A pristine, glowing white magic circle expanded beneath Sheila's heels, pulsing with soft light as silent currents began to coil around her legs. With a sudden, sharp flick of two fingers—a quick, precise motion—the air condensed violently around her hand.
"Wind magic: Ventus."
Three razor-thin arcs of compressed wind manifested in midair, gleaming with a translucent white sheen. They cut through the quiet guildhall with a high-pitched whistling roar, launching forward in parallel paths and slicing toward her opponent before the dust from the magic circle could settle.
Damian did not step back. Instead, his right hand dropped to the hilt of his katana, his thumb flicking the guard to unseat the steel.
In a single fluid motion—a split-second draw—he whipped the blade upward. The steel glinted, cutting a clean vertical arc through the air.
Steel met compressed wind with a metallic crack, splitting the incoming gale cleanly in two. The severed wind burst outward, scattering harmlessly into gusts that whipped at his haori.
Without breaking momentum, Damian stepped into the opening created by the shattered spell. Pivoting on his lead foot, he leveraged the momentum of his first parry to swing the blade back in a swift, horizontal counter-slash aimed straight for Sheila's neck.
As the horizontal arc swept toward her, Sheila did not jump or duck. She simply untethered herself from gravity. Her heels lifted an inch off the floorboards, her body gliding backward like a phantom.
Damian's katana whistled through the empty space where her chest had been a moment before, missing her tailored suit jacket by a hair's breadth.
He pressed the attack instantly, surging forward with a volley of precise, high-speed strikes. Every thrust and slash was a razor-sharp blur aimed at critical points. Yet, Sheila remained effortlessly out of reach. Floating completely weightless, she relied on tiny, subtle shifts of her frame rather than heavy footwork.
A thrust aimed at her throat missed as she drifted slightly to the left, the cold steel skimming past her neck. A blinding diagonal cut came within inches of her shoulder, but her floating torso tilted back at an impossible angle, letting the blade glide harmlessly over her clothes.
Damian narrowed the distance with a lightning-fast combination that left no room to breathe. The tip of his katana nicked her outer sleeve, but every time his blade was about to bite deep into flesh, Sheila's body swayed back like a leaf caught in an updraft. Floating backward in a continuous, smooth retreat, she turned his deadliest strikes into a sequence of near-misses, staying just beyond his reach.
Damian's blade flashed forward in a sudden, blinding thrust straight for her center, coming so close the cold air off the steel chilled her skin. Instead of drifting back, Sheila capitalized on her weightlessness. She tilted midair and launched her right leg in a lethal, high-speed arc aimed directly at his temple.
The kick carried formidable momentum, but Damian was prepared. His free hand shot up, fingers snapping shut like a vise around her ankle. The grin on his face was immediate and measured.
"Your distance was off," he noted, holding her fast. "I got you."
Sheila did not panic. She winced, her expression darkening into a sharp grimace, and violently wrenched her entire body midair. A stomach-churning crack echoed through the room as she intentionally twisted her caught joint against his grip to pivot her frame around.
Before Damian could process the sacrifice, Sheila thrust her palm out, planting it inches from his chest. A fierce, localized gale erupted from her hand in a blinding flash. The raw force detonated between them, shattering his grip on her foot and blasting him across the pit.
He hurtled backward like a cannonball, slamming violently into the far stone wall with a heavy, dust-raising crash.
'Close combat with him is dangerous.' Sheila reasoned internally, landing on her uninjured foot. 'I need to keep him at range.'
The thick cloud of dust at the base of the shattered wall began to settle. From within the haze, a faint rustle of fabric echoed, followed by the sound of deliberate footsteps. Damian stepped out from the debris, entirely unfazed. Aside from a heavy coating of gray dust across his shoulders, he did not carry a single scratch.
He rolled his shoulders with a quiet breath, flicking a stray piece of rubble off his sleeve before fixing his amber eyes across the room.
Sheila was kneeling on the cold floor, her face pale and sweat-beaded from the pain. Her hands were clamped tightly around her sprained ankle—the very one she had deliberately twisted to break his grip.
As Damian watched, a warm, brilliant white light erupted from beneath her palms. The harsh glow seeped through her fingers, washing over the bruised skin of her leg. The tension in her joint dissolved as bones aligned and tendons knit themselves back together in seconds.
Sheila let out a long breath, her posture easing as the white light faded. She smoothed down her clothes, rolled her freshly healed ankle to test the joint, and looked up to meet his gaze.
"You can use healing magic," Damian observed, his voice structured and calm. "A practical asset for a doctor."
Sheila stood up, her expression completely flat. "And you remain troublesome in close quarters."
Her dull, lusterless eyes narrowed slightly. 'His magical energy is overflowing, circulating constantly through his frame and his blade. Yet he not using Ethernal Infusion.'
After a short pause, she asked, "Tell me. Why are you refraining from using magic to enhance your physical capabilities?"
"The reason is simple," Damian replied smoothly, his eyes drifting over the dozens of unconscious Phantom Lord members lying around them. "I have no desire to inflict collateral damage upon our fellow guild members. They did not choose to participate in this battle. That is why I suggested we take this outside."
Sheila stared at him. After a long, slightly awkward pause that highlighted her poor social habits, she spoke.
"I see. I share your sentiment regarding the collateral damage. I have no quarrel with the guild members. They are... colleagues. Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for you."
Damian feigned a wounded look. "That is harsh."
"Honesty is efficient," Sheila replied plainly.
A blazing magic circle sprang to life beneath Damian's boots, burning bright red as he began to recite a steady, deliberate chant.
"Small as an ember, sharp as a blade.
Unleash the tempest the fire has made..."
Sheila's eyes widened slightly in genuine disbelief. 'An incantation? In active combat?'
Incantations required setup time. In practical combat, full chants were strictly reserved for surprise attacks, or backline support while frontline allies engaged the combat. To begin reciting a chant directly in front of an opponent's face was not merely reckless—it was a statement of complete disdain. Damian was silently asserting that Sheila did not even warrant the effort of an instant-cast spell.
A cold flicker of anger touched Sheila's eyes. Using her floating magic, she launched off the floor, shooting through the air like a streak. She glided effortlessly over and around the bodies of the unconscious mages. To her, this chant was a massive, open vulnerability.
She closed the distance in a fraction of a second, hurtling toward him from midair. Capitalizing on her momentum, Sheila twisted her body and threw out a devastating kick with her right leg, putting her full momentum behind the blow.
Damian did not pause his recitation. He barely looked up.
"Predictable," he murmured.
In a split second, he brought his left forearm up to intercept the strike. A dense, deep crimson aura instantly coated his arm like a solid shield. Sheila's shin slammed into his reinforced forearm with a deafening, metallic crash.
He did not yield an inch. But the sheer force of Sheila's kick shockwaved through his frame and detonated outward. The wooden floor beneath Damian's boots shattered, and the massive stone wall behind him spiderwebbed with violent, deep cracks. The residual shockwave tore through the surrounding timber—proving the sheer lethality of her strike—yet Damian remained rooted to the spot, holding her kick with a single arm.
"While I stated I would refrain from offensive Infusion," Damian said, a small grin touching his lips, "I made no such promise regarding defensive reinforcement."
Sheila's expression tensed. 'A feint. The incantation was bait.'
In that split second of impact, Sheila hesitated. Caught off guard by the ease with which he had blocked her strike, her mind stalled—the option of using a wind blast to disengage didn't cross her mind in time. Damian did not waste the opening. In one fluid motion, he dropped his blocking arm. Lacking footing, Sheila began to drift downward, her floating magic leaving her vulnerable in midair.
Crouching low, Damian drove the base of his foot straight up into her midsection with terrifying speed. The brutal strike detonated against her stomach. Even while holding back his full power, his physical strength launched Sheila high into the air, sending her soaring several meters before she crashed hard into an oak table below, reducing it to splinters.
Sheila groaned, her vision swimming as she forced herself up from the wreckage. She coughed, spitting a trace of blood onto the stone before dragging the back of her sleeve across her mouth.
She was given no time to recover. Damian raised his hand and flicked his fingers. "Fire magic: Ignis."
A minute, fast-moving spark of concentrated heat shot from his fingertips, zipping through the air directly toward her. The moment the tiny ember made contact, it expanded rapidly, triggering a localized combustion that violently rocked the floor.
Before the first blast cleared, Damian flicked his wrist again. And again. And again. A rapid sequence of sparks launched from his hand, detonating in a relentless barrage. Explosion after explosion tore through the timber, keeping Sheila pinned under constant pressure so she could not raise a hand to cast a healing spell.
When the detonations finally ceased, a thick, suffocating cloud of smoke completely buried the area where she had fallen.
"Recognize the gap in our experience, Sheila," Damian said, his voice cold and even as he lowered his hand. "Allow me to teach you your place."
As the smoke began to clear, Damian's amber eyes widened. The calm, instructional composure on his face vanished, replaced by complete, uncharacteristic shock.
For the next few seconds, only two thoughts dominated his mind.
'A Wizard Saint... only a Saint could manifest force of this caliber.'
Followed immediately by:
'Ethernal Manipulation.'