Constantine, with the same hair but longer, the same eyes but filled with pure, untempered determination—stared at him angrily.

  "You forgot our dreams?" Little Constantine’s voice was accusatory, hurt.

  "No." Constantine shook his head, his voice weak even in this mental space.

  "You forgot our promises then?"

  "No, never."

  "LIAR!" Little Constantine raised his voice.

  "If you hadn’t forgotten, why are you like this? Why are you losing to this guy? Why are you giving up?"

  He stepped forward, pointing an accusing finger.

  "Remind me. Remind me of our promise. Say it."

  Constantine closed his eyes, the words rising from a memory buried for years.

  "Become a hero."

  His voice grew slightly steadier.

  "No, not just a hero. The best hero."

  Little Constantine nodded, and together, their voices synchronizing perfectly, they said: "The best of all time."

  ---

  In the real world, Hiro had heard Constantine weakly murmur: "The best of all time."

  He frowned, not understanding the context, but his sword was already in motion, descending.

  Then he stopped the blade a few centimeters from Constantine’s skin, his arms trembling slightly from the effort of halting the swing.

  He didn’t know exactly why, but he felt something—an intensely strong sensation of death.

  If his blade had truly come down on Constantine, something terrible would have happened. Not to Constantine. To him.

  He looked more carefully at the unconscious man beneath him.

  How could he defend himself in that state?

  He’s clearly unconscious, unable to move, barely able to breathe. And yet…

  ---

  Cassian carefully descended into the hole that Hiro and Constantine’s fight had created, walking through the air by creating platforms beneath her feet.

  She had seen the lightning, heard the thunder, felt the ground shake, and her curiosity had finally overcome her caution.

  When she reached the bottom of the crater and her eyes adjusted to the dimness of the tunnel, she saw the scene in front of her and froze completely.

  Hiro and Constantine. Both injured, covered in blood. Constantine on the ground, unconscious or nearly so. Hiro standing over him, holding his sword.

  They fought. The realization hit her like a slap. But why? Why is Hiro’s sword so close to Constantine like that? Why is Constantine on his knees and so badly wounded? What exactly happened here?

  She began to think she really, really shouldn’t have come down to see.

  That she should have stayed up top, turned around, pretended she hadn’t noticed anything.

  But it was too late now.

  Hiro suddenly turned toward her, his eyes widening when he saw her.

  He looked panicked that she was seeing this—genuinely panicked, not the simulated or exaggerated kind, but a real visceral fear of having been caught doing something terrible.

  Too bad. She couldn’t pretend she hadn’t seen it now.

  Hiro hesitated over his words, opening and closing his mouth several times, clearly not knowing what to say, how to explain, how to justify what she had just witnessed.

  Then suddenly, before he could form an excuse or explanation, Cassian quickly stepped down and pulled him into a hug.

  Her arms wrapped around him, Hiro’s head ending up against her shoulder, his tense body pressing against hers.

  Hiro clearly didn’t understand what was happening—his body was rigid with surprise—but gradually, very gradually, she felt him begin to relax slightly in her arms, his breathing becoming less erratic.

  Internally, Cassian felt that if she didn’t do something immediately, if she let this situation continue even a few more seconds, it was going to end very badly.

  She didn’t know exactly how or why, but her instinct screamed that Hiro was on a razor’s edge.

  She felt Hiro calm down progressively in her arms, his muscles relaxing millimeter by millimeter.

  She was already regretting doing this—hugging this guy was probably the worst idea she had ever had.

  She was afraid. Really afraid. This guy was crazy, a mental case, a complete degenerate.

  She was certain he had been about to kill Constantine when she came down.

  She prolonged the hug because she literally didn’t know what to do next.

  He was in a dangerous, unstable, unpredictable state.

  Was hugging him really the right choice? Or had she just made a monumental mistake that would haunt her?