CHAPTER 82: CLIMACTIC OR ANTICLIMACTIC?

As the ballistas fired, Tyr responded with a laugh, deep and thunderous like distant thunder rolling across a still sky.

With a single fluid motion, he lifted his moonlight-forged sword, spun on his heel, and unleashed a sweeping arc so precise and powerful, the entire magical barrage was shattered mid-air, scattering like droplets in a storm.

Cynthia didn’t falter. She glided backward across the water, her steps whisper-light as if skating on ice, leaving ripples that glowed faintly under the moonlight.

As she moved, she carved arcs of glowing magic into the air, elegant circular strokes that shimmered before firing jets of pressurized water toward Tyr with a hiss of compressed force.

"Keep up!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the mist like a challenge hurled across a battlefield.

Tyr charged, dashing across the moonlit surface, each stride accompanied by a burst of ripple. His sword sang through the air, slicing apart the pressurized blasts with a grace born of centuries of honed discipline. Every swing dissipated the water before it could even touch him.

But Cynthia’s mobility far outpaced him—her gliding dance across the rippling water a blur of speed and grace, each new circle conjured faster than the last. The barrage became a storm, relentless and clever.

"Smart strategy, young one... but not enough." Tyr smiled calmly, then spun once more—this time not to block, but to summon.

From beneath him, a geyser erupted, monumental and roaring.

"What?!" Cynthia gasped, only for her eyes to widen—Tyr had vanished.

"Too fast?" His voice now whispered from beside her.

He was no longer chasing—he was next to her, moving like moonlight on water.

"Ahhh!" Cynthia cried, flicking her wrist sharply. In that same moment, her figure dissolved—like a mirage swallowed by a wave. A giggle echoed behind him.

"Got you!" she called out, standing several meters away—still at her original position

.

Tyr blinked. The Cynthia he’d been chasing had never moved. A watery illusion had led him in circles, mimicking every motion with convincing precision.

"I took a bit of inspiration from this trick," she said with a laugh, already conjuring another spell. Slender needles of water floated around her, glinting under the moon like threads of liquid crystal.

Tyr narrowed his eyes. "What an uncivilized strategy!" he barked, lunging forward.

His sword danced—a blur of arcs and spins. He cleaved through the air with surgical precision, each movement slicing down a needle. The weapons were nearly invisible, thin as hair, fast as light, and yet—he cut every single one.

"Woah..." Cynthia breathed, watching the display. "I don’t even think the royal family gets entertainment like this."

Tyr chuckled, winking in the middle of a spinning flourish. "Thank you, young lady."

Just as he finished the last strike, the needles burst into mist—a sudden cloud of white vapor that swallowed the battlefield like creeping fog.

"Another disappearing trick, huh?" Cynthia murmured. She tapped her foot against the water, sending a controlled ripple outward like sonar.

Her eyes narrowed.

"Found you!" she shouted, launching a compressed geyser from below—a twisting column of water erupting where the disturbance had been felt.

But then—

Her instincts screamed.

In the space of a breath, a silver flash cut through the mist—Tyr’s sword arcing toward her from behind. She ducked, heart pounding, the blade grazing so close it clipped a strand of her hair, which floated briefly before vanishing into steam.

"Caught you..." she grinned, glancing over her shoulder with a smug glint in her eye.

"What...?" Tyr said, brows furrowing.

Then he felt it.

Cynthia raised her hand, and tiny threads of water—barely visible—responded to her motion. They glowed faintly in the moonlight, like spider silk strung across the battlefield.

The moment she pulled, Tyr’s entire body constricted, arms locking in place. He was tangled in a web of microscopic waterstrings, set perfectly while he’d been lost in the mist.

"You’re quite a smart one!" Tyr laughed, hearty and impressed, despite being unable to move.

"But not enough!" His eyes flashed, ancient magic beginning to glow within—

But before the spell could even manifest—

The strings detonated.

"Huh...?" he managed to say, blinking in shock.

"Teehee~" Cynthia hummed, letting go of the thread with a cheeky smile. She crouched down, bracing herself.

Boom!

The explosion came instantly—steam erupting in all directions, a violent blast of heat and pressure concentrated into the threads themselves. Each line ruptured outward, vaporizing in a cascading chain reaction that turned the trap into a blooming nova of fog and force.

"Wait—!" Tyr shouted, only to be swallowed by the violent burst.

Cynthia turned her back, lips curved in a proud smile.

"Not done yet!"

She raised both arms, eyes gleaming.

"Pressure Spike!"

The mist that lingered in the air suddenly collapsed inward, pulled by unseen gravity, condensing into a heavy, shimmering cloud—a magical minefield of compressed vapor.

But then—

A radiant beam of moonlight split the cloud in half, cleaving the spell cleanly from the inside out.

Tyr stepped forward, unscathed. His eyes glowed with calm defiance, sword glowing once again in that haunting, sacred silver.

"Almost got me there..." Tyr let out a breathless laugh, his stance still proud despite the steam curling around them.

"Got more tricks up your sleeve, young lady?" he added with a roguish grin, clearly enjoying the challenge.

Cynthia, instead of responding, just stared at him—wide-eyed, stunned.

’This thing has way too much personality to be just a test...’

’Constructs don’t smile like that. Don’t laugh like that.’

’He’s not part of the trial... He is the trial.’

’Could it be...?’

Then, slowly, she spoke.

"You’re... a real person, aren’t you?"

Tyr blinked. His sword, glowing faintly in his hand, flickered—as if even it didn’t know how to react.

"Uh... yeah?" he said slowly. "Did you think I was just another construc—"

"You’ve got to be kidding me!" Cynthia suddenly shouted, hands thrown up in disbelief.

Tyr took a step back, startled. "What? What do you mean?"

His sword vanished completely now, dissipating into mist as he raised both hands in mock surrender.

The battlefield, once charged with tension, fell strangely quiet—caught in the awkward stillness of confusion.

The duel had reached an unexpected stalemate.