The long-haired Friez shot a nervous sidelong glance at his commander, fervently praying that some opportune fit of madness might grip the man and compel him to order a retreat. "You remain here," Wenloff Friez commanded with finality. "Permit no one to approach the tavern perimeter. Not even our own Godman forces." Gauner nodded with undisguised eagerness. "Certainly, Wenloff." The moment it dawned on Gauner that he would not be the one facing the Monster Slayer, a wave of profound relief washed over him, as if he had been granted a reprieve from death itself.

  Wenloff Friez lowered his helmet into place. Unlike Felix's ostentatious dog-head with its gaping maw, Wenloff's helm presented a more restrained visage—yet radiated a far more suffocating aura of menace. "You don't seem afraid," he rumbled, dismounting his midnight stallion with surprising grace for one so massive. ...Irene took in his colossal stature. (So tall,) she thought, a flicker of unease stirring. (Taller even than that dog-helmed brute. Almost the height of a mature ghoul.)

  "I'm asking you," the voice emanating from within the canine helm resonated even deeper than before. "Do I not inspire terror in you, woman?" The Monster Slayer scrutinized the armored giant for any vulnerability, finding none. (Full plate, every gap plugged with reinforced mail. A truly daunting opponent.) "You should recognize my profession as a Monster Slayer," she countered, matching his detached tone. "I've dispatched numerous creatures possessing strength far superior to yours."

  "But I wager you have never faced a monster quite like me."

  Wenloff's pace accelerated gradually, his seemingly ponderous armor moving upon his frame with the lightness of silk garments. "Seek shelter immediately," Irene instructed the halfling who hovered nervously at her heels. "Return to the tavern's interior, Emry. Now."

  "But miss, your situation—"

  "I shall manage this threat."

  Emry scrambled back towards the dubious safety of the tavern in a flurry of ungainly leaps and bounds.

  Wenloff Friez broke into a full charge. Each iron-shod footfall generated tremors through the surrounding earth. The Monster Slayer glanced with relief at the luminescent azure liquid still coating her palm—the Tears of Nira remained potent within her system. Irene brought up her sword. It was her last: the silver one, its straight, keen-edged blade a masterwork of meteoric iron fused with pure silver -- Wilmeister's gift to mark her anointing as a Monster Slayer, a weapon crafted solely for the bane of supernatural things. (Let us commence our dance, monster.)

  Wenloff took a single, ground-devouring stride then checked his charge with an abruptness that sent a cloud of dust billowing around his iron-shod boots. He swept his imposing poleaxe in a devastating horizontal arc, cleanly severing two wooden support posts positioned above the stone well. Irene noted, with a flicker of grim respect, that he wielded the enormous weapon with but a single hand -- a feat attesting to his truly monstrous strength. With a dexterous twist of his wrist, the blade reversed its orientation, the shaft tucked expertly beneath his arm as he delivered a backhanded sweep. Irene retreated with measured precision, patiently awaiting an opportunity to launch her counteroffensive.

  Wenloff Friez deliberately dragged his axe along the ground, producing a cacophony of discordant scraping. The Monster Slayer maintained her composure, executing intricate patterns with her silver blade, weaving a deadly dance in preparation.

  "You Monster Slayers sustain yourselves by hunting creatures of darkness," Friez remarked, his voice muffled as though some obstruction lingered in his throat. "We, on the other hand, are warriors born. Our art is the slaughter of men. Though in the days of our forebears, the Friez hunted far nobler game -- the great beasts of the wild." His gaze fixed upon her feline eyes with unsettling intensity. "Such as mountain lynxes."

  His assertion contained undeniable truth. Gauner, the long-haired Friez, possessed intimate knowledge of these practices. Selected as Wenloff Friez's personal squire due to their comparable ages, he had witnessed firsthand the blood-soaked existence that defined House Friez. Daily he expressed gratitude for not being born into the Friez lineage, spared from inevitable consignment to that sand-filled pit saturated with countless victims' blood—the family's private arena. From the tender age of ten, every Friez scion, boy or girl, was hurled into that unforgiving amphitheater, forced to overcome some slavering beast simply to earn the right to their supper. This tradition had persisted since the house's founding. Only those who survived until their fifteenth year qualified to inherit the blood-drenched, savage legacy—regardless of gender. Beginning with adolescent lynxes, progressing to enraged wild boars, then to deliberately starved lionesses, Wenloff Friez endured this cycle of brutality throughout his formative years. Countless times he narrowly escaped death beneath a charging boar's merciless tusks, yet invariably persevered, navigating five years immersed in blood and violence. The three Friez brothers, it seemed, had not merely acclimated to this brutal existence but had come to revel in it; even after their coming-of-age rites, they would often pass their days in the arena -- either testing their own bloody mettle or watching with cold amusement as others were… tested.

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  Observing his master engaged in arena combat, Gauner consistently experienced conflicting emotional responses. And though a sliver of pity for Wenloff's brutal shaping sometimes pricked Gauner's conscience, a larger, darker part of him secretly yearned for his master to meet his end upon that blood-stained sand. He had often fantasized about securing appointment as squire to Riveper Friez, the earl's fourth son, who remarkably had never shed blood within the fighting pit. Common speculation suggested Riveper possessed divine protection—every beast selected to confront him mysteriously perished before entering the ring, even specimens personally chosen by the earl himself. Rumors attributed this phenomenon to mastery of poison craft or practice of forbidden black magic, though such details remained ultimately irrelevant—the earl demonstrated particular admiration for his youngest offspring, convinced he would eventually emerge as House Friez's most accomplished practitioner of systematic torture.

  "Whatever trials forged you in your cruel past, I neither know nor care to know," Irene stated, her silver blade a living flower in her hand, each petal a glint of deadly steel. "Monsters and mere beasts occupy entirely separate categories—precisely as Monster Slayers exist in a realm entirely separate from degenerates of your ilk."

  Without warning, she initiated a probing step, pivoting with explosive speed to create a perfect axis of rotation. Her movement combined swiftness, precision, and complete absence of vulnerability. Before Wenloff could elevate his poleaxe to defensive position, she had positioned herself precisely at the weapon's midpoint—perfectly within her silver blade's lethal range.

  Executing a perfect pirouette, the Monster Slayer transitioned seamlessly into a high guard position before delivering a powerful diagonal strike. The entire sequence was a single, breathtaking flow of motion. Wenloff heaved up his poleaxe, but by the time he had it partway lifted, Irene had already danced aside, and only then did he spy the dark stain of blood seeping through the quilted gambeson protecting his elbow.

  This injury appeared to have minimal effect on Wenloff's composure. (He exhibits no discernible reaction to physical trauma,) Irene observed with mounting concern. Wenloff Friez executed a forceful thrust; rather than retreating, Irene advanced to meet his blade. She swayed aside by a hair's breadth, letting the whistling axehead pass harmlessly by, then dropped low, coiling her body and sword into a single, spinning vortex of destruction. Her blade found the unarmored posterior region of Friez's left thigh, sending dark crimson droplets spattering across the ground.

  Wenloff Friez appeared entirely impervious to pain—in this moment and perhaps permanently. He pivoted with unexpected velocity, his weapon slicing horizontally through the space Irene's face had occupied mere fractions of a second earlier. Following this, he adjusted to a two-handed grip and delivered a powerful overhead strike. Irene never contemplated attempting to block such a blow; she once again evaded with dancer's grace.

  "Cease this rodent-like evasion," Friez growled with evident irritation. "Demonstrate genuine skill—and fighting spirit worthy of respect."

  (What rational combatant would willingly engage you in a contest of raw strength?) Irene contemplated silently. (Moreover, the Tears of Nira's potency must be approaching its natural conclusion. Even unenhanced, few opponents can overcome a trained Monster Slayer in single combat. Nevertheless, vigilance remains essential. This is, after all, a battlefield environment.)

  Perceiving increasing numbness infiltrating his left hand, Wenloff Friez reverted to wielding his formidable polearm single-handed. A definite physiological response. Irene adjusted her blade's position. (The initiative now transfers to me.)

  She launched an aggressive advance, deliberately closing the distance between them. The lengthy haft of his axe transformed from advantage to liability at such proximity. The Monster Slayer executed two precise lateral steps to evade the weapon's head, elevating her sword to face height before initiating a sequence of high-position strikes and lightning-fast exchanges. (Swallow Dance.)

  This relentless barrage, combining the swiftness and sweeping grace of a swallow's wings, forced Wenloff Friez into grudging retreat. His breastplate and gorget accumulated an increasingly dense network of strident scratches from her blade's persistent contact. Eventually, finding the sustained assault intolerable, Friez abandoned his polearm entirely and drew a substantial broadsword from his belt. The Monster Slayer immediately ceased her offensive, expanded the separation between them, and deftly evaded his subsequent wild, undisciplined slashes.

  She perceived his mounting rage through his increasingly labored respiration. (His sword grip reveals complete unfamiliarity with proper blade technique,) she noted with cautious optimism. (Perhaps this development presents a genuine opportunity...) Her expression suddenly shifted to one of astonishment as Friez unexpectedly returned his broadsword to its scabbard and retrieved his discarded polearm. "Can you not summon even minimal fighting spirit or technical proficiency?" Irene demanded with evident frustration.

  "A beetle does not challenge a mantis to a contest of agility," came his enigmatic response.