Osphal's roar split the twilight, sharp and fierce, echoing across the shattered courtyard. His massive frame trembled with rage, fists clenched tight.
"How dare you!" he bellowed, eyes burning with hatred. "Come down here! I will show you what death truly means!"
The Captain, injured and still, watched with quiet curiosity, his gaze fixed on the masked figure above.
Above him, on the castle wall, the masked figure stood motionless, a shadow against the dying sun. The ruins glowed faintly in the crimson light, smoke rising around them. The courtyard was scattered with broken weapons, and the air still carried the sharp tang of blood and ash.
The Captain staggered, every step sending pain through his reopened wound. His sword felt heavy, but his eyes stayed fixed on the masked figure.
Even in agony, his mind was sharp, instincts alive—watching, waiting.
Who is this man… who just saved everyone here?
Around them, the castle seemed to hold its breath, the air charged with tension, smoke, and the distant cries of Tukmis' burning streets. The duel was far from over, but something far more dangerous had just entered the battlefield.
At last, the masked figure moved, descending the stone steps with calm precision. His voice cut through the night with mockery:
"Alright, my weak friend—this one who calls himself strong… I am coming."
Behind the Captain, his eyes narrowed, recognition flickering.
No… it can't be…
Osphal's face twisted with fury, though for an instant his eyes betrayed unease. The air itself seemed to tighten as the masked figure descended, each step drawing the courtyard into silence.
The Captain's lips curved into a slow, deliberate smile, a chuckle bubbling up from deep within his chest. It started low, almost a whisper, then grew until it filled the air, cold and amused. "So… it's you," he murmured, voice tinged with disbelief and dark amusement. "There is only one person… only one who could enter like this."
Every muscle ached, the wound burning with each movement, yet his mind was sharp. The duel, the chaos, the fury—all faded. Only this presence mattered.
The masked figure's aura pressed against his senses—commanding, undeniable… yet familiar.
Osphal's body shook with fury as he lunged, his long sword tearing through the air in a blur that threatened to split the night apart. His roar thundered against the ruined walls, raw with rage and humiliation. Blood still seeped from the wound in his shoulder, yet he swung with relentless force, refusing to yield.
But the masked figure moved like a shadow freed from the world's rules, springing effortlessly over him. He landed behind Osphal, light as smoke, voice edged with mockery:
"Why so desperate?"
His low laugh followed—cold, deliberate, and merciless, burrowing into Osphal's chest like ice.
Osphal's fury ignited further, his face twisting, jaw clenched, every muscle taut. How dare he mock me—here, in front of everyone? Rage surged through him, almost blinding, and his grip on the sword tightened until his knuckles cracked. "How dare you!" he bellowed, voice ragged with raw anger. "I'll show you… I'll show you your worth!"
The Captain staggered, his eyes—cold, sharp, and unflinching—tracking the clash before him. Beneath the calculation in his gaze stirred something rarer: awe, threaded with recognition. So it really is him… no one else could appear like this.
Smoke lingered over the ruined courtyard, as if the very air held its breath for the coming clash.
In one motion, the masked figure drew his blade—a golden-hilted sword that caught the dying light. Then he moved, so fast the eye could barely follow.
Osphal barely had time to react. The masked figure's blade flashed, striking the arm already torn by the Captain's earlier wound.
In the next instant, his left hand was severed clean from his body. His scream ripped through the ruins as blood gushed in a violent spray, the mangled hand thudding to the ground. The shock was instant, fury twisting into disbelief—his injury had been turned into ruin.
Through the agony, his grip on the sword tightened, every vein in his arm straining as he steadied himself for another strike. Pain coursed through him, but hatred burned brighter, fueling his unbroken defiance.
The masked figure stepped back, his stance loose, almost casual.
Head tilted slightly, he studied Osphal with unsettling calm.
Every ragged breath, every twitch of muscle, was met with silent observation.
It was as if his very stillness mocked him—
Take your time… recover…
I am not moving.
Even through blood and pain, Osphal felt the weight of that gaze—cold, unyielding, and filled with quiet disrespect. The courtyard held its breath as they faced each other in silence.
Osphal gritted his teeth, blood dripping from the severed arm.
Every movement was a torment, every breath fire and fury.
His eyes blazed, rage mingling with a grudging respect.
"I see… you are strong," he growled, voice low and trembling with intensity.
"Then… I'll give you my best."
The masked figure tilted his head, shadows hiding his face.
Every subtle movement, every pause, carried a silent mockery.
He stepped closer, sword glinting, aura calm yet daring.
Then come. Show me what you've got.
Osphal's fists clenched, muscles taut despite the pain.
He planted his feet firmly on the scarred stone, heartbeat echoing in his ears.
And he met that unwavering, silent gaze.
The Captain leaned weakly against a shattered column, a faint, knowing smile slipping past his stoicism.
Even bloodied, even injured, the raw intensity of Osphal's pride and fury stirred something deep within him.
This was no longer just a fight—it was a brutal test of wills.
The masked figure's patient, mocking stance only sharpened its edge.
Smoke curled from the ruins, wind whispered through torn banners.
The battlefield seemed to hold its breath.
Osphal roared, muscles coiling like a predator ready to strike.
He lunged, sword slicing through the air with lethal intent.
The masked figure met him mid-step, golden blade flashing.
Steel clashed with a thunderous clang, sparks flying across the ruined courtyard.
Blade met blade, a storm of force and precision.
Every swing carried Osphal's fury—pain, pride, and raw strength driving him forward.
The masked figure moved like water—smooth, deliberate, almost mocking.
Each deflected blow reminded Osphal that this was no ordinary opponent.
Their swords danced in violent harmony, sparks raining against scorched stone and torn banners.
Osphal gritted his teeth, pushing forward, vision blurred with the heat of battle.
His severed arm throbbed, agony slicing through him, yet every strike carried his rage and defiance.
The masked figure tilted his head, aura calm and unwavering.
Every motion radiated power—precise, confident, as if the very air bent to his will.
He parried, twisted, and pressed, forcing Osphal to meet him blow for blow.
The Captain leaned against the broken column, body aching, eyes sharp and calculating.
Even weakened, he felt the raw intensity of two titans colliding.
Sparks flew. Dust swirled.
For a moment, the courtyard vanished—there was only steel, rage, and unyielding precision locked in a deadly dance.
Neither side yielded.
Neither gave ground.
The battle had begun—and it was far from over.
The clash went on—steel flashing, sparks scattering across the scarred courtyard.
Then, with a clean, lightning strike, the masked blade bit into Osphal's leg.
Pain exploded through him; he crumpled, blood darkening the stone beneath him.
But surrender was not in him.
Through gritted teeth he pushed upright, each movement a blade of agony, and he swung again—reckless, furious.
For the first time, the masked man's calm flickered.
Osphal's blow found its mark across the figure's right arm; crimson streaked the golden hilt.
"I…it's not over!" Osphal rasped, voice raw, defiance burning in his eyes.
The masked figure straightened, wiping a faint smear of blood from his arm, his aura calm but now edged with sharp amusement.
"Oh?" he said, voice cold, almost playful.
"I thought you would give up by now. Very well… now I'll kill you for sure."
The wind whistled through torn banners, dust swirling around them.
Two bloodied warriors faced each other—neither willing to bend, neither to yield.
Osphal gritted his teeth, forcing himself upright despite the searing pain in his leg.
Every muscle screamed, but fury refused to let him fall.
The masked figure mirrored him, calm and poised, radiating deadly precision.
Osphal spun, weapon arcing in a blur, striking with desperate strength—a storm of rage.
But the figure was gone.
One heartbeat later, a blade pressed cruelly against his back.
Pain exploded, sharp and searing, as his sword clattered from his hand.
Blood poured freely from the wound and his mouth.
Osphal staggered, knees buckling, vision swimming in crimson.
The courtyard tilted around him, smoke and sparks blurring into chaos.
The masked figure stood a step away, calm and unreadable—silent executor of a strike that left no room for hesitation.
Blood dripped from Osphal's back, each breath a burning agony.
Pain clawed at him, but pride and fury refused to let him yield.
"No… no… I can't… I can't lose!" he gasped, voice ragged, trembling with disbelief and rage.
"I… I was meant to be his successor… I can't die like this… no… no… no!"
The masked figure stepped closer, blade poised, aura deadly and still.
His voice cut through the chaos like ice:
"Shut up. You are not strong. And you… you dare call yourself the successor of that monster?"
Osphal's fists clenched, trembling, nails digging into his palms.
Pain, humiliation, and burning fury coursed through him, yet the masked figure's words struck deeper than any blade.
Even broken, his gaze burned with defiance, will screaming against the weight of truth.
The masked figure moved with fluid grace toward the Captain, leaving Osphal collapsed and silent on the scarred stones.
His guttural roar faded—first to a wheeze, then into nothingness.