The battle between Roda and Braham had raged for nearly half an hour, yet neither of them had managed to gain a decisive edge. Blades had clashed, mana circles had flared, and the ground beneath their feet was scarred with the aftermath of their violent exchange. But it was becoming clear—Roda was losing ground.
Her breathing had grown ragged, her shoulders rising and falling in exhaustion. Her pale face was slick with sweat. She had been far from her peak even before the battle began—thrown into this timeline, her strength had already been waning. Now, she was burning through what little remained, pushing herself past the edge of what her body could bear.
And yet, despite it all, the Holy Tree that answered only to the Prophetess—still lent her its power. Even though she did not belong to this version of reality, it recognized her. It supported her. But it wouldn't be enough if she kept fighting like this. Something had to give.
