Chapter 93: Clearing Out-4.

A low hum filled the air as Nyverra stopped in front of the second red pillar.

The atmosphere buzzed with unstable mana, thick and oppressive. The beam of red light shooting into the sky from the crystal, at it’s center casted eerie shadows across her face.

"So this is what’s messing with the barrier," she whispered, her violet eyes narrowing. "Time to shut it down."

Without waiting, Nyverra stepped forward. Her black sword hung at her side, the blade slightly curved and pulsing with faint darkness.

Then, her eyes narrowed, as she looked at her side.

Shhk.

She twisted to the side just on the correct time. A gust of wind brushed her cheek as a blade passed where her head had been.

A cloaked figure emerged from the shadows beside the crystal, their face completely hidden beneath a tattered black hood.

Nothing about the figure spoke—no words, no presence, just an overwhelming silence.

Nyverra’s grip on her sword tightened. "So you’re the one behind this."

The cloaked figure didn’t respond.

Instead, they crouched low, raising twin curved daggers with green etchings, and launched forward again.

They were fast—so fast that most Adept ranker wouldn’t have been able to see the blur of their movement.

Clang!

Nyverra caught the strike. Sparks burst out from where their blades met, and shadows danced wildly from the clash.

"Oh, you’re fast," she muttered, pushing the figure back.

The cloaked attacker didn’t stop. Their next move was already in motion, slashing in a whirlwind of steel and wind, aiming to overwhelm her with speed.

Nyverra’s eyes flickered with cold focus. She stepped back, letting the attacks brush past, one after the other, each narrowly missing her as she read the rhythm.

Then—she vanished.

Or rather, she merged with the shadow beneath her.

Darkness exploded outward like ink in water.

The cloaked figure stopped. For a split second, the battlefield was quiet again. Then—

Crack!

A pillar of darkness erupted from behind them.

Nyverra shot out like a dart from the black mist, her sword swirling with dark element as she slashed toward the figure’s back.

But they twisted, narrowly blocking it.

The force of her attack threw them back several meters. The figure slid along the grass, but didn’t fall.

Nyverra landed, her blade still humming. "You can react to that?" She tilted her head.

"Interesting..."

The figure said nothing. They raised a hand—and the wind responded.

A typhoon of spinning blades, dozens of them, roared to life and shot at Nyverra. Each blade was formed of compressed air and infused with sharp mana, capable of slicing through trees.

She raised her hand.

"Dark Veil."

A dome of shadow bloomed around her, blocking the blades into the darkness. The blade vanished, completely absorbed.

Then she dashed forward, ripping through her own veil.

The two clashed again. Blade against blade.

Sword against wind.

Nyverra’s style was precise—measured and elegant.

She parried and dodged, each movement efficient, calculated. It showed in the way she swung her sword why she was the next successor of the sword saint.

In contrast, the cloaked figure moved like a storm—wild, fast, and unpredictable. It was as if a raging bull was fighting instead of a human.

Slash!

A dagger grazed her side, leaving a deep cut.

"Tch." She clicked her tongue.

Nyverra stepped back, placing two fingers near the wound. Black smoke curled out from her skin, stitching the wound shut temporarily.

Then she vanished again.

The battlefield darkened as tendrils of black mana spread across the area like cracks in the air itself.

From every angle, shadows lunged at the figure—twisting arms, jagged claws, blades of midnight that struck with deadly accuracy.

The cloaked figure grunted, dodging some, slashing through others. But the darkness was relentless.

Her control over the shadows, was profound not at the same level of Samuel but still impressive.

"Shadow Prison."

Chains of darkness erupted from the ground, coiling toward the figure’s limbs.

The figure tried to cut through them—but the moment their blade touched the chain, the steel turned to smoke and swallowed their arm.

They jerked back—but too late. One of his legs was caught.

Nyverra’s sword gleamed.

She appeared before them, her blade pointed at their chest. "End of the line."

But at that very moment, the cloaked figure’s body pulsed with green light. A shockwave blasted outward, breaking the shadowy chains and throwing her back.

Nyverra tumbled and landed on her feet, sliding a few meters. "Wind burst... an advanced spell. So you were holding back."

The cloaked figure now breathed heavily. Their shoulders trembled as blood slipped down their side. Her attacks had done damage.

But so had his.

Nyverra took a deep breath.

Her skin was slick with sweat, and her arms burned from the sheer amount of mana she’d used. It wasn’t easy to come all the way here.

Unlike, Kevin who god knows how he got away from monster’s. Nyverra had been fighting them non-stop since coming here. And now that was taking it’s toll.

This wasn’t like the spars at the academy, no thos was a real battlefield. One wrong move and she’d be dead.

The wind around the figure intensified. Blades of air formed a ring around them. It was a final attack—a gamble.

Nyverra’s eyes narrowed.

Dark mist swirled around her feet.

"You want to go all in?" she whispered.

"Fine."

She raised her sword, pointing it forward.

"Oblivion " Her words rang around the surroundings.

The shadows around her condensed into the blade.

The sword turned pitch black, veins of violet lightning writhing across it. The grass beneath her feet withered, eaten by the pressure of her mana.

The figure raised both daggers.

The wind howled.

And then they both moved.

Boom!

They clashed in the center. The ground cracked from the impact. Wind blades shot out in all directions, and arcs of shadow lashed out like snakes.

Nyverra twisted midair, parrying one dagger and slashing with her blade—only to be cut across her thigh. She grimaced, as she spun low, and brought her sword up from beneath—

Slash!

The cloaked figure flew back, rolling across the field. Their mask cracked, blood trailing behind them.

Nyverra fell to one knee, panting hard.

Her hand trembled.

The figure stood up slowly. Their hood had fallen halfway, revealing a face partly covered in scars and injuries.

But they didn’t speak. Just glared.

"You’re persistent," she said, rising. "But you have already lost."

The figure raised their hand one last time, gathering wind.

But then—cough.

They coughed up blood.

"Told you, you already lost."

Nyverra didn’t wait.

She charged.

With her last strength, she slashed—and the figure tried to counter.

But the damage inside caught up.

Their body twisted, breaking the stance—and Nyverra’s blade sank in.

The figure’s head flown off, as her blade sliced through, and not only till the figure, the dark slash from her blade moved forward as it cut through the pillar also.

Crack.

The crystal cracked. Red light sputtered and dimmed. The oppressive mana began to fade.

Nyverra dropped to her knees, panting, holding her sword like a cane.

"It’s done..."

The figure fell, on the ground with low thud. Blood gathering on the ground.

******

"Why?! Why is this happening?!"

The Drunkard’s voice echoed through the dark chamber as he hurled a bottle at the ground. It shattered into pieces, and liquor splashed across the stone floor.

"How can those damn kids be so strong?!" he shouted, grabbing his messy hair in frustration. His face was red with rage and drink.

"They took down two of the Wind Triplets! How?! I should just go there myself and kill every last one of them!"

He staggered, pacing back and forth. Then suddenly, his eyes lit up. "Yes... yes! That’s it! I’ll go myself! I’ll kill them all! I’m a genius!"

He turned to leave.

But then—

"Sit. Down. Drunkard."

The voice came from the shadows. It was deep, calm, and terrifyingly powerful.

The Drunkard froze mid-step. He turned slowly, and his eyes widened in horror.

His own shadow stretched unnaturally across the wall—twisting and flickering like it had a mind of its own. From within it, two glowing green eyes opened, piercing through the darkness.

The Drunkard dropped to his knees. Cold sweat dripped down his back.

"L-Lord R-Rodrick..." he stammered.

"Yes," the shadow replied, its voice like a distant thunder rumble. "As I said back off."

"B-but, the kids—"

"I know," Rodrick said, cutting him off without raising his voice. "I’ve been watching. And so has the academy."

The Drunkard dared not move. The room had suddenly gone much colder.

"You can’t reveal yourself," Rodrick continued. "Not yet. The world believes you’re dead. That’s how it needs to stay."

"But—"

"You will not act without permission."

The Drunkard swallowed hard, nodding. "Yes... yes, Lord Rodrick."

Rodrick’s glowing eyes narrowed.

"It’s Hours Serpent, an Advanced-rank beast," he said calmly. "You really think a bunch of sheltered academy brats can bring that down so easily?"

The Drunkard didn’t answer.

"Let it play out," Rodrick said. "And if—by some miracle—they win... then we will have some good information on the two Calamities."

"Yes, my lord..."

The eyes faded, and the room went dark again.

The Drunkard sat back down, trembling slightly, his wild anger now buried beneath fear.