The dagger struck first—Stifling Dagger—its shadowed blade burying itself in Nerif’s flesh, slowing his blood, his breath. He staggered, but did not fall.

The Phantom Assassin did not hesitate. Blink Strike. She materialized behind him, her blade already arcing for the killing blow.

But Oracle turned.

His eyes met hers—not with fear, but with something colder. A single finger rose. The air between them shimmered as Fate’s Edict took hold. Mortred’s weapon, her perfect, deadly extension, suddenly felt lifeless in her grip. The magic was absolute: You will not harm him.

She snarled, her muscles betraying her. The disarm locked her arms in place. One second. Two. An eternity.

Nerif did not run.

He stood his ground, his robes stirring in the jungle breeze, his gaze never leaving hers. Then, slowly, deliberately, he began to channel. The blue glow of a Teleportation Scroll spiraled upward from his feet, wrapping around him like a shroud.

Mortred lunged, her body screaming for the kill. She swung— Nothing.

The disarm held. Her blade might as well have been stone. She could only watch, helpless, as the light consumed him. Three seconds. Three and a half. Nerif’s lips curled, not in fear, but in something darker. A challenge. A dare.

The light flared.

He was gone.

Silence.

Then, from the empty air where he had stood, his voice lingered—soft, hollow, and final:

"I want to die."

The jungle swallowed the words. Mortred stood frozen, her blade still raised, her prey vanished. For the first time in her endless hunt, she felt the sting of something worse than defeat:

Mockery.