The air howled like a living thing. Niko squinted through the gale, arm raised to shield his eyes as a relentless wind battered him, tugging at his tattered cultist cloak and forcing him to crouch low just to keep from being thrown off his feet.
Something was coming.
He could feel it in the Essence around him—the kind of pressure that made the skin on his arms tingle and his instincts flare. The room around him, carved open by Chalice's earlier slash through the tower, was dim and broken—chunks of wall floated weightless, suspended midair by whatever force now ruled the space. A storm without a sky.
Niko narrowed his eyes, bracing his boots against the sliding floor.
Then—out of the murk—he appeared.
Tall. Lean. Calm. A silhouette at first, stepping through the swirling wind like it was just another hallway. His coat whipped around him, sleeveless, thread-lined with gold, flaring like a war banner. His hair was a sharp mess of dark, brazen green—like a pine forest turned steel—and his eyes… they didn't glow like Chalice's, but they burned.
Not with light. But with judgment.
The boy looked to be around Niko's age—maybe seventeen—but the power that rolled off him told a different story. Niko felt his fingers twitch at his side, instinctively reaching for the hilt of his blade.
Before he could speak, the stranger did.
"Who are you?" Niko asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though the wind stole some of it.
The boy grinned, half amusement, half malice. "Ha. Shouldn't I be asking you that?" His voice cut through the wind like a clean spear. "You're intruding in my home, you know."
Niko's stomach sank. He didn't need to hear the rest. He already knew.
This was one of them.
One of Dem Oche's children.
The ones Chalice mentioned so casually—like throwing out the garbage. "I'm leaving one of them to you!" he'd said, like this was going to be a warm-up. That clown.
The stranger took another step forward, the winds suddenly ceasing as if bowing to him, air falling still with eerie obedience.
"Name's Lancer," he said at last. "First son of Dem Oche."
He said it without pride. No swelling of the chest. No arrogance. Just the facts—like a weapon naming itself.
And then the blade twisted.
"Though," Lancer added, cracking his knuckles lazily, "it won't really matter."
He raised his hand slowly. The air around his fingers began to shimmer, particles of dust vibrating, crackling.
"Because soon…"
His lips pulled into something cruel.
"…you'll be dead."
Niko swallowed.
This wasn't a spar. This wasn't like fighting thugs in back alleys or guards with clubs. This wasn't even like that brutal fight with Chalice underground.
This was something else.
He took a step forward, drawing his blade with one clean motion. His hands were steady, but inside, his heart thumped like war drums. He knew he didn't stand on equal ground—not yet.
But he wasn't planning to die today.
He scowled and lowered into stance, cloak fluttering behind him, blade catching the first breath of wind.
"…Try it, then."
Before Niko could even process a plan, Lancer casually lifted his hand—two fingers pointed toward him like he was picking out a meal.
At first, nothing.
Then—pressure.
Niko's throat seized tight, breath vanishing from his lungs in a single terrifying instant. He tried to gasp, but no air came. His feet were no longer touching the ground. He was suspended—weightless, voiceless, helpless.
What the hell kind of ability was this?
It felt like gravity had flipped sideways, like space itself had folded around him, pressing in, suffocating him without hands. But his grip on the blade didn't loosen.
His body screamed for oxygen.
He clenched his jaw, forcing his energy to surge. And in a blink—Blitz. A white-blue streak cut through the suffocating air as Niko sliced down with a burst of speed and force, snapping himself out of whatever zone Lancer had locked him in.
He landed in a crouch, coughing hard, lungs seizing back control.
No time to think.
He rushed forward—fueled by instinct and desperation. His blade came down with raw momentum, a downward slash meant to cleave, break, or something.
But it didn't even touch.
It stopped midair—blocked effortlessly.
By nothing.
Lancer hadn't moved. His arms were still by his sides, that same relaxed look on his face as if he were watching someone practice in a courtyard.
"What the hell…" Niko muttered.
Wind? Shields? Some kind of distortion field? Niko couldn't tell.
Lancer sighed, as if bored, and flicked his fingers.
WHAM.
A crushing force slammed into Niko's gut. It wasn't a punch. It wasn't even a blast. It was like the space in front of him punched him. He flew back across the broken room like a ragdoll, the wind whistling past his ears as his back slammed through shattered stone.
Before he could drop into freefall through Chalice's massive vertical slice, a hand caught him by the collar.
"Let's move somewhere better," Lancer said with a tilt of his head.
And then he threw him.
Niko crashed through the tower walls like a meteor. Dust and debris rained down behind him as he burst out into open sky.
Now he was really falling.
Below him—the Sanctuary.
A city of steel spires, bridges, and domes. People looked up from the streets, eyes widening, screams rippling like wildfire as they spotted the boy tumbling from the tower's height.
Panic hit the city like a wave.
But Niko wasn't focused on that.
His heart raced. His mind screamed. That guy. He was insane! He hadn't even drawn a weapon. Hadn't even moved. And Niko had already been manhandled like a rookie in his first fight.
He couldn't lose like this.
Not in front of all those people. Not when Chalice trusted him with this.
He twisted midair, slinging out two of his whitish-blue energy tendrils—one latching to the tower wall, the other toward a higher ledge. He kicked off with a burst of Blitz, zipping through the air in a chaotic arc, slingshotting up toward Lancer.
This time—he aimed for the throat.
But just like before—his blade didn't reach.
It stopped, a hair's width from Lancer's skin, like the world itself refused to let it connect.
The air around Lancer rippled faintly—barely perceptible. As if the very fabric of reality bent around him. Niko's tendrils strained. His muscles screamed.
Still—no contact.
Lancer blinked once.
And the wind howled.
"Still trying?" Lancer said, his voice as calm as ever. "You're persistent. I'll give you that."
Then he stepped forward for the first time—just one footfall.
And the sky cracked around them.
Niko's eyes widened.
This was going to be a hell of a fight.