The plain no longer looked like a plain.
There were places where the ground was simply… gone.
Not burned. Not shattered. Gone—as if someone had erased parts of the world with a cold, careless hand. Around those voids, dust still hovered in the air, hesitating, unsure whether it was allowed to fall.
At the center of that impossible disorder, Diala breathed as if every breath had a cost.
Her shoulder burned. Her arm trembled with a numbness that wasn't fatigue, but absence—like part of her Nyama could no longer find its way back into her body. Behind her, the golden gazelle stood taller and denser than before, but its light flickered at times, like a flame shielded by a trembling palm.
Across from her, Nar'so no longer carried the smooth calm he had shown at the beginning.
He was still standing. Still upright. But the purple energy around him no longer flowed cleanly. Two fractures—one at his shoulder, one along his side—refused to fully close. And when he moved, the world around him lagged by a fraction of a second, like sound outrunning its image.
He watched her in silence for a long moment. Then he exhaled, almost amused.
"You're still standing."
Diala spat blood to the side and wiped her mouth with her sleeve without breaking eye contact.
"You say that like it's surprising."
Nar'so tilted his head slightly.
"It is. Harmony usually breaks when it's pushed too far."
He raised his hand.
The purple storm answered immediately.
The arcs of dissonance no longer spiraled wide like before. They tightened. They learned. They traced short, vicious, precise paths around Diala—hooks cast to catch prey. Where they passed, the air didn't tear.
It went silent.
Diala stepped sideways. Then again. She wasn't chasing power—she was following intervals. But her legs trembled. Her breath faltered. And every time she slipped "between," the cold bit into her skin, as if crossing dissonance tore warmth straight out of her.
One arc surged low.
She felt it too late. She pivoted, raised her spear—and the impact slid along the metal before slicing into her forearm.
She staggered back one step. Then another.
Her arm split open in a clean line, as if drawn by a blade. Not burned. Separated.
Behind her, the golden gazelle wavered, as if it had taken the blow in her place.
Diala clenched her teeth.
Along the front, the Donso no longer moved like a wave. They held. A human line facing a phenomenon, fighting not to be swallowed by fear. Arbi shouted orders. Other captains echoed him further down the line. But the space around the duel had emptied.
No one dared approach.
Because every purple arc meant someone could vanish without ever understanding why.
On the Terrace of Roots, Sirani felt her knees weaken.
JARA vibrated beneath her feet like a drum losing its tempo. Every pulse sent toward the front slammed into dissonance and came back heavier. Her squad still held—arms extended, veins burning, eyes locked.
"We're holding…" one hunter rasped, voice breaking.
Sirani didn't need to look at him to know he was close to collapse.
"We hold," she repeated. Short. Hard. "Even if it breaks us."
The terrace shuddered for a second, then barely stabilized. Her stomach tightened.
Just a few more beats, she thought. Just… a few more.
Inside the Great Tree's chamber, the Nyama sphere spun like a panicked eye.
Kani Sira's hawks circled in fractured patterns, each clinging to a fragment of the battlefield. Around Nar'so, the image kept destabilizing, as if it refused to exist in one place for too long. Kani Sira's hands were raised, fingers tense, sweat shining on her brow.
"I lose his outline… I get it back… I lose it again," she muttered through clenched teeth. "It's like he refuses to be seen."
Nana watched the sphere without blinking.
"That's dark Nyama," she said calmly. "It doesn't want to be understood. It wants to be imposed."
Sambaké slammed his fist onto the table.
"She's going to die if we leave her in there."
"If we move closer, we get erased," Dioma replied without looking away.
Bory swallowed.
"She's… she's still hurting him."
Famory hadn't moved. His gray eyes vibrated with a sharp, almost dangerous focus.
"Yes," he breathed. "And he's making her pay for every step."
Near the edge of the chamber, Djata stood with his fists clenched, nails digging into his palms. He watched Diala the way one watches a cliff that refuses to collapse.
"She's… alone out there," he said, quieter than he meant to.
No one mocked him. No one answered.
At his hip, Vespera vibrated softly. A voice, ancient and barely audible, slid into his mind.
"Observe, little lion. When the air rejects the beat… even courage becomes calculation."
Djata didn't reply. He kept the words like a thorn lodged in thought.
On the plain, Nar'so advanced again.
He didn't rush. He didn't hurry. He moved as if time belonged to him, as if others' fatigue were a logical detail. The purple arcs realigned around him—closer, denser.
Diala felt her throat tighten.
It wasn't fear.
It was clarity.
Her Nyama flowed wrong. Not empty—twisted. Forced uphill by dissonance. Her arm bled. Her shoulder screamed. And beneath it all, a colder thought struck harder than any arc.
If I fall… who holds the line?
She lifted her gaze toward her Donso. Arbi, coated in dust. Hunters still fighting despite the missing ground. Totems trembling behind them—less brilliant than before, but still standing.
They were looking at her.
Even those who couldn't see her directly… felt her.
Diala tightened her grip until her fingers went white.
Nar'so stopped a few steps away.
"You're out of breath," he stated, like a conclusion.
Diala let out a dry laugh.
"Don't worry. I've still got a voice."
She straightened fully despite the pain and turned toward her men. Her voice cracked across the field—clean, direct, without ornament.
"DONSO!"
The line went silent, even amid the chaos.
She took one second. Just one. Not for drama—for breath, because her body begged her to sit.
Then she spoke, simple.
"My Nyama is unstable. Dissonance is twisting it. I feel it."
She struck her chest with her fist.
"But I refuse to fall. Not here. Not now."
Her voice hardened, heat rising.
"If I fall… I won't have the courage to face you again. I won't be your captain."
She pointed her spear at Nar'so.
"A captain doesn't win because they're strong."
The plain seemed to hold its breath.
"They win because they refuse to fall before the others."
The Donso stirred—not as a cheering crowd, but as a line remembering why it exists.
Nar'so watched in silence.
Diala closed her eyes for a fraction of a second and spoke inwardly, as if her Nyama could hear.
Then she shouted.
"BURN!"
The golden gazelle rose behind her, immense—a luminous shadow.
"Burn, my Nyama—burn until your limit!"
The ground trembled. The Root Network answered—weakly, like a drum struck with broken fingers. The light around Diala didn't explode. It condensed. It grew heavy, dense, like molten gold.
And the truth struck her.
If I push too far… I die.
She knew it. No drama. No romance. Just fact.
But another truth followed.
If I don't… they die first.
She opened her eyes. Her gaze didn't waver.
Nar'so stared at her for a long moment.
Then he laughed.
Not human laughter. Not joy. A fractured sound, like a rope pulled too tight.
"There it is," he said. "Harmony. It sacrifices itself and calls it… courage."
He stepped forward, his purple thickening.
"You want to burn? Then burn."
He placed a hand over his own core. The purple fractures across his body pulsed faster, like a heart refusing the world's rhythm. For the first time, Nar'so hesitated.
Not from fear.
From calculation.
If I strike now… this will hurt.
He felt it in the field's instability, in his own fractured lines. The golden gazelle was no longer movement—it was a spike. A rise that could pierce straight to the core.
Nar'so lifted his head.
"Very well, Captain."
His aura collapsed inward, like a storm clenched into a fist. The arcs gathered behind him—darker, heavier, compressed like shadowed claws.
"I'll show you the logical end of a will that insists."
His voice deepened, dense, and the word finally fell—clear, frontal, accepted.
"Dark Nyama."
The air cooled another degree.
Diala didn't step back.
She gripped her spear with both hands.
Nar'so extended his arm.
They spoke almost together.
Diala, voice blazing:
"This is my ultimate attack—"
A final thought flashed through her mind.
I'm sorry.
Then she screamed, voice torn but true:
"ASCENSION OF THE GOLDEN GAZELLE!"
Nar'so, eyes fractured by something close to pure exhilaration, roared back:
"DISSONANCE OF THE BLACK SHADOW!"
The world didn't explode.
It bent.
The golden gazelle surged upward—not a beast, not a projection, but an ascent. A leap that ignored pain and carved a path where none existed. Diala's spear became a single line, aimed at one point.
The core.
Opposing it, the black shadow dissonance unfolded like an invisible wall—not solid, but subtractive. The purple darkened at its center, erasing futures from whatever it touched.
The attacks collided.
For one second—
there was no sound.
Inside the Great Tree, the Nyama sphere blanched white.
Kani Sira recoiled as if struck.
"I—I can't see!"
The hawks scattered, wings panicked, as if the air itself had bitten them.
On the Terrace of Roots, Sirani screamed without realizing it.
JARA shook violently, the Root Network answering with a broken, unstable beat.
"HOLD!" she shouted. "HOLD!"
On the battlefield, gold and black canceled, tore, reformed. Space itself hesitated—two laws trying to write the same instant.
Diala felt her spear enter—
not flesh, but resistance.
Then something gave.
A deep, cracking shock—like a core fracturing.
Nar'so's purple exploded, and a sickening vibration swept the front, as if the entire plain had vertigo.
Nar'so spasmed. His posture broke for a split second. His core pulsed wrong.
But at the same time, dissonance struck back.
The black shadow tore through gold.
Diala felt her Nyama rip from within, as if an invisible thread had been yanked from her chest. She spat blood—too much—and her knees gave.
The golden gazelle shattered into fragments of light before reforming halfway, trembling.
The purple storm scattered, then returned in disordered arcs—control lost for a breath.
When sound returned, it came as a rush.
Then distant screams.
Then the Root Network's beat—weak, but alive.
Diala knelt, spear planted to keep herself upright. Her vision swayed.
Across from her, Nar'so was kneeling too.
That… never happened.
His shoulder was split—not a wound, but a fracture revealing an unstable core. Purple flowed backward, uncertain.
He lifted his head slowly.
No anger.
Something rarer.
Respect. Or pure assessment.
"You struck… the center," he breathed.
Diala barely answered, voice broken.
"And you… tried to erase me."
Nar'so let out a dry, coughing laugh. Purple and blood mixed into an impossible shade.
"Yes."
Silence followed.
He pressed a hand to his core, feeling the damage. The arcs around him trembled—storm without a master.
"I could continue," he said softly.
Diala forced a smile.
"So could I."
They both knew it was a lie.
Or rather—they knew continuing meant death.
On the Terrace of Roots, Sirani felt JARA sag by half a beat, terror slicing through her.
"We won't hold…" a hunter whispered.
"Then they finish before it breaks," Sirani said, eyes fixed on the plain.
Inside the Great Tree, Famory tilted his head.
"There," he murmured. "Now it's real. Both bled down to the core."
Djata hadn't moved.
A thought hovered on his lips.
If that were me… would I survive?
Vespera whispered, almost gently.
"You see why captains exist. They pay the price before the others."
On the plain, Nar'so rose—trembling.
Not like a defeated man.
Like someone refusing to fall at the wrong moment.
He looked at Diala—still kneeling, still alive—and inclined his head.
"You forced harmony… to reach me."
Diala lifted her chin.
"And you forced me… to understand the cost."
Nar'so stepped back.
Then another step.
The purple arcs gathered around him, not to strike, but like a cloak. His form blurred.
"Not today," he said calmly. "Not while that thing still holds your tempo."
His gaze slid toward the Terrace of Roots, sensing JARA without seeing it.
"Interesting…" he murmured.
And he vanished.
Not running.
Disappearing.
The purple storm faded in short waves, leaving scars of absence.
Diala remained on her knees a second longer, unable to rise. Arbi ran to her, two hunters close behind.
"Captain!"
She raised a hand to stop him.
"The line…"
"It holds," Arbi replied, throat tight. "Because of you."
Diala closed her eyes for a breath and finally let it out.
She was alive.
Nar'so too.
But something had changed.
Across the front, the Donso stared at the voids left behind and understood, without words, that they had just met real war.
Not a wave.
Not a laughing night.
A philosophy.
Far to the north, the darkness shifted differently.
As if more was coming.
As if this duel had only been an opening.
And inside the command post, the Nyama sphere resumed its spin—now edged with a deeper, broader purple.
The true battle was approaching.