The day was unpleasant. That much was obvious.

  A dry sort of heat.

  Like sticking her head directly into a baker’s oven, then throwing the rest of her body in after, just for the sake of consistency. From a clear blue sky, a burning ball of hate beat down on their arena turned blood slick battlefield. Painting the dry grasslands a shifting red hue.

  One that had very little to do with the warm splashes of iron.

  The sun’s rays cast a carpet of ruby red refractions that danced in time with her every step. Eleanor spun, and the dappled shade followed, sidestepping the reaching grasp of ephemeral claws and snapping, far reaching jaws.

  Eleanor swung, dispersing mirage walkers just as fast as they arrived, irregardless of whether they’d meant as a distraction or not. Slashing them from the air, beheading, bisecting, even as they lunged unerringly for her throat.

  By her hands, dozens of the mirage cats fell, scattered into heat waves and reverberating yowls—their true bodies still circling, ever circling out of reach. As they had been ever since they’d realized the truth of her abilities.

  Unwilling to close the distance when even a scratch received meant an exponential rise in her power.

  Glancing up, she noted the two flowers that slowly orbited her brow. Only two roses left out of the five she’d been gifted. Stable while in their preserved state, they only lasted around five minutes when popped. The rift spawn clearly knew this, and so intended to wait her out. Annoying.

  And to make matters worse, she’d yet to even face off against the monarch proper.

  The King of their Royal Lion’s Pride.

  [Royal Lion’s Pride (Monarch Class | S Grade Rift Spawn)]

  Abilities:

  Bestial Stature, Bestial Strength, Bestial Speed, Debilitating Roar, Toughened Hide, Toughened Bones, Group Tactics, Lions Pride, King’s Aura, Reaching Claws, Extending Fangs, Illusory Step, Mirage Walk, Circle of Life, Monarch’s Decree.

  Weaknesses:

  ???

  Twice her head height at the shoulder, with shaggy sand colored fur, claws the size of long daggers, and scars crisscrossing its heavily muscular frame, it lounged atop an earthen rise a hundred meters distant.

  One that overlooked their flat stretch of terrain. It didn’t even deign to spectate the ongoing battle. Instead choosing to doze, its posture aloof, head resting on paws the size of dinner plates. Sporting a regal, golden mane that put all other males in its pride to shame, the rift spawn radiated a king’s authority, even whilst it was fast asleep.

  As if to disrupt its slumber, meet its eye, or otherwise garner its fleeting attentions was to court death—swift and brutal in its overwhelming execution.

  A true S Grade Monarch whose assortment of abilities she hadn’t even scratched the surface of. Been deemed worthy of seeing just yet.

  In truth, she’d yet to prove herself worthy of challenging its pride, let alone the monarch. Though that wasn’t to say things were entirely hopeless. Just as they had taken her measure, so too had she taken theirs in turn. And now, at long last, Eleanor finally found herself in a position to act.

  With sure steps, invigorated by her inner soul flame, she exploded forward. Instantly, phantom conjurations descended on her from every direction, projected claws and fangs and lunging feline bodies. All of them hazy around the edges and glowing an etheric blue.

  She flowed. Danced. Predicted. Prevailed.

  She knew now, from ample experience, they would only ever strike where she was weakest, and so, in that way, she knew exactly where they would strike. All else was a mere mirage, an illusion, a feint. So far, she had yet to reveal she could tell the difference between the two.

  And so, as she barreled straight on through said illusions, deflecting only when absolutely necessary, she recognized this was a trick that would only work once.

  Once was all she really needed however, an anticipatory grin splitting her face as she closed with the visibly shaken lion’s pride. Realizing they’d been deceived, they scrambled, switched up their tactics—etheric claws tearing burning lines down her legs, arms, and sides—but it was already too late.

  Her sword tip licked out with fine precision.

  Catching the light with brief flashes as it carved into the nearest demon. It yowled, lunged aside just as a mirage clone leapt from its retreating form. Not before nearly a hundred thin cuts scored into its toughened hide, however, instantly doubling her available petals. Eleanor easily bisected the clone, never halting her stride, then lashed out again with a diagonal strike—feeling her petals strike bone this time.

  The flayed rift spawn slumped to the ground, paralyzed, its spine having been severed. Hearing its cries, three more rushed to its aid, darting forward with ground eating strides. They came at her from left, right, and behind. Eleanor spun, splitting the air with an artist’s flourish, illustrating with elegant strokes the realization of her mastery.

  Cutting sharp lines of cursive as she weaved a tapestry of death. And all the while, flowing over and under her strikes, like a glittering school of minnows, was the twisting swarm of petals. Ever the obedient tool, it lashed out like a serpent's tongue. Surging forward at the behest of her blade.

  In short order, three more of their pride fell. Death by a thousand cuts. A downward slash all it took to deliver the still injured one into the great beyond. Leaving only eight for her to further contest with.

  Daunting.

  Or at least it would have been, had her petals not already numbered in the thousands. Eleanor popped her second to last rose flower, not wanting to lose her streak in the heat of battle. The glow of her blade grew nearly blinding before it once more dimmed, as her time limit was reset.

  She stared at the diminished pride, having gone back to their circling. It was clear that they would not be making the same mistakes again. They’d be more cautious no doubt.

  Even more illusive.

  Unfortunately for them, it would appear they’d still yet to realize that the game they were playing had entirely changed. Uncaring of the space that now separated them, Eleanor swung her blade. Glittering petals soon followed, reaping nothing but devastation in their wake.

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  As if the very sky were falling down, the flat end of the massive weapon descended. Air whistled past his relatively diminutive form as the frozen hammer head grew closer and closer. And then even closer still.

  An entire buildings’ worth of ice and bone made as if to smash him flat, his figure a mere ant before the might of a meteor.

  His only response?

  Jun swung upwards, directing an invisible blade of pure need at the several ton weight. Even as it threatened to topple, to level, to crush him until he was little more than red paste.

  And yet, even as death loomed, he never lost hope.

  Never once did he despair. And it was for that very reason that a top-heavy halberd, covered with intricate runes, appeared in his hands just before the moment of truth.

  And then there was only the shuddering impact as a veritable building landed on top of him.

  A deafening CRACK resounded, like the echoing report of thunder.

  A spider web of fractures racing out and along the blunt instrument, as the head of his pole arm bit deep into the icy war-hammer. Bit deep, stuck fast, and arrested its downward momentum. Full stop. An ant before the meteor.

  The earth beneath him buckled. His feet sinking several inches into the ground, as he bore the impossible weight of the figurative mountain that pressed down on him.

  Legs trembled. Teeth clenched.

  Jun strained with all he had. Every muscle, every tendon, every fiber pushed to its maximum. Standing out in stark relief. He felt his body reach the furthest extent of his natural limits, and then, with a flare of his will, he pushed beyond the realm of mere mortality. The physical manifestation of his fighting spirit pulsing out from him in golden waves.

  The hammer head trembled, fractured, groaned, and then was cleanly sheared in two.

  The severed halves cascading down to either side in an avalanche of ice and bone. And with the thunderous collapse came an explosion of arctic mist. Of gale force winds, and flying shards of ice.

  A whipping hailstorm of deadly proportions.

  Scoring the ground for miles around and peppering the space where he now occupied. Or… where he hadoccupied, at any rate. His body already on the move. Swerving, sliding, feet skidding across the tundra.

  Flashing past the collapsing remnants through the channel he’d just carved, a streaking blur of golden light catching the noonday sun. Bolting. Charging.

  His pace relentless.

  Racing toward the distant figure covered in frost, a blade of palpable need already poised and ready to swing. The giant’s eyes widened nearly as much as its manic grin. Jun matched the giant pearl for pearl, an unmistakable excitement thrumming in his veins.

  Jun lashed out.

  Two headed battle axe meeting frost wreathed hammer like the sonorous striking of a gong. Earth fractured, ice shattered, snow blasted away in concentric rings. And all the while, neither one of them gave even an inch.

  Jun’s strength now more than a match for the veritable titan, even if the cost was not one any reasonable person would willingly pay. Jun felt the pervasive jolt, now so painfully familiar, as his already broken bones were further fractured.

  Endured the nauseating sensation as torn muscle and ligaments were made to contract. As snapped tendons were somehow forced to continue to strain.

  His body literally being held together by stubborn willpower alone. His stark refusal to quit animating a body that’d been pushed well past its breaking point, and quite some time ago at that. The manifestation of his convictions a brilliant golden aura. A radiance that was killing him, just as surely as it was keeping him alive.

  Briefly, the two separated, before striking out simultaneously. Horizontal arcs collided, force exploding outward. The ground around them shook.

  The very air set to vibrating.

  Diagonal chops met halfway. Again. And again. And once more for good measure. Four-foot-long cleaver meeting frost forged metal. Bearded handaxe leaving a faint line in its wake. Broad claymore, as thick around as his waist, turning that shallow line into a shallow groove.

  Over and over. Again and again.

  Weapons clashed with concussive force, ringing out across the tundra like some metallic percussion—striking half a dozen times for every second that passed.

  Sparks flew. The air sang.

  The Monarch’s great hammer inundated with fresh nicks all the while. Worse for the wear after each brief trade of blows, after each repeated engagement, though never to the point of making an actual difference.

  Every colossal collision leaving its mark on a land already scarred well beyond recognition. An overhead swing, easily blocked, tearing deep fissures into the landscape beyond. Descending sweeps and ascending arcs sending ripples down and through their bodies. Through the soles of their feet and into the ground itself, seismic waves rolling out like receding ocean tides.

  And for a time, the two were evenly matched, deadlocked in their titanic struggle.

  Until, that was, Jun began to come to terms with his body’s furthest limits. And so, as was only natural, went even further beyond. The giant staggered back as its next blow was met with a great deal more force than it’d been expecting.

  A minor stumble that soon became two.

  Then three.

  And finally, an all-out retreat.

  The weight of each subsequent blow somehow surpassing the last, and not by a small margin either. Until it was the Monarch sent flying with each resounding clang, each devastating trade, each overwhelming assault. Made to skip helplessly across the broken tundra.

  Battered this way and that as if it weighed no more than a rag doll. Indeed, it was all that it could do to simply bring its hammer around in time.

  The giant hurtled through the air.

  Disoriented. Afraid.

  Spinning out of control, and with no off-ramp in sight. Overpowered for what was probably the first time in living memory. His only warning a golden flash. Honed instincts winning him the day. Or at the very least, preventing him from being shorn in two immediately.

  The Crusher of Ice & Bone brought his hammer around in a wide arc, just barely colliding with the speed-demon’s horizontal swing. Just in time to be blown back. Shot out like a cannon ball. Thrown several hundred paces away. Another flash, another deflection, another few hundred paces.

  Three times. Four times. Twenty. More.

  At some point, the giant stopped wondering when he might get a chance to touch down on the ground, and really started pondering, if.

  It tried many things. To bend the cold to his will. Slow the child with his aura. Raise golems to distract the devil thing long enough for him to catch his bearings.

  All was for naught. All was for nothing.

  His fearsome roar lost to the howling winds. His golems useless at the speeds they were moving. His glacial aura seemed to work for a moment, but only for that moment. A burst of golden light shedding off the effect as one might a loose, unwanted blanket.

  If he were able to plant his feet on the ground, it would’ve been child’s play to simply shimmer step away, collect himself, retaliate. Unfortunately, the chances of such a thing happening were seeming less and less realistic by the second. Which left only one, final, last-ditch option.

  Field of Ice & Bone.

  A domain of authority expanded out from the frost giant in a wave. A raging blizzard. A furious arctic squall. One where, in place of snowflakes and hail, there were splinters of bone. Flying bone projectiles and glass shards pretending to be ice.

  The storm churned, seethed with a startling ferocity.

  Carving up the ground into a slushy kind of mulch, whilst flaying anything else within its rapidly expanding territory well within an inch of its life. A frigid cold descended, temperatures which put the prior effects of his aura to shame. Seeping into muscle, stiffening extremities, and threatening severe frostbite after only a few seconds’ of exposure.

  It was his salvation as well as his final trump card. A last resort should he ever find himself in such an implausibly untenable position. It was because such a prospect had previously been so alien to him—contingencies and protective measures were for the weak, after all—that he rarely deigned to use this ability.

  Now that he’d been pushed to this extreme, however, the S Grade Monarch, last of his kind, butcher of his people, the self-appointed Crusher of Ice & Bone, had no doubts whatsoever that-!

  There came a golden flash from somewhere in the storm. A shudder was felt through the whole of his domain, as something impossibly massive—rivaling his descending avalanche in sheer scale—descended.

  Blackened blood spurted out from each of the giant's orifices, insides butchered by the spiritual backlash, as his domain of authority was sheered cleanly in two. The last thing he saw before everything went black? The clouds parting before the keen edge of an axe the size of a small mountain.

  BOOM!