The world underfoot had turned into a red-and-white slurry:
blood, snow, ice needles, scorched earth.
The demons were retreating.
Not because they had lost.
Because I was worse.
Only about twenty percent of them remained—and even those were backing away,
when my titans stepped forward, smiling with their filthy smiles.
People… were falling too.
Not to demons.
To me.
I noticed them only in passing.
Foreign silhouettes.
Foreign movements.
Foreign intentions.
All the same.
All—targets.
And then… the sky flared.
At first—small dots.
Red, smoldering, like embers.
Then—brighter.
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Closer.
Stronger.
Lines of fire cut through the fog like white-hot arrows.
And the next moment I saw them:
fire phoenixes.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
A whole vortex of winged flame.
Each one—enormous.
Each—an embodiment of heat.
I even stopped.
For the first time.
The phoenixes passed over the human army—and sharply changed direction.
Not toward the people.
Not toward the demons.
Straight at me.
Their fire tore downward—like meteors.
Burning projectiles slammed into the demon ranks,
turning the ground into lava and orcs into black silhouettes.
The screams of demons turned to ash.
And then I saw her.
? MIRA HELVARD.
Not a legend.
Not a tale.
Not a guardsmen’s dream.
Alive. Real.
And even from a distance it was clear—such power pulsed within her
that the entire steppe seemed to exhale in fear.
She flew ahead of the phoenixes, like the heart of their fire.
Her hair—long, dark—was wrapped in flame.
Her eyes—just like in that image—glowed with orange-pink madness.
Not fanaticism.
Certainty.
As if she knew: this world belonged to her.
And she had come to claim it.
The phoenixes crashed down behind her like guardians.
The ground cracked beneath her feet.
Mira saw the storm.
My storm.
And there was no doubt in her eyes.
Only decision.
A warrior comes to kill,
and a sister—to save.
She shot upward, gaining speed like a comet.
And flew straight into my storm.
I didn’t even have time to turn.
The impact was like the world being struck in the head.
I was thrown out of the storm—like a feather.
I flew some thirty meters, smashing through ice plates, rolling in the snow.
Mira didn’t let me land properly.
She struck again.
And again.
And again.
Each blow of her fist was a burst of fire,
each one—a rune of power,
each one—a direct command for the world to obey.
The aura around us flared like colliding waves.
Mine—cold, torn, predatory.
Hers—bright, boiling, blazing with certainty.
When our mana touched, the air exploded.
BOOM.
The steppe shuddered.
Demons fell.
People covered their ears.
We stood facing each other,
two beasts in human bodies.
I—with red eyes, breathing rage.
She—with spirals of fire in her gaze, a smile of mad confidence.
Mira spoke quietly,
but in a way everyone heard.
— Little brother.
— Broken again?
And the world around us fell silent.
Even the wind.