Ren froze, his breath catching in his throat. The two friends beside him were struck silent as well, their eyes wide, unable to believe what they were witnessing.
Varzak, the man who had moments ago fought Ren with careless ease and mockery, was now being overwhelmed.
No… not merely overwhelmed. He had been utterly defeated.
One of his arms fell to the ground, dissolving into a flurry of crimson pixels. His scar-ridden gray body was now covered in dozens of new sword wounds, shallow, bleeding, spreading like cracks in shattered glass.
Every backward step he took trembled, leaving behind faint trails of red light on the stone floor, the mark of defeat.
The viscount exhaled heavily, the sigh carrying the weight of countless years of sorrow, and lowered the slender blade in his hand.
Before this moment, he had unleashed a sword skill that neither Ren nor Asuna had ever seen, not even Kirito, a Beta tester, recognized it. It was not a storm… but a tempest, hundreds of razor-sharp winds unleashed at once, sweeping away everything in their path.
The once-solid stone hallway now bore the scars of that strike, clean, perfect cuts etched across every surface, the floor streaked with gleaming lines as though a whirlwind had passed through and vanished in an instant.
In the suffocating silence that followed, only the faint drip… drip… of blood from Varzak's severed arm could be heard, and the pounding of a heart like a beast howling in the dark.
"You never learn anything from your own failures."
Yofilis's voice was calm, stripped of anger, carrying only weariness and disappointment.
His eyes softened with a distant sorrow, as if he were gazing not at the traitor before him, but at a shadow of the past, the child he had once trusted, once believed would become the spear that guarded their kingdom.
Varzak's lips twisted into a warped grin, his brows contorted in pain.
His face twitched from the agony of his wounds and his missing arm, but deep within his burning red eyes flickered something far more complex, jealousy, resentment… and accusation.
"Isn't it…" He drew a ragged breath, his voice hoarse and cracking, "…isn't everything that happened… because of your favoritism, my teacher?"
Each word fell from his mouth like a dull blade in the hands of a starving man, too blunt to cut cleanly, yet each still carving a wound that ached deep within.
Yofilis closed his eyes briefly, his brows furrowing as his grip on the sword tightened.
But he did not reply. He let Varzak's ragged breathing and the dark, almost black blood spill freely, dissolving into crackling strings of red pixels.
"My teacher…" Varzak lifted his head. His eyes trembled, madness and grief mingling in equal measure. "…I kept asking myself, where did I go wrong? Or was I already… a mistake from the moment I was born?"
A bitter laugh escaped him, breaking apart in his throat.
"You always said… that if we tried hard enough, we could reach our dreams. That no destiny was unbreakable."
His blood-red eyes glared at Yofilis, trembling. "Then tell me… why was it only me… only me… who was cast aside?"
"Why did you let the others take what should have been mine? Or was it…" he hissed, his voice cracking apart, "…because they were your own blood?"
The hallway fell silent, save for the crumble of loose stones falling from the cracked walls. Yofilis looked at his former pupil, eyes heavy as though burdened by the weight of centuries.
"It was law, Varzak…" Yofilis replied softly, not loud, not cold, but with a cruel calm that cut deeper than rage. "A law none can break. Not even I."
At that moment, his words severed the last thread of hope that had held Varzak together, leaving him to fall alone into the void he had been clawing at for years.
The viscount cast him a long, heavy look...deep and dark as an abyss. Within it, there was not only anger, but a grief so vast it could drown the soul.
"You've always been a fool, Varzak." His voice was even, but each word struck like a hammer against stone.
"I taught you, a true warrior is one who accepts, not one who bows to failure. Turn your disgrace into strength, and rise beyond it."
He took a step forward, the hem of his cloak whispering across the fractured floor.
"But look at yourself now…" Yofilis's eyes flashed with fury. "For the sake of your wretched desires and blind hunger for power, you turned yourself into a defiled creature, nothing like the student I once knew."
His voice dropped, cold and sharp as grinding steel. "You are no longer the Varzak I taught. You are just a hollow shell, a corpse animated by your own delusions."
Once more, Yofilis drew his sword from its sheath, a motion of finality, and pressed the blade to Varzak's throat.
But then…
"Begone." His voice rumbled low, reverberating against the broken stone walls. "Never let me see your face again."
The slender sword flickered once, trembling faintly in his hand before lowering, heavy with the weight of centuries of restraint.
In Yofilis's eyes, there was no mercy. Only judgment, colder than death itself. To take Varzak's life would have been too simple, too merciful.
No... he would let him live.
To live beneath the weight of a shame that could never be cleansed. To live under the scorn of his kin, haunted by dreams that would never again burn bright, only devour him night after night.
Perhaps that was the only punishment fit for one who had trampled the honor of his ancestors, betrayed his master, and traded the blood of his own people for strength.
Or perhaps… it was the last trace of pity left in the heart of a teacher, for the student who had lost his way beyond return.
The scar on Varzak's face twitched violently, distorting his expression into a grotesque mask of ruin.
His breath came fast and shallow, chest heaving, red pixels dripping from his wounds and streaking the cold stone floor.
He fell to his knees, the sound of impact echoing like a plea, or a curse, yet in those crazed eyes still burned a glimmer of something…
A twisted, defiant hope.
The arrogant belief that one day, he could still surpass the man he once worshipped.
"I…" Varzak growled, his voice hoarse and ragged, "I thought… if I could defeat you with my own hands… I would prove that all your teachings were nothing but lies!"
He bowed his head low, his remaining hand digging its nails into the stone floor until blood seeped out, but he refused to let go. In his heart, reason and hatred clashed violently, crushing everything else.
Was it foolish arrogance that had brought him here? Or was it a desperate yearning, to be recognized, even once, by the very teacher he both despised and longed for?
Varzak no longer knew. Now, all that remained inside him was pure, burning rage, an inferno consuming the last fragments of his soul.
Thick, black smoke poured from his wounds, as though his very flesh was evaporating. His muscles swelled, veins glowing crimson and twisting as if trying to tear through his own skin.
"[Abyssal Requiem]…" he rasped, the words trembling in his throat, as though he were singing a requiem for himself.
In that instant, the space around him warped. The ground trembled and cracked, as if something deep within was tearing itself apart.
Dark runes, ancient and curse-like, flashed briefly across his skin before dissolving into the swirling mists that enveloped him.
Varzak's eyes lost all color, now hollow pits burning red, glowing like dying embers. Each breath he exhaled carried the stench of ash, the scent of a soul being reduced to dust.
Yofilis narrowed his eyes, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turned white.
His voice dropped low, echoing through the frozen corridor like a funeral bell:
"You've gone mad, Varzak…"
His gaze, sharp as a blade, locked onto the grotesque figure before him.
Each puff of black smoke rising from Varzak's body made Yofilis's heart sink deeper, as if he were witnessing a sin beyond redemption.
"How could you… use that skill… [Abyssal Requiem]…" Yofilis snarled through gritted teeth, eyes burning with fury and disgust.
"Only the most accursed of heretics would dare invoke it." He stepped forward, his cloak flaring like a shadow lashing out in his stead.
"Tell me, you wretch… how many of your kin did you trample over to grasp this cursed requiem? How many cries, how many souls were torn apart to grant you this abomination of power!?"
Within the churning dark of Abyssal Requiem, Varzak lifted his face. A twisted smile stretched across his bloodstained features, pulling at the scars until his face looked like a cracked mask. He seemed drunk on both pain and the contempt Yofilis hurled at him.
"[Flowing Light Slash]!"
But...just as Varzak gathered himself to strike, Ren suddenly moved in between them.
He unleashed his strongest sword skill, and in an instant, the world within his sapphire eyes froze solid.
In Ren's vision, every wisp of smoke, every twitch of muscle slowed to a crawl, as if time itself were strangled by an unseen hand.
His body merged into a flowing stream of light, swept up like a cascade of radiant blades.
Four chained strikes were beyond his limits, but three… three he could control.
His sword carved three arcs of light, clean and merciless, slashing straight for Varzak's neck.
The final strike ended, and Varzak's head parted from his body. Then, time surged back like a flood bursting through a dam.
Kirito and Asuna flinched, eyes wide, as they saw Ren standing beside Varzak's headless corpse. Only a heartbeat ago, he had been beside them.
How had he crossed that distance, and felled the foe, so fast that even they, even the Viscount Yofilis himself, couldn't react?
The question roared through their minds like a storm.
Kirito gripped his sword tightly, estimating in disbelief. Even if he went full speed, it would take at least seven seconds to cover that distance. Seven seconds… compared to what had just happened, it was an eternity.
Before anyone could recover, the metallic clang of steel striking stone echoed sharply, a jarring reminder of reality. Ren's sword had slipped from his hand.
Ren dropped to his knees, lungs seizing, breath ragged as if his chest were being carved open. The pain crashed through him, spreading through his joints, sharp enough to make him feel like his body was shattering into hundreds of shards.
The sword's hilt trembled in his numb fingers.
Every time he used that technique, the cost was the same: exhaustion, agony, and a cold warning that it still lay beyond his limits.
Viscount Yofilis stared at Ren, eyes wide with a mixture of fear and something he couldn't name. For a heartbeat, his heart nearly stopped.
After all his years on the battlefield, he had believed nothing could astonish him anymore. But Yofilis now knew, he had been wrong.
"You…" His voice was low, thick with awe and disbelief, his gaze fixed on Ren.
"I…" Ren gasped, each word torn from his throat, "I'm sorry… but… I couldn't let him… complete that skill…"
The sapphire in his eyes dimmed, yet still burned with determination. "I don't doubt your strength… but the time… would've been too long… Please… go… help Kizmel and the others…"
Before he could finish, Ren's body went limp, collapsing onto the cold stone floor.
Yofilis rushed forward, catching him. His brows furrowed, and his voice came out heavy as iron:
"He's fine… just severely exhausted. This child… he's stronger than I thought. Even with his body in this state… he still forced himself to use that technique…"
He looked down at Ren for a moment, his expression wavering, a faint tremor crossing his eyes.