As the axe-wielding undead clambered back up again, Muu too was prepared for battle. Her ribs ached, fractured as they were, but it was a pain that was incomparably less compared to having her face melted off. It was something she could fight through, something she could ignore, as the adrenaline, sparked first by fear and then by motion, dulled her agony and brought her up as well.

And thus, their dance began.

The axe was not slow when it gained momentum and continuous swings chained into each other, but Muu, despite being inexperienced, was still skillful, still strong. The footwork learned upon fighting on high rooftops could be applied upon a frozen battlefield as well, and once she grew accustomed to the slight slip that accompanied each step, her movements became so much more optimized, darting in and out, each axe strike countered with a quick blow. But her opponent was armored and could not bleed, and the terrain meant that it was impossible to make any sort of strike that used the entirety of her body. An unstable terrain meant one would have to focus on light attacks, wearing their opponent down.

That was what her Master had taught her. But that meant, against a fatigueless, bloodless foe, this battle would be a long one. A long duel, when they had already took so long.

Ettamri charged, a thunderous roar rattling through her horned helmet. Ash and Gwyn rushed in as well, a pilfered sword raised and a chanted prayer prepared. With a sickening crunch, the white-plated warrior split her foe into two, the raised staff sundered alongside the skull.

But there was a reason why the King of Corpses was so feared.

Magic was of the will. For those cursed with undeath, their will persisted no matter how shattered they were. Back when the King of Corpses still reigned, nothing was more frightening than ‘hidden mages’, undead casters ground to dust and spread across the battlefield to cast with impunity. Their will alone was sufficient to summon forth walls of flame and stakes of ice, bolts of lightning and blasts of wind. And in this case, while Ettamri was fast enough to close in…Gwyn wasn’t.

A party with a mage in it always centered around the mage. No matter how skilled, how strong the others were, none could match the sheer power that one attuned with the spirits could unleash.

Split in half, the undead mage profaned the purity of the spirits and forced them to do her bidding once more, and in that moment, the world turned white.

In that moment, the prayer on Gwyn’s lips became a Ward.

In that moment, Matteo burst out from the foliage.

In that moment…

Icy tendrils burst outwards. They shattered against a translucent veil, Ash given just enough time to scamper back, but Gwyn, selfless and self-sacrificing, was caught fully by the tendrils. They wrapped around her and expanded, and then trapped her completely, freezing her in place. In that frenetic moment, the person that Matteo shoulder-tackled had been Ettamri instead. There was a distinctive ‘click’ as his right shoulder dislocated, but his technique was there, his own masculine frame was there. He stumbled, faltered, and was caught as well, sheer, translucent ice capturing his last expression: doubt, pain, and self-hatred. Even that, however, did not save Ettamri completely.

Her leg had been caught in that icy mass, and now, more ice was racing up her leg. In seconds she would be waist-deep in it.
But she wasn’t frozen over yet.

She wasn’t done yet.