Bright wings of pure light spread wide against the gray sky of Valdris, casting a golden glow across the ruined street below. Michael Weston hovered fifteen meters above the shattered concrete, his expression indifferent, almost bored, as he looked down at the figure struggling to rise from a crater of broken asphalt.
Caelan Asten pushed himself up on trembling arms. Blood ran from a gash above his left eye, dripping onto his silver hair. Both swords were still in his hands, though the right one was chipped near the tip. His violet eyes, despite everything, remained sharp and clear.
"I'm quite surprised to see a Mana Heart Rank 2 cultivator holding out this long against me," Michael said, his voice carrying easily across the empty street. "But I must say, your intent is far above mine. If we were in the same rank, you might have been able to even injure me."
Caelan stood slowly. His legs shook.
"Don't write me off just yet," he said quietly, "because I'm not done."
