At a flick of Medith’s will, the greatsword shed its white glow; the blood-dark drained away to moonlit silver, as if river-light washed its spite clean.

“You’re strong,” her voice cooled like frost on stone. “Among all I’ve crossed blades with, you’d be top ten. If I hadn’t seized absolute power that ignores any Magic Breaker defense—if I hadn’t played the gap in intel and the gap in experience—head-on, I might not beat you.”

“Uh… you… no matter what… you won’t… let him go… will you… uh…” Haywood rasped, his breath a frayed rope, his mind drifting like mist from a cold lake.

Resolve settled in Medith’s eyes like a winter moon. “If I killed Cecilia, would you spare me?”

Haywood’s eyes bulged like bronze bells; comprehension flashed, then went dark. His lids fell; he slumped into night, life and death balanced like a knife on ice.

Medith rolled him over with a steady hand, drew a small vial from her pocket, and popped the cork like a snapped twig. The clear liquid splashed across his knotted chest; it hissed like acid rain on old iron.

“I’ve done all I should; fate’s a man’s own river.” She tossed the vial aside. His wound clenched and stilled, blood staunched, edges knitting like bark after a cut.

The little bottle lay alone by the wall, bathed in blood-colored moonlight. Letters gleamed on its side—“W.S.” (short for Wolf Star)—like scar scratches on bone.

Gill stood aloof and tall, watching moon and scanning stars; the heavens felt empty of time, and loneliness pooled like cold ink. His scarlet coat swayed in the wind, his back a weathered silhouette like an elder who’s seen the world’s dust blow thin.

“This sky, brutal as it looks, has its own flavor, doesn’t it?” Gill spoke without turning, a figure at the lip of the tower, a cliff against the night.

Medith snapped her blade once, face set like carved jade, yet something inside eased like thawing ice. Her phoenix eyes narrowed, a glint of vengeance’s sweetness burning like ember under snow.

The Dusk Cloak hung alone on her small shoulders, and the once-grand black sun cloak looked dim and pitiable, like a fallen banner heavy with rain.

She looked out; the horizon ran endless and blood-red, a sea of crimson clouds. Was it her grief stirring heaven, or the “god” caged in her chest raging in answer, making the sky flare like a wound?

No one knew; the silence felt bottomless, like a well under stars.

The sky turned dreamlike; clouds broke into a thousand pieces like crumbled tofu, stained with dark tomato-red, sweet-sour on the eyes, with a bitter aftertaste like oversteeped tea.

A vast pale moon hung in the high vault, a doomsday lantern; it looked bloody and heavy, like iron dipped in wine.

Medith cradled the greatsword in both palms, stroking it like a lover kept for a thousand years. “It shouldn’t have come to this, should it?”

Gill’s mouth tilted, a self-mocking shadow, weary yet resigned, like a smile drawn with ash. “Yeah. We were supposed to walk toward the bright. That road’s gone.”

He turned slowly; the Bloodsword hummed like a hive, and his eyes sharpened bloodthirsty, hatred flickering like fire under oil.

“If there were an if, we could both take a step back,” Medith said, gripping the greatsword until silver sang, her gaze cold as knife-ice.

“This world has no ‘if,’ does it?” Gill’s tone cut like winter wind that sees through everything.

Medith’s beauty opened like spring sun; her smile shone warm enough to startle even Gill, like a bell rung in snow.

“You’re right. No ‘if.’ Only results. So…” She closed her eyes for a beat, drew in a breath like the first inhale before battle.

Gill tensed; his right leg slid out like a rooted stance, and he set his sword, a red line against the storm.

“Fight.” Medith launched the word like an arrow. She burst forward, body a streak across air, and brought the blade down at Gill like thunder splitting a pine.

Gill had expected it; he braced and blocked, a pillar under a wave.

Clack—clack—grind—their steel met. Power pressed against power, even as locked antlers; neither gained ground. They stared, and a feral red flicker bled into both their eyes, like dawn on a battlefield.

Hum— Medith struck first. She levered with her leg, tore her sword free, and ripped upward from below like a geyser breaking stone.

Gill jerked back; the blade kissed his jaw, shaving a bead of blood like a cherry drop clinging to skin.

Before he could breathe, Medith let the greatsword go, caught it in her left, and stabbed down with the speed of a falcon’s dive.

Clang—

Gill crouched low to guard, a coiled spring under a hammer; the Bloodsword met the silver greatsword and did not yield, red against moonlight.

Ding—clang— Gill rose with a cut that rang like struck bronze and knocked Medith back, then dragged his blade into a sweeping arc at her, wind pealing from the edge.

Left thrust, right chop, a leaping cleave—his attacks dovetailed like storm and surf, pressing from the instant of her recoil, never letting the rhythm slip.

He knew equal exchange at close range was a losing winter; the gap between them felt like a cliff. His only road was to flood her in that moment’s lag, to attack without end, to deny her even a breath—because if he gave her a heartbeat, her bone-deep experience and hunter’s instinct would crush him like avalanche.

Clang—clang—clong—

Hum-hum—

Medith rode out his downpour of steel, shielded by motion like willow bending in rain. Gill’s speed was sharp, his angles venomous, each strike a fanged serpent.

Yet Medith moved as if some auto-evade lived in her wrist; before his edge arrived, her hand had already turned the river. Even this dense sword-rain, cold and relentless, met calm and found no gap.

Clong— His final chop fell short. The storm stopped. He had not broken her iron wall; his breath rasped like sand.

“Odd March: Flash—” Medith’s phoenix eyes flared; a smear of afterimage skated the stone, and she vanished like a swallow into dusk.

Gill startled; he flipped the blade vertical to guard. A burst of sword-force crashed on him like a bell struck at his bones; the web of his thumb tore, and the sword flew from his grip, a red comet flung wide.

“Battle Song: Skywalker!” Medith spoke, dragged the greatsword left to right, and carved a line like lightning. Two seconds later the air detonated; a killing arc of sword-light rolled forward like a tidal breaker.

During her gather, Gill folded into a crouch. Death’s blade roared overhead, carving the sky, and flew toward the tower’s sharp crown like a hawk on prey.

Gill’s Bloodsword fell into the path of the light. Steel met light; without its master’s will, the Bloodsword was blasted aside again, its tip sheared clean like a twig.

Hum—oooo— The sword-light punched through the tower-top; a heartbeat later it cut the root, and the spire broke like a felled tree. The golden banner—lion biting a hare—snapped and tumbled, vanishing down the tiers like a fallen sun.