CHAPTER 354: JUDGEMENT (2)

Darius’s men broke into whispers. Some thanked the gods. Others cursed. A few trembled so badly they dropped their weapons.

The mutants hissed. Dozens of them, restless now, uncertain. Their hunger warred with their fear, and Darius prayed silently that fear would win.

Maeven, however, only watched. The pale-haired man tilted his head slightly, lips curling in the faintest of smiles. He studied the hooded one with the patience of a collector deciding whether the specimen in front of him was genuine or counterfeit.

"You carry something," Maeven said at last, voice soft, lilting. "Something not yours."

The words tightened the air. Darius’s skin prickled. His men looked at one another, lost, shaken.

The hooded figure gave no answer. Only the steady glow of those red eyes beneath shadow.

Maeven’s smile widened by a hair. "How curious."

The pressure in the cavern doubled, though neither moved. The humans were frozen between them, trapped in the gravity of two forces whose motives they couldn’t begin to understand.

Darius found his throat dry. His heart screamed for him to order retreat, but where? Behind them was only more stone, deeper tunnels. Ahead stood death in white hair and death in a hood.

And for the first time in weeks, Darius realized he wasn’t sure which one he should be praying against more.

The hooded figure’s hand twitched against his coat. The faint pulse of something beneath it, a sword? A weapon? Darius couldn’t tell. What he did know was that his men were about to witness either salvation or annihilation, and he no longer knew which he wanted more.

The two forces stood, staring, the cavern walls bending with the weight of them.

And the humans held their breath, waiting for which death would strike first.

—

The cavern was too small for the weight pressing inside it.

Lindarion could feel every breath the humans dared not take, every tremor of their shields, every throb of fear bleeding into the stone. It disgusted him — not their weakness, but the way their silence made Maeven’s presence seem louder, like a bell ringing in a crypt.

The white-haired bastard stood where the firelight kissed his pale skin, so smugly calm that it boiled something black in Lindarion’s blood. That same composure he had seen when his academy burned, when students screamed in collapsing halls. When Dythrael vanished and Maeven simply watched.

The memory scraped like broken glass against his mind.

He stepped forward.

[Warning: Mana fluctuation unstable.]

He ignored the system’s whisper, red eyes never leaving Maeven. The blood at the corner of his mouth had gone dry, cracking against his lip when he spoke.

"You." His voice was sandpaper, rough, stripped bare. "You will not leave here."

Maeven tilted his head, that porcelain mask of indifference never breaking. "And you intend to stop me?" His voice was smooth, practiced. Every syllable felt like he was playing with the words, like toys in his hands.

Lindarion’s hand slid under his coat. The sword pulsed once against his palm, as if it recognized the hunger in him. It wanted blood as badly as he did.

The cavern shifted, shadows dragging long behind him. The humans stumbled back instinctively, clearing space though no one dared to breathe the order.

Maeven’s eyes, pale as winter ash, glinted faintly in the gloom. "You’ve changed. The little prince of blades now walks with a leash around his throat. Who tugs it, I wonder?"

Lindarion didn’t answer. His silence was sharper than words.

[Battle Commenced: High-Threat Entity Detected.]

The system’s text burned in his vision. He blinked it away and unsheathed the sword.

The sound wasn’t a normal draw of steel. It was deeper, darker, like a breath exhaled by something that had been waiting far too long in the dark. The humans flinched as if it had sliced the air itself. Even the mutants shifted uneasily, their guttural hisses dying into something almost wary.

Maeven smiled. "Ah. So that’s what clings to you. Not yours, though. No... you’re just the hand holding the leash this time."

Enough.

Lindarion blurred forward.

His foot struck stone and shadows exploded outward, flinging him across the cavern faster than muscle alone could manage. The sword sang as it cut, not air, not flesh, but existence, a line of black tearing through the dim light toward Maeven’s chest.

Maeven moved only at the last moment, tilting sideways as if leaning away from an inconvenience. The blade kissed his coat instead, fabric hissing, a lock of his pale hair severed.

For the first time, the smile faltered.

Lindarion’s eyes burned redder, his teeth bared with blood still drying on his lips. "Run from that."

Maeven’s hand rose. Not a spell, no, Lindarion could feel it. Not mana shaped into symbols, not words etched into the air. Just raw, twisted power. It condensed into his palm, black veins crawling across his skin as the air thickened like tar.

He thrust it forward.

The cavern roared.

Stone walls cracked under the pressure. Humans screamed, shields raised, though most were thrown back by the wave of force alone. The mutants scattered aside like leaves caught in a gale.

Lindarion cut into it.

The sword split the torrent of corrupted mana down the middle, shadows latching onto the raw energy and consuming it like carrion. The clash rattled his bones, threatened to tear the weapon from his grip, but he pressed on, step by step, carving a path through until the two forces slammed against one another in a thunderclap of impact.

Dust fell from the cavern roof. Cracks spiderwebbed above them.

Maeven stepped back once, his hand lowering slowly. His lips curved again, but not into his usual smug smile. This was thinner, tighter. Almost... interested.

"You’ve grown teeth," he murmured. "Good."

Lindarion’s chest heaved. Shadows crawled along his arms, eating the dim light. He spat the blood in his mouth onto the stone. "I’ll use them to tear your throat out."

And he lunged again.

The cavern couldn’t hold them. Each clash sent shockwaves slamming into the walls. Each stroke of Lindarion’s blade carved trenches into the ground, each deflection from Maeven’s hand rattled the air until men fell to their knees clutching their heads.

The mutants tried to swarm once, and were shredded apart as Lindarion’s swing cut three of them in half in a single arc. The sword drank their blood greedily, its surface glowing faintly as if satisfied.

Maeven laughed softly at the sight. "A butcher’s blade suits you."

"Better than cowardice suits you."

Their weapons met again, steel and corrupted mana colliding, a storm of sparks and shadow. Lindarion pushed, every muscle straining, every vein screaming fire. His heart thundered against his ribs, but beneath it all was the rhythm of the sword, guiding his strikes, whispering to him without words.

He could almost taste Maeven’s blood.

Almost.

But Maeven wasn’t cornered prey. His movements were too precise, his counters too sharp. Every time Lindarion thought he’d broken through, the white-haired man slid aside, redirecting the force like water slipping around stone. He was playing.

And Lindarion knew it.

[Warning: Mana overdraw approaching critical.]

The system’s voice gnawed at his skull. He ignored it, blade lashing again, shadows whipping outward to form spikes that tore toward Maeven’s chest.

Maeven lifted his hand and snapped.

The spikes crumbled midair, dissipating into nothing.

Lindarion’s stomach twisted. That wasn’t raw strength. That was knowledge. Understanding of the same darkness he wielded.

Maeven smiled again, faint but sharp. "Ah. So that’s who taught you. Curious indeed."

A red haze pulsed in Lindarion’s vision. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. If Maeven even suspected Ouroboros—

’No. He cannot know. He will not.’

His blade came down like judgment.