Ragnarök, Eternal Tragedy.
Chapter 132: Where Blood Learns

Chapter 132: Where Blood Learns

Amari wasn’t breathing heavy.

But something behind his ribs wasn’t settling.

It wasn’t fatigue—not exactly. It was irritation laced into instinct, the kind that grows in fighters who have survived too much to be toyed with, too long to be impressed by flair, and too often to treat resilience like spectacle.

Lionel, on the other hand, was grinning wider.

His steps no longer held ceremony—just curiosity. And the copies he kept flaring into existence didn’t move with desperation, but with rhythm, mirrored laughs tracing the perimeter of each dodge like a chorus that never missed its beat.

"You’re faster," Lionel admitted mid-spin, voice light as his illusion ducked Amari’s blade while the real one pressed left, dagger skimming close to his shoulder. "I’ve seen a hundred with Uncos move slower than your legs."

Amari didn’t respond.

His blade hissed through the air again—chain whipping in reverse, hook catching edge, twisting with a snap that passed through a shimmered clone before looping back toward the real target. Lionel rotated beneath the strike, pressed forward, dagger clashing once more against Kusarigama steel. Sparks kicked skyward. Both recoiled. Then lunged.

Amari outpaced him.

Just slightly.

The next three exchanges were faster.

Amari’s feet grounded harder, pivoted quicker, chain curled in a tighter arc. He stopped dodging illusions. He stopped reacting to Lionel’s distance bait. He read movement—not motion. He wasn’t fighting reflections anymore. He was fighting shape.

Lionel grinned.

He stepped forward—twisted once—

—and Amari was already inside his range.

Blade curved—

Chain locked—

Daggers passed—

Lionel stalled—

And then—

The cut landed.

It wasn’t large.

But it wasn’t missed.

Just beneath Lionel’s cheekbone, the skin split faintly, a thin line of red curling out like the paint of a promise finally kept.

Lionel blinked.

Raised one hand slowly.

Touched it.

Felt it.

And smiled.

Not in rage.

Not in panic.

Just quiet amusement.

"Well," he whispered, "that took long enough."

The chain snapped forward again, a whip of silver slicing through open air with trained violence, but Amari’s blade struck nothing—Lionel was already gone.

Not dodged.

Not shifted.

Gone.

A ripple kicked through the courtyard dust, and the pressure didn’t feel like distance—it felt like absence, like Lionel’s body had slipped between seconds and curled up in the blind spot just behind time. Amari pivoted sharply, muscles reading the motion before his eyes could follow.

Lionel reappeared—less than a meter away.

Low to the ground.

Right side.

Dagger drawn.

Amari twisted just in time to block, chain dragging hard across steel, blades colliding in a shallow spark before recoil forced distance. But Lionel didn’t press—he vanished again.

Again.

And again.

Amari tracked the pressure—instinct more than sight, pivoting on phantom tension, lunging where he could sense a shift, countering against movements that hadn’t finished forming. His body read the sequence. But he was chasing frame by frame, and Lionel was gliding between them.

Lionel landed one strike—shallow, grazing across Amari’s left shoulder. The cut wasn’t deep, but it spoke.

"I’m faster now," Lionel said lightly, posture loose as he circled once, illusions flickering and fading behind him like discarded masks. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?"

Amari didn’t answer.

He wasn’t panting yet.

But his pulse had changed.

Something felt off.

Not broken.

Just... wrong.

The air tasted different. Lionel’s steps no longer echoed where they landed. Every motion had begun to distort slightly—off-beat but intentional.

"You’re not packing," Lionel added, voice dipping toward mockery. "You’re not crashing through me. You’re still feeling your way through. That won’t do."

Amari raised the Kusarigama again, chain coiled tight, blade ready.

Lionel smirked.

"If you want me to go all out," he said, "you’ll need to do better."

Amari’s body tightened.

Every strike so far had been met. Matched. Redirected.

He hadn’t broken through.

Yet.

His voice dropped lower than before—flat, clipped, quiet enough to sound lethal when the wind stopped listening.

"Then I’ll do better."

He stepped forward.

"I’ll kill you."

...

Zafira hovered no longer.

She surged.

The air didn’t just ripple—it convulsed outward, pressure folding back on itself in a sonic pulse that sent cracks racing through the balcony stone like panic searching for exit. Her descent had no gravity—only momentum, and her Unco responded not with elegance, but domination.

The wind bent.

Shylo reacted first, rope dart flashing outward like silver stitched into will, the blade coiling high for a vertical feint meant to distract more than harm. Kenneth pivoted alongside it—staff arcing wide, blade edges flickering in the torchlight, stance locked for intercept.

But Zafira didn’t dodge.

She cut through.

Her body twisted at impossible speed, cloak flared out like wings on fire, and with a single turn of her palm, the cyclone burst downward, layered with density that cracked the courtyard edge, lifting stone fragments into the air like her fury needed texture.

The impact landed.

Kenneth flew first—his body slammed against a support pillar with a force that dented metal reinforcement beneath the stone. His staff clattered against the floor, spun once, then fell quiet.

Shylo followed—dragged sideways by wind that didn’t push, but tore. He struck the wall hard, shoulder crunching against mortar, head snapping slightly on impact before he dropped into crouch, breathing sharp, dart recoiling limp against his wrist.

Zafira descended slowly, just above the shattered center.

She looked untouched.

Not boastful.

Just in command.

Shylo groaned once—soft, sharp.

"That’s going to bruise," he muttered, voice dry and clipped.

Kenneth slid forward, one hand clutching his ribs, fingers twitching like his internal rhythm hadn’t decided whether to slow down or speed up.

"She’s stronger than advertised," he said, more amused than wounded.

Zafira remained hovering—arms at her side, silver eyes pulsing faintly with Unco breath.

"No more tricks," Kenneth added, glancing at Shylo. "If we don’t fight smarter... we won’t even land another strike."

Shylo nodded once, rope dart drawing tight into his grip again.

His expression was still calm.

But his stance changed.

It wasn’t about attacking now.

It was about unraveling.

Now forward.