Dan's fight with the Dark Elf was reaching its climax, but neither Damien nor Anna moved to interfere. The outcome was already decided.
Both fighters were at the Fourth Rank, yet the skill gap was undeniable. Dan's swordplay was fluid, refined—every movement precise, every strike deliberate. In contrast, the Dark Elf was fighting a losing battle, his technique dulled by fatigue and the wounds he had already sustained.
The rapier and sword clashed, sending sharp metallic echoes reverberating through the cavern. Sparks danced with each collision, momentarily illuminating the Elf's strained expression. His breath came in ragged bursts, his grip tightening around his weapon as frustration built within him.
"What the hell is Vael up to? How is he still not done with those brats?"
He hadn't spared a glance at his so-called ally, too preoccupied with keeping himself alive. But something was wrong. A cold unease crept up his spine.
