Chapter 82: Climactic or Anticlimactic?
As the ballistas fired, Tyr responded with a laugh, deep and thunderous like distant thunder rolling across a still sky.
With a single fluid motion, he lifted his moonlight-forged sword, spun on his heel, and unleashed a sweeping arc so precise and powerful, the entire magical barrage was shattered mid-air, scattering like droplets in a storm.
Cynthia didn’t falter. She glided backward across the water, her steps whisper-light as if skating on ice, leaving ripples that glowed faintly under the moonlight.
As she moved, she carved arcs of glowing magic into the air, elegant circular strokes that shimmered before firing jets of pressurized water toward Tyr with a hiss of compressed force.
"Keep up!" she shouted, her voice cutting through the mist like a challenge hurled across a battlefield.
Tyr charged, dashing across the moonlit surface, each stride accompanied by a burst of ripple. His sword sang through the air, slicing apart the pressurized blasts with a grace born of centuries of honed discipline. Every swing dissipated the water before it could even touch him.
But Cynthia’s mobility far outpaced him—her gliding dance across the rippling water a blur of speed and grace, each new circle conjured faster than the last. The barrage became a storm, relentless and clever.
"Smart strategy, young one... but not enough." Tyr smiled calmly, then spun once more—this time not to block, but to summon.
From beneath him, a geyser erupted, monumental and roaring.
"What?!" Cynthia gasped, only for her eyes to widen—Tyr had vanished.
"Too fast?" His voice now whispered from beside her.