Back in Tynoon, the clash of war blazed just as fiercely as in Icua and the rest of Amthar.
Mystica and Barbara the Barbarian stood only a few paces apart, tension thick between them like a drawn bowstring.
Then the air ripped open.
Barbara launched forward with a sudden jolt—no warning, no buildup. Just raw speed and fury. The ground beneath her exploded into a crater from the pressure of her leap, dust spiraling upward in her wake like a cyclone of crushed stone and wind.
Mystica barely had a second to react. Her violet eyes widened as the axe blurred toward her chest—a mass of jagged tal arcing through the air like a lightning-charged guillotine.
Her instincts surged. With a twist of her wrists, a barrier of reinforced light snapped into existence before her, layered with threads of hardened myst. The axe struck the shield in a brilliant detonation—thunder echoed outward in a concussive wave, rippling through the air like a bomb had gone off.
Mystica grunted, skidding back across the rooftop. Her boots scraped violently against the stone tiles, cloak snapping behind her like a banner in a hurricane. The barrier cracked—but it held.
The Barbarian’s feet slamd down a second later, and she twisted with frightening grace, spinning her massive axe around like it was made of paper. She ca in again—horizontal swing now—aid for Mystica’s ribs.
Mystica dropped.
Literally.
She flattened herself in midair, using a controlled burst of wind to hurl her body downward through the broken roof. She crashed through the rafters, wood splintering around her as she descended into the building below.
Barbara’s axe sliced the air just above her, missing her by inches.
Without hesitation, Mystica spread her hands as she dropped, forming a thin disc of water beneath her to soften the impact. She landed in a crouch, surrounded by shattered beams and swirling dust.
But Barbara didn’t wait.
She pounced, slamming into the rooftop with such force that it collapsed entirely. The ceiling above Mystica gave way in a roar of splinters and falling stone.
Mystica threw her hands up—a do of ice snapped into place just in ti. The debris slamd down, cracking against the shield as she reinforced it with layers of wind. Crushed wood and stone rebounded off the magical shell, falling harmlessly around her.
Then she heard the shriek.
Barbara dropped through the dust like a missile, her axe held overhead, both hands gripped tight. Electricity danced across the weapon in violent arcs, trailing like angry serpents. She brought it down in a diagonal slash, aiming to cleave both Mystica and her do in half.
Mystica vanished.
A pulse of light and pressure marked her escape—teleportation, swift and precise. She reappeared ten ters behind Barbara, high up in the air, her hands already alight with power.
A storm of needles—ice and light fused together—erupted from her palms. Dozens. No—hundreds. They scread through the air, glittering like shards of starlight.
Barbara turned.
Her tattoos flared green for the first ti.
In one fluid movent, she slamd her foot into the ground, and the floor beneath her erupted upward—vines and roots and thick stone slabs twisting up in a barrier of nature-infused armor. The needles struck with rapid-fire force, shattering against the makeshift wall with crystalline bursts.
But that wasn’t Mystica’s real play.
The air around Barbara suddenly twisted—compressed.
Mystica’s palms moved in a tight spiral motion, drawing wind magic inward like a vacuum. A vortex ford around the general’s position, warping space with unstable pressure.
Barbara felt it too late.
The vines that protected her were suddenly pulled inward violently—crushed by the gravitational effect Mystica had conjured. Chunks of stone cracked and collapsed around her, dragged toward the epicenter.
She grit her teeth. "Crafty little witch—!"
She stabbed her axe into the ground and discharged a surge of lightning straight down. The current exploded in all directions, a wave of static fury that shattered the vortex’s hold and disrupted Mystica’s control.
But Mystica was already on the move.
Using the brief mont of suppression, she flicked her wrist, forming a narrow lens of refracted light between her fingers. A microbeam—condensed energy so thin it was invisible until it struck.
It hit Barbara’s left thigh.
A flash—then blood.
Barbara snarled, staggering slightly as she tore her axe from the ground and turned toward the sky. Mystica hovered high above now, cloak whipping violently, arms outstretched. The storm overhead shifted—black clouds gathering unnaturally, drawn to her will.
"You wanna play weather god?" Barbara growled. "Let show you how it’s really done."
She pointed the head of her axe skyward and roared.
A jagged bolt of lightning struck the weapon like a divine strike. The runes along her skin blazed brighter than ever—yellow and green pulsing together in an eerie rhythm.
Then she hurled the axe.
The weapon spiraled upward at a terrifying speed, wrapped in crackling bolts and cutting through the clouds like a missile. Mystica raised both hands and conjured a barrier—but Barbara wasn’t aiming at her.
The axe detonated midair.
The explosion unleashed a do of lightning that crashed down in a ring, catching Mystica in its radius before she could blink. Energy slamd into her from all sides. Her shields flared, shattered, flared again. Her body was flung downward like a ragdoll, crashing through two buildings before skidding across the city’s stone street in a shower of sparks and magic discharge.
Smoke rose from her cloak. Blood from her lip. But her eyes—
Still burning.
Still unshaken.
Barbara landed opposite her with a heavy thud, dragging her axe from the ground where it had reford. She rolled her shoulder with a wicked smile.
"Still breathing? Thought that one’d break you in half."
Mystica rose, slow but graceful, her hands already weaving another spell. The air shimred—water, fire, light, and wind blending at her fingertips.
"You think I’m done?" she whispered, her voice eerily calm. "This is the part... where I stop playing safe."
Her aura exploded.
A massive ring of elental force erupted around her body, the air vibrating with unstable myst. Her cloak lifted like she stood at the center of a rising hurricane.
Barbara tensed.
"Primordial magic..." she murmured, her expression hardening.
Mystica blurred forward.
One hand summoned a whip of scalding steam, the other a bolt of solid light.
She cracked the whip toward Barbara’s legs—forcing the general to dodge with a leap. Mid-air, Mystica teleported, reappearing above Barbara and slamming the light bolt down like a hamr.
Barbara blocked with her axe, but the impact sent her crashing into the street, stone erupting around her in a tidal wave of broken ground.
Mystica gave no pause.
With both palms, she launched a pair of storm spheres—compressed wind and lightning infused with chaotic mystic pulses. They spun violently, crashing into Barbara’s position before she could fully recover.
The street exploded.
Debris filled the air. Screams echoed from far off. The battle raged around them, but here—this duel had beco its own storm, a tempest within the inferno.
From the heart of the smoke, Barbara charged out—bloodied but grinning like a devil.
She burst through the haze, axe spinning in a deadly arc, catching Mystica off-guard. The edge grazed her ribs—a flash of blood, a wince—but Mystica spun with the blow, using her montum to launch a point-blank blast of ice and water directly into Barbara’s chest.
Barbara roared as she was hurled back into a broken cart, flipping end over end.
Mystica exhaled, shaking slightly, her stance low and breathing shallow. Her hands still glowed, trembling from the overload of rapid magic.
Barbara erged again, slower now—but laughing.
"You’re full of tricks, mage," she said between breaths. "But how long can you keep it up?"
Mystica’s voice was low—deadly.
"As long as it takes to bury you."
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