The clash had stilled, not because Serah's will had faltered, but because the Purebloods willed it so. Like predators weary of circling but not of playing, they withdrew in perfect sync, their movements unnervingly calm as if their retreat were nothing but another phase of their game. They perched upon broken stones and twisted roots at the edge of the clearing, their black-veined bodies almost regal in their grotesque stillness. Golden irises glowed faintly in the afternoon haze, burning holes into her resolve.
Their laughter came first, hollow and deliberate, seeping into her ears like venom. Then came their words—sharp, deliberate knives aimed not at her flesh but her soul.
"You wear that blade as if it makes you strong," the four-horned demon jeered, his tone smooth as silk but layered with malice. "But look at you. Bleeding, trembling, hiding your weakness behind clenched teeth. A knight in name, nothing more. Even your weapon shakes in your hand."
