Blades crossed, shadows clung to shadows.

In the depth of the night, two figures wove through each other, their similar-shaped weapons spinning in arcs of seamless perfection, until even the torrential downpour couldn’t touch their bodies.

And strangely enough, though the battle raged fierce, there was hardly any sound. To any onlooker, it would appear an even, dazzling duel.

But the banshee grew more unsettled with every exchange.

“Fierce? Evenly matched?”

Was that really how one should describe a fight between # Nоvеlight # a Third Rank Peak and a late Second Rank?

Wouldn’t saying that out loud make others laugh their teeth out?

She stared at Muen Campbell’s face—no trace of fear in the heat of battle, only growing frenzy and a savage grin. Her own expression turned dark and twisted.

What a joke.

Realm, strength, power—every measure favored her.

The only thing he could show off was that bizarre speed, suddenly multiplying severalfold through some unknown technique.

But the gap between Third Rank Peak and Second Rank was this vast. Even if his speed jumped for a short while, it only “slightly suppressed” her. That “slight” edge was more than enough to be maddening.

Fighting him was like grappling a mudfish.

A mudfish that seemed to read her moves completely!

This man before her was slippery beyond belief. Never lingering, never greedy for a strike—always dodging her attacks with uncanny foresight, slipping in a quick cut here and there before vanishing again.

Why had their duel produced so little sound?

Because their blades almost never clashed!

And yet, in barely a couple minutes, dozens of cuts already marred her body. None were deep, but Elizabeth’s edge carried a property that burned like fire—the agony alone drove her nearly insane.

Evil cultists were tough to kill, yes. But she wasn’t immortal. At this rate she’d be carved to death alive!

“Why? Why can’t I hit you?!”

Her shriek split the night. A cold blue moonlight flared from her curved blade. Muen’s heart seized—he pulled back at once.

The strike split the ground in a massive gouge. Power enough to smash him into pieces ten times over.

But however mighty the blow, it meant nothing if it missed.

Meanwhile, she had overdrawn herself. Too much power, too little control—she couldn’t drive out the lingering Holy Light. Her wounds split open again, blood soaking her like a butchered animal.

“Looks like Miss Banshee isn’t nearly as confident now.”

Wiping blood from the corner of his mouth, Muen grinned.

“You have a Magic Eye?”

“Magic Eyes are rarer than phoenix feathers. How would I have one?”

“Can you foresee the future?”

“The future’s vague and elusive. I’m just a duke’s son—how could I possibly?”

“Then why can you dodge my attacks?”

Her earlier poise was gone. Her eyes glared with madness and bloodlust. “Not only dodge—several times you clearly predicted my strike!”

“Just a trivial little trick.”

Muen smiled lightly, uncaring, while in secret he crushed a magic crystal, hastily refilling his drained mana.

...

Suppressing her across a whole great realm wasn’t “a trivial trick.”

The real crutch was the Eternal Clock—Tenfold Time.

When his personal time stretched tenfold, it wasn’t just his speed that quickened—his thinking did too.

It gave him endless space to react, to study her moves, to read her intent.

And unfortunately for her, she insisted on fighting stripped bare—like some cheap island “educational film.”

That meant every flex of muscle, every gathering of strength, was laid bare to him, plain as day.

The result? To her it looked like he could see the future.

As said before—her direct battle experience was sorely lacking. Against another Third Rank Peak, such trickery would never work.

Take the adventurer in the Black Book’s records. He too fought stripped bare, but Muen never once dared to judge his moves by muscle alone—for a true master, even the smallest twitch could be a trap to lure prey in.

...

“I underestimated you, Muen Campbell.” 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

The banshee drew a deep breath. Her eyes were still shadowed, but her face steadied.

“Sometimes I doubt you’re really a pampered duke’s son. That ruthlessness, that experience, that calm—one would think you were raised on a mountain of corpses.”

“Heh, people often ask me that. But perhaps... some are simply born this way.”

Muen chuckled, tossing out words casually.

Inside, though, his heart tightened.

Because looking at her now—

“Time was on my side. But now... if I drag this out, you’ll carve me alive, piece by piece.”

She spread her arms, long black hair flaring, strange light blazing in her eyes.

Here it comes!

Muen sucked in a breath, muscles tightening like cords.

Next, she would unleash the full might of a Third Rank Peak. She would—

“【Prayer】.”

Her voice was cold, like pouring lament.

With those two words, all fell silent. Even the rain vanished into stillness.

It was as if the world itself waited on her next phrase.

“【Great Lord of the Dark Night, God Without Light, Master of Shadow and Silence—Silent Moon...】”

“【Answer your humble servant’s call, and descend with your mighty power.】”

Not a martial art... a prayer?

Muen’s teeth ground together. His heart cursed in fury.

Damn it—so we’re done playing fair?

Not even tossing a few techniques first—straight to dragging in an Evil God?

No sense of martial honor—where’s the justice in this?

A Third Rank fighting a Second Rank, and still shamelessly calling outside help? No face at all!

But there was nothing he could do. Helplessly he watched her mocking eyes as she whispered out every solemn line, one word at a time.

Because his body was already frozen stiff.

Cold moonlight spilled down, beautiful enough to make one gasp. But for Muen there was no beauty—only endless ice, locking his body still.

His shadow stretched long under that light... and then began to move on its own.

It sprouted into countless tendrils, coiling around him, dragging him to the ground.

Hissing whispers filled his ears, like a thousand vipers spitting tongues.

The crushing weight smothered him like the deep ocean, even his blood sluggish to flow.

Pinned to the ground, rain slapping his face, Muen stared silently up at the sky—at the eerie blue moon gazing coldly down.

Then suddenly, he grinned.

He forced up his one barely-moving finger—the middle one.

And to that lofty god above, he spat out a perfect, sharp syllable of national essence:

“Asshole.”