This wasn’t just about survival anymore.

  It wasn’t just his life on the line.

  William, Dovak.

  If he held back now, he would die.

  No—worse. They would all die.

  A notification flashed across his bracelet.

  [ SERENUS ACTIVATED ]

  [ TWENTY-PERCENT CAPACITY ]

  A shift, like a door unlocking inside him.

  His vision darkened at the edges, his pulse steadied. He felt calm.

  The moment Serenus activated, the world slowed.

  Every movement. Every breath. Every detail. Everything became sharper.

  His muscles loosened, yet remained coiled like steel.

  His breathing fell into a steady rhythm.

  And for the first time in this fight—his power was evenly distributed.

  Serenus.

  A skill that allowed its user to clear their mind completely, reducing all thoughts to the essentials, specially created for survival.

  It required extreme discipline and focus.

  Nigel could only manage twenty percent of its full potential, but even that was enough.

  His combat ability surged.

  A temporary edge, only for a few minutes.

  He attacked.

  Dovak joined him at the last moment, and they charged in unison, their movements precise, refined.

  When Charles lashed out, they were ready.

  This time—they dodged.

  His monstrous limbs sliced through empty air, missing them by mere inches.

  Dovak lunged, his greatsword whipping upward in a brutal arc, aiming for Charles' abdomen.

  The blade connected, but barely penetrated.

  Before Dovak could react, Charles simply drove his elbow downward, shattering the sword in two.

  With a casual flick of his wrist, he shoved Dovak aside like a discarded rag doll.

  Dovak crashed onto the ground, coughing from the impact, his wide eyes locked onto the broken remains of his weapon with disbelief.

  Nigel kept moving.

  Charles’ hand shot toward him in a vicious, clawing strike—

  Nigel twisted away, evading with inches to spare.

  This isn’t working.

  Even with Serenus, he was barely keeping up.

  No openings. No chance to counter.

  And then, an idea.

  A high-risk move.

  A technique he had barely trained in, reckless and dangerous. One Nazli taught him.

  But in this moment—he had no choice.

  His grip tightened on the daggers.

  Daggerspin.

  A technique that required absolute precision.

  By rotating the blades at high speed, he could generate enough force to cut through even hardened defenses.

  But the risk was immense.

  A single mistake, one slip of focus—And he’d sever his own fingers, or even his entire hand.

  While continuing to evade Charles’ attacks, Nigel began.

  The daggers started slow, moving in small, circular patterns in his hands.

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  Each spin grew faster, faster—

  He moved his arms in a fluid figure-eight motion, keeping the blades in constant rotation.

  The air hummed with sharp whirls.

  Within seconds, the daggers were moving at blinding speed.

  His focus was absolute.

  But even in this state of clarity, he could feel it—

  Small cuts forming on his fingers and palms.

  Blood trickled from his hands, a sign of his lack of control over the technique.

  No time to stop.

  Charles attacked again.

  Nigel exhaled—then struck.

  He brought his hands together, the spinning daggers aligning in a single deadly motion.

  The technique wasn’t perfect—but it worked.

  Charles’ hand flew off.

  The severed limb hit the ground with a wet thud, fingers still twitching.

  For the first time, Charles reacted. He just stared at the stump where his hand used to be.

  He smiled. A deep, horrifying grin.

  "Well, well." He whispered, almost reverently.

  "Very well done."

  Charles raised his remaining hand.

  A burst of blinding light exploded from his palm.

  Nigel and Dovak staggered back, their vision obliterated by the sudden flash.

  When their sight returned—

  They were no longer on the battlefield.

  They stood in a wide plaza, surrounded by dozens of people. At first, Nigel thought they were other participants. Then, he noticed the inconsistencies.

  Something was wrong.

  Floating above them, Charles spread his arms theatrically.

  "Welcome, one and all!"

  His voice boomed through the air.

  "Tonight, you will put on a most spectacular performance!" He grinned, gesturing to the crowd.

  "Some of you are real."

  His voice dropped to a whisper, sinister and sharp.

  "And some of you… are mere illusions."

  Nigel’s stomach dropped.

  "But beware!" Charles continued, laughing.

  "All of them will try to kill you."

  His form began to fade.

  "Now, entertain us with your show!"

  And with that—he vanished.

  "Shit."

  Nigel cursed under his breath.

  Dovak immediately drew another greatsword from his inventory—as if the broken one had never existed.

  "How the hell do we tell who’s real?" Dovak asked, scanning the shifting horde.

  Nigel’s eyes narrowed, muscles coiling.

  "It doesn’t matter."

  He raised the Reaper.

  "They’re all trying to kill us."

  Dovak grinned.

  "Good point."

  "So what’s the plan?"

  "Simple."

  Nigel exhaled.

  "We just kill everything that approaches us."

  Dovak laughed.

  "Now that’s something I can get behind!"

  The battle had barely begun, yet it felt like an eternity.

  Dovak swung his greatsword, cutting down everything in his path, but most were illusions—vanishing into smoke the moment his blade passed through them.

  Nigel was in the same situation.

  But instead of using his weapons, he relied on his fists.

  The Reaper had become heavier with every passing minute, the strain of wielding it unfamiliar, a reminder of how little he had trained with it.

  The daggers were no better. His hands were still raw from Daggerspin, every movement sending sharp pain lancing through his fingers.

  So he relied on what remained.

  His own strength. His own body.

  Blow after blow, he fought. But the relentless wave of enemies never seemed to end.

  Exhaustion crept into his muscles, slowing his reactions, wearing him down.

  Until suddenly—it stopped.

  The illusions no longer attacked.

  Instead, they had turned their attention elsewhere, attacking someone in another part of the plaza.

  Nigel, still breathing heavily, took a step back. "Only two of them were real."

  Dovak, leaning against his embedded sword, frowned. "How do you know?"

  Nigel lifted his hand, letting a small, gleaming gem roll between his fingers.

  "Illusions don’t drop Diamantines."

  Dovak blinked.

  "Oh." He exhaled, feeling slightly stupid for not realizing it sooner.

  Before he could dwell on it, another enemy rushed at him.

  Without hesitation, Dovak gripped his greatsword, spun on his heel, and delivered a single, clean cut.

  The attacker was bisected instantly.

  The body hit the ground, and another Diamantine rolled toward his feet.

  Dovak let out a low chuckle. "That one was real."

  Nigel didn’t reply.

  They took the brief moment of peace to recover their strength, but they kept their stances defensive, expecting the next attack at any moment.

  Then—

  "Hey!"

  A familiar voice shouted from the distance.

  Both men turned sharply.

  William came running toward them, waving one arm.

  He was panting heavily, clearly out of breath from sprinting.

  "I’ve been looking for you guys for a while!" he called out, relief evident in his voice. "Things got bad real fast. I heard you through my ability and figured you were in trouble. I thought maybe I could help… even if I’m not much of a fighter, I can still do something."

  Dovak smirked. "Well, that’s good to hear. How’s the hit to the head?"

  William’s face scrunched in confusion. "What hit?"

  Nigel and Dovak exchanged glances.

  They both thought the same thing.

  He didn’t remember.

  The blow Charles had dealt him must have been so severe that his brain simply erased the memory, which meant he had no idea what had even happened to him.

  Nigel sighed. "Doesn’t matter. Right now, we need to focus on surviving."

  Without hesitation, the three of them fell into formation. Back to back.

  A familiar strategy—but an effective one.

  Then, as if sensing their readiness, the illusions surged forward once again.

  Dozens of them roamed the plaza, searching for prey. And soon, they found them.

  At least thirty figures emerged, surrounding them from all directions.

  Nigel exhaled slowly.

  With a single thought, he pulled the Reaper from his inventory. He had recovered a bit of strength, so it was time to use it again.

  The weapon materialized in his hands, its familiar weight settling against his grip.

  As his fingers curled around the shaft, the blade morphed into its scythe form, its dark, curved edge gleaming under the dim plaza lights.

  Dovak lifted his greatsword, ready.

  And then—

  William.

  He was oddly calm. No panic. No hesitation.

  In his hand, he held a single black dagger.

  And for some reason—

  Nigel had a feeling he was hiding something.

  "They're coming!" William shouted.

  A new wave of attacks surged toward them, forcing the trio to fight for their lives once again.

  It took only a single hit to make the illusions disappear, but the problem was landing those hits—they moved with unnatural agility, dodging and countering with precise, well-timed strikes.

  No matter how many they cut down, more appeared.

  Their bodies ached, their movements slowed, and exhaustion weighed on them like lead chains. This wasn’t a battle of power.

  It was a battle of endurance, and they were losing.

  Then—things got worse.

  An illusion almost reached William.

  Nigel acted on instinct.

  He swung Reaper, the curved blade slicing through the air before cleaving straight through the figure, sending it flying several meters.

  The moment his weapon hit the ground, he felt it.

  A sharp, stabbing pain.

  His ribs.

  His breath hitched as he turned his head slightly, just enough to see—

  William.

  Charging toward him.

  His expression was twisted, a warped, unnatural grin stretched across his face.

  And in his hand—

  A dagger, buried halfway into Nigel’s abdomen.