Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 121: Pressure Meets Precision

Chapter 121: Pressure Meets Precision

Amari and Shylo struck in tandem—fast, focused, desperate. She dodged with uncanny precision, shifting her weight just enough to evade Amari’s blade as it whistled past her throat, then twisted as Shylo’s staff cracked toward her ribs. She caught the weapon mid-motion and spun Shylo off balance before launching a blistering kick into Amari’s chest.

He skids back, eyes flaring.

Shylo recovered—barely—and dropped into a low stance, aura beginning to hum around his fingers. His Unco, reactive and rhythm-based, flared brighter the more he synchronized with Amari. And Amari... was moving faster now. Not with brute strength—but clarity. His strikes weren’t wild. They were intentional. Calculated chaos.

She blocked a flurry of slashes, parried Shylo’s sweeping arc, and pivoted under a double-strike that should’ve floored anyone else. But she stayed fluid—like the fight hadn’t even begun to tire her.

Kael watched from the edge, arms crossed, a crooked grin pulling at his lips. His voice low:

"They’re trying."

Then louder, to the guardian: "Still playing?"

The woman—the royal guardian—smiled without warmth.

"They’re coordinated," she admitted, flicking her wrist to deflect a cross-punch from Amari and snapping Shylo’s ankle sweep with a single stomp. "But it’s not enough."

Amari’s heart pounded, mind clawing for escape routes. No cracks in the formation. No tunnel. No veil cover. Just soldiers closing in and a monster in front of them.

He ducked under a strike, swept his blade upward—missed. Shylo feinted left, aura flaring—and landed a direct hit to her shoulder. She blinked.

Then stopped smiling.

A flash surged through her body—a pulse not just of energy, but authority. The earth around her cracked subtly. Her Unco flared to life—visible now. A crown of radiant energy shaped like blade fragments hovered above her skin. Her eyes glowed softly—not just bright, but commanding.

Kael tilted his head, pleased.

"There it is," he said. "Now the battle begins."

The soldiers stepped back instinctively, giving her space.

Amari gripped his weapon tighter. Shylo narrowed his stance.

The clearing was chaos—but not loud chaos.

It was the kind that rewired instinct mid-motion.

Amari lunged with practiced precision, blade angled to tear through her guard—but the strike sliced nothing. The woman was no longer there. Or maybe she never had been. Where she’d stood now shimmered with the fading outline of a phantom—same hair, same stance, evaporating like fog.

"Left!" Shylo shouted, hearing footsteps thudding fast in that direction.

He spun, staff ready—nothing.

The thud had come from her illusion.

A distant laugh from Kael cracked the tension like thunder behind silk. "She’s awake now."

Amari charged again, this time with tighter focus—pivoting through a wide arc meant to strike her center. But her body flickered, two silhouettes splitting from her spine: one leapt back, one crouched forward. His blade passed through both. The real one danced to his blind spot, not attacking—just watching, measuring.

Shylo shifted into a tighter stance, aura rippling. His Unco began to harmonize with the battlefield, but even it strained beneath the false signals. A gust of wind raked across his back—he spun, staff lashing. Nothing was there. Just the smell of ozone and heat... fabricated. The ground beneath him softened mid-step, then hardened again. Illusion. Tactile misdirection.

Their rhythm was fracturing.

Amari and Shylo began trading roles—attacker, support, attacker again. Amari drove a low sweep that missed her ankles by a breath. Shylo followed with a vertical slam that should’ve clipped her jaw—but her body blurred sideways, vanishing into two spectral echoes.

Amari cursed under his breath. "She’s split again."

"No—echoed," Shylo corrected, panting. "We’re reacting late. That’s her trick."

Above them, her Unco flared in full: Phantom Sense, painting the world in false echoes and timed mirages. Every movement she made was mirrored a second behind—Spectral Drift—forcing the boys to fight a version of her that was already outdated.

She twirled, struck low toward Amari. He blocked, but the pressure came from behind—an aura blade pressed to his spine from the copy he hadn’t seen. He staggered forward, using the momentum to break into a roll. Shylo intercepted the next strike—but it slid through his senses, not his staff.

She had never struck at all.

Just made him believe she had.

They regrouped mid-fight. Amari’s chest heaved. Shylo bled from a shallow wound he hadn’t seen coming. Sweat poured, but not from exhaustion—from unanswered confusion.

Kael spoke again. "You thought power was in impact. Now you learn—it lives in perception."

Amari wiped blood from his brow. "We can’t beat her like this."

Shylo nodded. "She’s not overpowering us. She’s unbalancing us."

Still, they fought on.

Amari ducked a false strike, sidestepped a real one. Shylo stopped reacting to sound, moved instead by aura pulse—less reliable, but more grounded. Their cooperation tightened. Amari slashed wide, forcing three phantoms to reposition. Shylo struck the space between illusions—not at her, but where her instinct would retreat.

The hit landed. Barely.

She staggered a step back. Not injured. Just... surprised.

Then she smiled—and the false echoes redoubled.

Seven phantoms now. Some breathing. Some weeping. Some preparing to strike

The clearing became a cruel theatre.

Amari staggered back, his lungs clawing for breath as Phantom Sense twisted the space around him again. The royal guardian stood poised—body still, illusions drifting like silk spun from smoke. Her presence fractured reality: a voice whispered from one direction, heat kissed his cheek from another, and a shadow danced through his peripheral that never truly existed.

Every strike landed late. Every dodge occurred early.

Shylo faltered beside him, staff gripped in trembling fingers. He lunged toward a flicker of her form that disappeared mid-motion. The sound of laughter rippled through the ranks surrounding them—Kael’s soldiers echoing their own taunts like war-hardened jesters watching exhausted prey.

One soldier mimicked Amari’s blade form. Another clapped mockingly with every missed attack. A third leaned casually against a rock, yawning with theatrical indifference.

Kael remained planted. His arms folded, gaze sharp and measured—enjoying the show not because it was close, but because it wasn’t.

"This is no battle," he said, voice neither loud nor soft. "It’s choreography. She leads. You two fumble."

The royal guardian tilted her head slightly as Amari tried another burst of speed—only to strike at a lingering echo, one that faded with sound trailing half a second late. He pivoted, listening now instead of seeing. But even sound betrayed him—fabricated footsteps to his left, breathing from behind him, the scent of ash hovering over nothing.

Phantom Sense didn’t just distort. It rewrote presence.

Shylo pulled beside him, panting. "I can’t... lock onto her aura," he muttered. "My rhythm’s off. Everything’s off."

"I know," Amari whispered. His daggers hung heavy in his hands.

She advanced.

No rush. No threat.

Just absolute certainty.

The illusions weren’t chaotic anymore. They were organized. Seven versions of her walked calmly through the field—some sprinting, some wounded, some smiling—but none real. And yet, their existence crushed clarity, bending even time.

Kael unfolded his arms and stepped forward slowly, his voice painted with command:

"You had spirit. Now you have choice. Kneel, or we drag you through the dirt anyway."

Mocking laughter built again around the clearing. It wasn’t just cruelty—it was ritual. A practiced unraveling.

Amari stopped.

He looked to Shylo—broken stance, eyes desperate, grip loosening on his weapon.

He looked to the guardian—smiling faintly now, her phantoms flickering like dying stars behind her.

Then Amari’s grip loosened.

One dagger dropped.

Then the other.

Both sank into the earth with dull finality.

Shylo stared—then nodded, throat tightening, and let go of his staff. It clattered beside the daggers.

Their hands rose slowly.

No trembling.

No words.

Just open palms, lifted toward a sky that didn’t look away.

The forest hushed in response. Kael grinned, stepping between them now like a curtain call conductor.

"Smart," he said. "Delay suffering. Let us pick the pieces slower."

The guardian’s illusions melted around her, the real body stepping into full clarity, unmasked, unmarred.