Dúnadan stares at Ilúvëthar's expression for several long seconds. Despite the prince's arrogance, Dúnadan remains calm, the lines of his ancient face unreadable. As someone who has lived for over a thousand years, he's seen countless faces, countless lies, and countless falls. "Speaking this way will not trigger a reaction from me," he says finally, his voice a low rumble, steady and measured. "I suggest you stop acting. I have witnessed many come and go, and someone like you cannot fool me."
A golden mist begins to rise from Dúnadan's body, swirling lazily upward as it vaporizes into the air. The aura carries with it a faint hum, a resonance that speaks of age-old power held in check by sheer will. "There are very few ways to aggravate me," he continues as the mist thickens, "and speaking is not one of them."
Without warning, Dúnadan takes a single step forward, the ground beneath his feet shattering instantly. The force propels him like a comet, blasting toward Ilúvëthar with terrifying speed. The cave shakes from the sheer impact of his movement, and the air trembles in his wake.
Ilúvëthar barely has time to react as the ashen figure closes the distance. With a single strike, Dúnadan's fist connects, sending the elven prince hurtling backward through the cave. The impact carves a deep horizontal groove into the ground, rubble exploding outward as Ilúvëthar crashes through stone and earth, his body slamming into the cavern wall with a deafening boom.
"How fast..." Ilúvëthar grunts through clenched teeth, his vision reeling from the sheer force. As his eyes meet Dúnadan's dark face through the debris, the guardian's form is already looming above him. There is no hesitation, no pause. Dúnadan's fist slams downward with relentless power, driving Ilúvëthar meters deeper into the stone with a single blow, the ground buckling under the weight of the attack.
"What a hassle," Ilúvëthar mutters, his voice calm despite the chaos. He brushes away the settling dust as he forces himself upward with a single, precise movement, completely unscathed. His silver-blue eyes gleam, a smug smile curling his lips. "You've grown weak. A true guardian could kill me with a single punch," he says mockingly, adjusting his gloves as if preparing for a game. "Then again, it's more appropriate to call you a failed guardian... failing to abide by simple rules."
Dúnadan's gaze narrows, though his face betrays no emotion. Despite the blindfold covering his eyes, his senses hone in on the elven prince's energy. 'One master-rank artifact... and five seeker-rank artifacts. That's overkill,' he assesses silently, his posture remaining fixed. The faint glow of Ilúvëthar's artifacts catches his attention, and his experience tells him they are more than ordinary trinkets. "Most artifacts consume vast amounts of mental energy and mana," he warns. "Relying on them is a sure way to die."
Ilúvëthar clicks his tongue, frustration flashing briefly across his face before he schools his features back into his usual smirk. His eyes shift toward the ancient tree in the distance, its flower glowing faintly amidst the black vines. 'I need to reach that flower before the others catch up,' he thinks, his mind racing. To get past him, I'll need to expose some of my skills, as long as I can get to the kingdom before they relay any information I'll have the upper hand.' Popping his knuckles casually, he steps forward, the faint glow of his gloves intensifying. "My artifacts," he says smoothly, "aren't like the ones you've seen before. See for yourself."
With that, Ilúvëthar vanishes. His form blurs in an instant, and he reappears directly in front of Dúnadan. The guardian lifts his arm instinctively, bracing for a strike to his right side—but nothing comes. Before he can process the movement, Ilúvëthar is already past him, his figure a blur heading straight for the towering tree.
Dúnadan freezes for a fraction of a second, his senses struggling to reconcile what just happened. 'I'm positive he was striking...' he thinks, his confusion mounting as he turns to follow the elven prince's trajectory.
The gloves Ilúvëthar wears, the Gloves of Cutho, are an ancient artifact of the elven kingdom. Crafted by a legendary martial artist thousands of years ago, they are imbued with the essence of combat deception—a technique perfected to exploit an opponent's instincts and distort their perception. The gloves create faint illusions of movements, amplifying feints and misdirecting the enemy's focus. It is a tool of precision and guile, designed for those who rely on cunning over brute strength.
"Let's play catch," Dúnadan rumbles, his voice calm yet laced with an undercurrent of menace. His massive hand extends outward, palm open, as shards of radiant light coalesce before him. The energy solidifies instantly, forming an ancient blade nearly 18 meters in length. With a single motion, he sends it rocketing toward Ilúvëthar, the blade cutting through the air like a falling meteor, leaving behind a trail of burning light.
-
"Oi, let me handle her," Baya interjects with a cocky grin, tilting her neck until it pops audibly. She mirrors the motion with her knuckles, the cracking sound echoing faintly in the cavern. Her green eyes gleam with excitement as her hands move to tighten the red ribbon around her ivory hair. Her stance widens as she sets her sights on the ashy, rotten-looking woman standing before them. "I've been itching for a good fight."
The atmosphere in the cave is suffocating, layered with dread and uncertainty. The monstrous figure floating above on his throne adds an unbearable weight to the situation, and the ashy woman emanates a bone-chilling presence that gnaws at the edges of everyone's resolve. Bein, ever calculating, surveys the scene, his expression grim.
'This is bad—no, worse than bad,' Bein thinks as his hands twitch toward his weapon. 'We've got two opponents who are clearly beyond our level, and those disgusting creatures are creeping closer by the second. Even with the restrictions lifted, that so-called "fairy king" is amplifying their strength somehow. Add to that the steady sound of those approaching footsteps... Leena must be sending reinforcements. Dammit!' He scratches his head, the tension mounting with every passing second. 'And where is Leena? Is she planning to ambush us?'
His train of thought is interrupted as Cora grips Baya's shoulder firmly, her voice low but urgent. "No," she orders. "Step back. Something's wrong." Her sharp gaze remains locked on the ashy woman, but her attention flickers briefly to the floating figure above them. Her instincts scream at her as she studies the energy in the air. 'The mana shifted the moment she arrived. This monster isn't ordinary—she's likely a high-ranking mage.'
"My, my~" the ashy woman speaks, her voice a melodic purr that sends chills down their spines. Her fingers, tipped with sharp obsidian nails, tap rhythmically against her dark cheeks as she takes a deliberate step forward. "No need to be afraid~" Her tone drips with mockery, seductive and unnervingly calm. She lets out a low laugh, a sound that echoes faintly in the cavern like a haunting melody. "Hmhmhmhm~ Given the audience, it's only proper that I introduce myself, though... I seem to have forgotten who I—"
"You are Ithiona," Mirelith's voice interjects, his words cutting through the air like a blade. His tone is devoid of warmth, factual and commanding. "Ithiona, guardian of the Everseed, bringer of life, saintess, defender of the forest," he states with a quiet finality, his golden eye gleaming as he gazes at her from his throne.
The ashy woman, now named Ithiona, tilts her head slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. Her bow is slow, deliberate, and carries an unsettling grace, her blindfolded gaze seemingly piercing through her opponents. Her voice, when she speaks again, is soft and laced with malice. "As you've heard from him, he who we failed," she says, her hand rising languidly in a theatrical gesture.
In a single fluid motion, she extends her arm fully, her dark skin glowing faintly in the dim light of the cavern. Her voice, now dripping with venomous amusement, sends a ripple of unease through the group. "I will be torturing you from here on out," she purrs, her words punctuated by a sudden burst of purple light that blinds and disorients them.