Rikuya's eyes fluttered open to the soft crackle of a fire and the smell of burning herbs. Stone walls surrounded him, but not the jagged, suffocating kind of a cave—these were smoother, cleaner. Drapes hung across one side. He was in a room. A bed. A base?
His body throbbed all over, but the pain was dull now—healed. Mostly.
He sat up slowly, sweat cooling on his brow.
"…Where the hell am I?"
A voice answered from across the room, firm and female.
"Western Cleft. My base. You passed out cold."
Rikuya turned his head. Sitting on a wooden stool, arms folded across her chest, was Volgra—tall, broad-shouldered, her green skin painted with faint tribal markings, and two small tusks poking from her lower jaw. Her black dreadlocks were tied back with a strip of worn leather.
She stared at him with stern golden eyes.
"You're lucky I found you when I did."
He blinked, still dazed. "Volgra…? What happened?"
She stood and walked over, dropping a waterskin beside him.
"That's what I was going to ask you. You were lying in a crater. Smoke everywhere. Trees split. Ground cracked like someone dropped a god out of the sky." She crouched beside him. "And you were just there. Barely breathing. What did you fight?"
Rikuya leaned back, eyes cloudy. "A demon… he kept healing. I… I think I killed him, but—"
"You don't remember?"
He shook his head slowly. "Just… lightning. Pain. Then nothing."
Volgra narrowed her eyes. "You burned your own mana dry. Whatever that last move was, it left you barely alive. You were sparking when I touched you. Like your blood turned to thunder."
He stared at the floor. "I didn't mean to disappear…"
She scoffed lightly, but there was no anger in it.
"You're an idiot," she muttered. "But… kind of a badass idiot."
He smirked faintly. "Thanks."
Then she added, "Next time you pick a fight with something that bleeds shadow, try not to die before I get there."
Rikuya tightened the bandages around his forearms, the cool breeze of the Western Cleft brushing against his bare chest. Volgra stood opposite him in the private sparring chamber of her base, rolling her shoulders, muscles taut beneath her sleeveless training wrap. Her green skin glistened with the faintest sheen of sweat.
"You really want to spar like this?" she asked, eyeing him with a smirk. "Fresh out of bed, still sore… and half-dressed?"
Rikuya shrugged, cracking his neck. "I fight better when I'm uncomfortable."
Her eyes narrowed playfully. "Then you're about to be amazing."
They clashed.
Rikuya moved fast—too fast. He caught her off guard, twisting behind her and wrapping an arm lightly around her waist. She tensed in surprise, then elbowed him hard in the ribs. He grunted but didn't let go.
"Getting grabby already?" she teased, twisting in his grip.
"Trying to get a feel for your... technique."
She shoved off him with a growl, and they tumbled to the mat—legs tangled, breaths quick, faces close. His hand had landed somewhere it probably shouldn't.
They froze.
Volgra blinked. "You touched that on purpose."
Rikuya blinked back, playing dumb. "Which that?"
Her knuckles smacked into his shoulder—playfully, but hard. "Pervert."
They rolled apart, stood again—faces flushed, hearts racing.
This time when they fought, it was slower. Closer. Volgra's blows had more weight, Rikuya's counters came with tighter movement—bodies brushing just a little too often, limbs tangling a little too long. She pinned him against the wall once—his hands caught hers, their breath mingling. Neither moved.
Then she let go, chuckling low in her throat. "You're lucky this isn't the other kind of training."
He smirked, flexing his bruised shoulder. "That depends. Is there a sign-up sheet?"
Volgra rolled her eyes, but her grin didn't fade.
"Finish your prep, lightning boy. Then we'll really see what kind of stamina you've got."
The sparring session had left Rikuya sprawled across the padded floor, his chest rising and falling with effort. Sweat slicked his torso, bruises starting to form along his ribs and arms. Volgra crouched beside him, her tone half-mocking, half-genuine.
"You sure you're tournament-ready, or did I break you already?"
"I'll manage," Rikuya muttered, one eye cracked open. "Unless you've got a secret healing elixir stashed somewhere."
Volgra smirked, brushing her long green hair over her shoulder. "Better. Stay still."
She straddled him casually, knees to either side of his hips, her toned form casting a shadow over his. Before he could speak, her fingers pressed against his chest — slow, firm, and glowing faintly with green energy.
"What kind of healing technique is this?" he asked, voice tightening as the warmth seeped into him, melting soreness into tingling heat.
"The orcish kind," she whispered. "Channeling spirit energy through… physical closeness."
Her hands roamed carefully — over bruises, down his arms, across the sharp lines of his abdomen. Where her palms passed, tension dissolved, replaced by a low hum of comfort and something else… a heat that had nothing to do with magic.
Rikuya's breath hitched. "This feels like cheating."
"Then stop me," she challenged, leaning in slightly, her lips inches from his ear.
He didn't.
Her hands slipped lower, resting just above his waist, not quite teasing — but close enough to blur lines. Her voice was a soft purr now. "Your body's strong… but still fragile underneath. I like that."
His heart pounded against her touch.
"You call this healing?"
"I call it… motivation."
Then she stood, the warmth suddenly gone. She turned over her shoulder with a smirk.
"Now you're ready."
Volgra paused as she turned to leave, sensing something behind her — a shift in Rikuya's aura, his voice low and steady.
"No."
She looked back, raising a brow. "No?"
He was sitting up now, gaze locked onto her, intense and unblinking. "Don't walk away… not this time."
A brief silence pulsed between them.
Then Volgra smirked, slow and knowing. "You sure you can handle it?"
Instead of answering, Rikuya rose to his feet, stepping toward her until they were chest to chest — heat radiating off both their bodies from the sparring and something else entirely.
Volgra's breath caught slightly as he gently cupped the side of her face, thumb brushing along her jaw. "I want to remember what I'm fighting for."
Her eyes flickered — challenge met with equal fire — and then their lips met, slow at first, then hungrier, heavier. Hands wandered, testing old bruises, mapping familiar scars. Armor and fabric fell away in pieces, not ripped but unfastened with deliberate care.
Their bodies came together with the same raw rhythm they fought with — breathless, battling for dominance even in intimacy. Every movement was a silent war of trust and desire.
There were no words now, only the sound of skin, breath, the occasional growl or gasp as sparks flew — until finally, tangled in the sheets of Volgra's private quarters, they collapsed into a quiet, exhausted heap.
Later, as moonlight filtered through the western cleft's stone window, Rikuya lay still, Volgra curled against him.
He whispered, "I needed this."
Volgra smirked into his chest. "You'll need more if you plan to win that tournament."
The morning sun bled softly through the rocky slit high above, casting golden streaks across the bedding.
Rikuya stirred first, his arm still loosely draped over Volgra's bare waist. Her green skin shimmered faintly in the sunlight, her body warm and relaxed against his. For a few seconds, he just watched her—her tough exterior peeled away in sleep, peaceful and still.
"Staring at me already?" she murmured, eyes still closed but lips curved in a smirk.
He chuckled, brushing a finger down her spine. "Just making sure you're real. Last night felt… unreal."
Volgra yawned, stretching lazily. "Hmph. I should be the one saying that, human. You move like a beast in battle… but last night?"
She gave him a teasing nip on the neck. "Even wilder."
Rikuya rolled onto his back with a quiet groan, the soreness in his muscles a reminder of both sparring and what followed. "I needed to let go, even if just for a night."
She turned on her side to face him, her amber eyes studying him. "What's next?"
He stared up at the ceiling. "I'm heading back to Ardenwave. One week left before the tournament begins… and I've got some things to settle first."
Volgra's smile faded into something more serious. "You're not going just to win, are you?"
"No," he said, sitting up, letting the sheet fall. His back was marked with scars, new and old. "I need to send a message. To the people watching. And to the ones who think they already know how this world works."
She watched him for a moment, then slowly reached out, brushing his hair out of his face. "Then don't die before I get to fight you again."
He grinned. "Wasn't planning on it."
As Rikuya stepped out from the mouth of the Western Cleft base, the wind greeted him like an old friend—cool, wild, and full of whispers. The early sun lit the craggy path before him in shades of gold and amber, dancing off the dew on moss-covered stones.
He tightened the straps of his cloak, letting it flutter behind him, then paused atop a small ridge.
Below, the valley stretched far and wide—lush trees swaying gently, rivers snaking like silver threads, and the far-off hum of nature buzzing like distant music. Mountains carved the horizon like ancient guardians. Somewhere beyond them… Ardenwave.
He took a deep breath, letting the cold air fill his lungs.
"Just one week," he muttered. "Then everything changes."
The breeze swept past him again, tousling his hair, almost as if encouraging him forward.
Without another word, Rikuya began his descent—his steps steady, his eyes focused, and his heart already sharpening like a blade.
As Rikuya continued down the winding trail, a sharp pulse throbbed beneath his ribs. He grunted, clutching his side where the bruises from the last fight hadn't fully healed.
"Tsk… still tender," he muttered, pausing for a breath.
But the moment was short-lived.
From the shadows between the trees ahead, figures stepped out—ten of them, ragged and armed, forming a loose semicircle across the path. Their eyes glinted with greed, and one of them cracked his knuckles with a grin.
"Well, well. Look what wandered into our little toll road."
Another sneered, spinning a pair of daggers. "He's limping. This'll be easy."
Rikuya didn't flinch. He raised his head, a tired smirk curling at the corner of his lips.
"Typical," he said, letting his hand drop from his injury and curl into a fist. "I was hoping for a peaceful walk. Guess you boys missed the memo."
The wind stirred again.
And Rikuya stepped forward—ready, despite the pain.
Rikuya stood calmly as the first bandit lunged at him, swinging a wild strike. But Rikuya didn't flinch. Instead, he waited for the perfect moment, then swiftly caught the bandit's arm mid-swing. His fingers tightened like a vice, and with a sharp twist, he snapped the bandit's wrist. The sound of bone breaking echoed through the air.
The bandit gasped in pain, but Rikuya wasn't done. With a quick, brutal movement, he drove his elbow up into the bandit's arm, shattering the joint with a sickening pop.
Rikuya shoved the bandit back using his own broken limb, sending him stumbling backward. Without missing a beat, Rikuya moved in close, his right arm unleashing a flurry of five lightning-fast strikes.
The first punch cracked the bandit's chin, snapping his head back. The second hit was a body shot to the liver, leaving the bandit gasping for air. Rikuya followed up with a diagonal uppercut to the jaw, rocking the bandit's skull. A hammerfist came next, smashing into the bandit's nose, breaking it and blinding him with pain.
Finally, Rikuya delivered a brutal hook to the side of the bandit's neck, enough force to take down a bull. The bandit staggered, barely conscious, blood spraying from his mouth. He collapsed, crumpling to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Rikuya stood still, his posture relaxed and effortless, his breathing even. His stance never wavered, the fight already over before it had truly begun.
The second bandit rushed toward Rikuya, throwing a wild punch that seemed almost desperate. But Rikuya stayed calm, his focus unshaken. In an instant, the chaos around him seemed to slow, the world narrowing to the space between him and his opponent.
As the punch came, Rikuya stepped inside the strike, closing the distance with a quick movement. His right hand snapped out, catching the bandit's arm mid-swing with ruthless precision. The grip was unrelenting—there was no escape, no room to pull back. Rikuya's hold was a vice, controlling the opponent's arm and throwing off their balance.
Without missing a beat, Rikuya yanked the bandit's arm inward, using his body to twist with brutal force. The dislocation was sudden, violent—the elbow joint snapping out of place with a sickening crack. The bandit screamed, the pain flooding their senses, but Rikuya remained unaffected, a stone-faced predator in control of the situation.
With a fluid motion, Rikuya spun, twisting the dislocated arm behind the bandit's back. He slammed the arm into the ground with all his weight, the sound of the bone breaking under pressure reverberating through the air. The humerus shattered, leaving the bandit writhing on the ground in pain, clutching their mangled arm.
Rikuya stood over them, his expression cold and precise, as though the fight had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience. He slowly released the shattered arm, his gaze unwavering as he looked down at the bandit, who could barely lift themselves from the ground. The silence between them was deafening, Rikuya's dominance undeniable.
The fourth and fifth bandits charged in together, each aiming to overwhelm Rikuya. But he was ready.
As the first one lunged toward him, Rikuya responded with a swift, brutal knee drive straight into the bandit's gut. The impact sent the bandit stumbling back, gasping for air as their body folded in on itself, unable to brace against the force.
Without hesitation, Rikuya spun, his body flowing like water, and delivered a back hook kick to the second bandit's throat. The kick landed with a sickening thud, and the bandit collapsed, clutching at their throat, gasping for breath as they struggled to stay conscious.
Before the first bandit could recover, Rikuya dashed forward, closing the gap between them in an instant. His right arm shot out like a whip, slapping the opponent's head with bone-crushing force. The snap of the neck was audible, and the bandit dropped like a ragdoll, body jerking once before going still.
The battlefield seemed to fall silent as Rikuya stood tall, his movements calculated and fluid, not a trace of hesitation or mercy in his eyes. The bandits' attacks had been nothing more than a fleeting distraction.
Rikuya cracked his neck with a casual ease, his eyes cold and calculating as he surveyed the remaining bandits. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he muttered, "In a world where strength defines survival, weakness never stands a chance."
Without another word, he moved like a shadow, closing the distance between himself and the sixth bandit in the blink of an eye.
The bandit barely had time to react as Rikuya struck with brutal precision. His right foot shot up, landing a devastating kick to the bandit's private area. The bandit doubled over in pain, but before he could recover, Rikuya's foot was already driving into his stomach, forcing the air out of his lungs. As the bandit gasped, Rikuya's third kick connected sharply with his throat, crushing the windpipe and leaving the bandit gasping for air in a final, desperate attempt to scream — but only silence followed.
The bandit crumpled to the ground, his body unable to move, pain radiating from every part of his broken form. Rikuya stood over him, unscathed, expression unchanging, the quiet aftermath of his calculated strikes painting a chilling image of his dominance.
The seventh bandit lunged at Rikuya with a flurry of rapid punches, but Rikuya's focus remained unwavering. In the span of a heartbeat, he read the movement, recognizing the perfect opening.
With a snake-like precision, Rikuya caught the bandit's wrist mid-strike, twisting their arm with ease. The bandit's momentum worked against them as Rikuya pulled them into his range, leaving them vulnerable to the next attack.
In a single fluid motion, Rikuya's knee shot up, colliding with the bandit's jaw. The sharp crack echoed through the air, and the bandit's head snapped back violently. The impact left them dazed, eyes blinking in confusion as they struggled to remain standing.
Before they could recover, Rikuya raised his hand and delivered a chopping blow to the bandit's throat. The strike was fast, precise — like a blade. The bandit gasped for air, but their windpipe collapsed, leaving them choking, struggling to breathe.
Rikuya didn't waste a second. With a swift movement, he raised his leg high, his foot slicing the air. Then, with a brutal force, he brought it down like an axe. The kick landed directly on the bandit's neck, sending them crashing to the ground, completely incapacitated.
Rikuya stood over the fallen bandit, his breath steady.
Without a word, Rikuya launched forward like a bullet, body low and lethal. His right arm cocked back, muscles tense and glowing faintly with restrained power. The eighth bandit barely registered movement before it was far too late.
Each step hammered the ground beneath him, cracks spiderwebbing through the dirt as Rikuya accelerated. His right shoulder led the charge, protecting his core like a battering ram — eyes locked dead center on the enemy's chest. He didn't need both arms. Just one.
In a blur, he closed the distance and stepped in, chest almost grazing the enemy's. His right palm snapped upward, slamming into the bandit's elbow with pinpoint precision. The arm bent the wrong way — a clean, grotesque dislocation. The bandit's eyes widened, shock overriding even the pain.
Rikuya didn't pause. He reeled his arm back and fired.
Five strikes. All to the same spot. The solar plexus.
Each punch slammed in with seismic weight, lifting the bandit off the ground one inch at a time —
BAM—BAM—BAM—BAM—BAM!
By the fifth, the enemy was suspended midair, body frozen in agony, mouth open but breath stolen.
Rikuya pivoted with quiet fury. His hips turned, his fist followed — a final bone-shattering hook crashing across the bandit's face. The blow twisted the enemy's body midair before flinging it like a ragdoll, crashing into the earth with a thud that echoed through the trees.
Dust floated slowly through the air as silence returned.
Rikuya lowered his right arm. Calm. Steady. Focused.
The bandit lay twisted in a crater, barely twitching.
One arm. One charge. One judgment passed.
Rikuya stood still, chest rising slowly.
Shff!
A knife whipped through the air — and struck him dead-on.
But instead of piercing, the blade folded on impact, crumpling like cheap metal against his skin.
The bandit's eyes widened.
"W-What…?"
Before the panic could settle, a desperate punch slammed into Rikuya's jaw —
a full-force haymaker.
His head turned slightly from the blow.
No flinch.
No grunt.
Just... silence.
Rikuya slowly turned back to face him, the shadows under his eyes darker than before — and smiled.
"You just signed your own obituary."