Realmshift: Triad Ascendancy.

Change.

[BEATRICE]

I collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath. My body screamed in pain, battered and torn despite the blood body suit clinging to me. It hadn't been enough. Not even close.

Time had become meaningless during our fight—whether minutes or hours had passed, I couldn't tell. All I knew was that I had given everything I had. And it still wasn't enough.

He hadn't even gone all out.

Ose stood above me, unscathed, his expression calm—too calm. Like a teacher watching a student fail a lesson he'd taught too many times.

I forced myself to rise again, trembling, my vision blurred. I could barely gather enough mana to summon my blood armor once more. But I wasn't done. Not yet.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk," Ose clicked his tongue, tilting his head slightly. His tone held no true disappointment, only amusement—mockery, maybe. "You still don't get it, do you?"

He stepped forward slowly, as if lecturing rather than fighting.

"You rely too much on instinct. You act before you think. Vermouth taught you how to fight, sure—but she didn't understand the full extent of my power, and so neither do you."

His words cut deeper than any blade.

"You know the fundamentals of blood manipulation. Density. Amplification. You can harden your blood to make it sharper than steel. You form weapons, projectiles... wrap your body in armor. And yes, those are solid techniques."

He paused, letting the silence drive in the weight of what came next.

"But you wield them recklessly. Desperately. Like a wild animal lashing out in fear."

He leaned down, his gaze sharp like a scalpel dissecting my resolve.

"You're not fighting like a celestial."

Ose lunged without warning.

A crimson blade met his knuckles mid-air, the impact sending a shockwave through the clearing. My legs buckled, but I held my ground this time.

"Better," he muttered, twisting and slamming his palm toward my ribs.

I threw up a shield—thin, dense blood hardening instantly.

Crack.

It absorbed most of the blow. I skidded back only a few feet instead of flying. My arms shook.

"Don't reinforce everything," he said, stepping forward like a predator. "Only where it matters."

He vanished again. Instinct screamed—behind me.

I spun, tightening the blood on my heel and kicked. He ducked, caught my ankle.

"Good instinct. But that was too slow."

He yanked—and I used the momentum, flipping mid-air, gathering blood mid-spin into a thin spike along my elbow. I brought it down fast.

He dodged, barely. A line of blood slid down his cheek.

We both froze for a fraction of a second.

His smile widened.

"There we go."

He struck again. Faster. Harsher.

I matched him—barely. Condensing my blood into a single lance, redirecting it mid-swing with minute adjustments. Less waste. Sharper strikes.

He weaved through my blows, then suddenly thrust a jab forward—not at my chest, but my eyes.

I raised my forearm to block.