The sound of steel sliding free from its scabbard echoed through the ruined throne hall like a church bell tolling at a funeral.
Two figures stood apart from the rest—two forces of fate, motionless yet charged with the tension of a gathering storm.
Julius's crimson cloak rippled faintly in the still air.
His sword, Heavenly Demon Rain, pulsed with a deep, restrained glow—like a heartbeat made of light.
Across from him, Yurasia, clad in full Francian plate, lifted her sanctified blade into position.
Her stance was perfect, almost too perfect—every motion mechanical, devoid of humanity.
Her face remained hidden behind that angelic helm.
Her breathing could not be heard.
Only the faint clink of shifting steel betrayed that there was still a living being inside that gilded cage.
The air snapped.
Julius moved first.
A blur of red and steel.
His sword swept low, the ground cracking beneath the force.
Yurasia met the strike head-on, her blade wreathed in pale light.
