After the Top Twelve concluded, Andor’s team finally met Abigail’s in the Top Six. The two girls drifted to a corner, like petals before wind, leaving space for the boys who craved a duel.

They didn’t need words. Both felt the kill-heat simmering. Better to let their blades speak.

The greatsword and longsword clashed in rapid sparks, steel buzzing like a swarm. Neither weapon was light, yet the duel flowed like a dance.

The longsword wielder had full training; his swings were water-smooth, his thrusts stripped clean, his guard efficient as a locked gate.

But none of it stopped the greatsword’s overhead chop, heavy as a falling mountain.

Stronger than me. Faster. Sharper in reflex… Andor, you really are something.

He took Andor’s strike. The pressure seeped into his organs like cold rain. Blood pooled in his lungs, begging to cough. Abigail bit the blood back.

He refused to look weak before a rival in love. Yet his body couldn’t carry that will, like a bridge sagging under a flood.

His hands and feet tingled numb, yet his second blade rose like a stubborn sun.

Abigail didn’t back off. He stepped in and cut, trading injury for injury to push Andor, like a gambler shoving all in.

But—

Divine Art Iron Benediction, akin to the applied high-tier magic Iron Fortification, bolstered the body like a shell. Not as strong as magic, but longer-lasting and simpler.

Even so, Abigail believed his blade could carve through a fortified foe, like water cutting stone. But his opponent was Andor.

Even Abigail, proud to a fault, had to admit he was a hero, iron-boned and storm-steady.

Andor stayed dead-faced. His greatsword stance didn’t waver. He angled his torso, letting Abigail’s blade slide down his chest like rain off slate.

The longsword split cloth and skin, yet the angle denied his ribs, like a door that wouldn’t unlatch.

Andor moved too smoothly, shedding force with his body as if it were routine, like a reed wafting off a current.

That upright, unflinching posture stunned Abigail for a heartbeat. He missed his cleanest chance to evade, and the tide turned.

Before the bout, Abigail had already cast Iron Fortification on himself. Even so, he didn’t trust his body to eat a full-power greatsword strike.

I’ll die.

The thought flashed through him like lightning behind stormclouds.

Since stepping onto this ground, Abigail never planned to walk away clean. This isn’t a game. It’s steel against flesh, and blood answers steel.

Tapping out is for drills. If you’re measuring strength, blood must speak, like ink on stone.

Abigail had long decided: even if it kills him, he’ll beat Andor. He’ll swing with upright honor and crush him at his strongest point.

Even death? Whatever. Even if Raven isn’t on the line? Whatever. Even if Andor doesn’t care? Whatever. He just wants to win—open, clean, and proud.

Boys run on pride, run wild. They look like nameless weeds most days, yet inside they’re lone wolves pacing pine-dark woods.

Facing a rival in love, they erupt with power they never imagined, like fire up a dry canyon.

But—

What if you give everything and still lose? What if beating Andor still won’t earn Raven’s love? The thought gnawed like winter.

He knew his end might be a noble loser’s death in the arena, dying as handsomely as he could, like a blossom cut at dawn.

That would be a waste, bitter as ash in the mouth.

Abigail has a kingdom. A brother, a father. At Beatrice’s side, people who love him, and people he loves, like a hearth’s circle.

Raven may not even know him. Their lives never crossed, like parallel rivers.

Dying for a beloved? Fine. Dying for a flare of rivalry? What does that count for, aside from smoke?

It’s not even heartbreak. Just a one-sided crush, a paper kite chasing a wind that won’t turn.

He came to fight alone, lost alone. Andor must see him as a baffling fool, like a moth headbutting glass.

So many expect him to rise. How could he die for a girl and face them, like returning with empty hands?

It’s not cool, not beautiful, not dashing. Just ugly jealousy, vinegar in a cup.

He used to despise that stupidity. Maybe the bad-boy mask seeped into his bones like dye. Even so, he wouldn’t lower his sword hand.

He knows what reason demands. Abigail is never slow, never dull. He’s one of his kingdom’s minds, plotting futures on a chessboard.

Exactly because he’s too smart, he refuses to think it through. He fears his last choice ends in death, like stepping into a fogged abyss.

O Goddess of Life, love is a bad medicine, sweet on the tongue and poison in the gut.

He thought so, and his signature arrogant smile lifted. It looked like a thug’s taunt, but it was habit, like a mask worn daily.

He leaned into Andor’s greatsword, body first. He’d always met force with force and blade with blade, never shedding power with his frame.

If Andor can do it, then so can I, he told himself, like mirroring a mountain’s stance.

Abigail smiled. He clenched down. His teeth cracked, and blood threaded out like crimson silk.

The greatsword fell like fate, a guillotine of iron under a thunderhead.

When it bit into him, the first thing wasn’t sharpness or weight. It was impact, a hammer-blow echoing through bone.

Waves ran from his shoulder downward. His organs quaked and tore with pain, like drums split in a storm.

Bone and muscle cried, unwilling to carry on. His longsword turned leaden. His stance wobbled like a candle in wind.

He couldn’t swallow the blood anymore. It sprayed across Andor’s face, painting him red, like a warrior mask.

At a glance, the wounded one looked like Andor instead, as if the mirror lied.

The guy’s still dead-faced. Damn it, does he even have pain nerves, or is he carved from granite?

Abigail wanted to fake a careless grin, or mask it like Andor. He didn’t need to touch his face to feel the tremble and twist.

His gold hair was a tangled mess from rolls and dodges, like hay after a storm.

He glanced toward the girls. Catherine was nicking Elina bit by bit, stacking odds slowly, like counting seeds.

She wouldn’t make it here in time to help; that river wouldn’t reach this field.

Ugly, Abigail. Miss Raven is watching, he scolded himself, as if a cold mirror stared back.

He suddenly realized he was hoping for help. It was a one-on-one. What am I even thinking, craving a crutch?

The last clash had opened their distance. Abigail wasn’t built for range. No odds left—he knew it, like seeing night drop.

Andor raised his greatsword, ready to charge again. How long can this bastard keep going, like a drum that never tires?

Abigail wore his signature arrogant smile. He let his longsword fall, like shedding an old skin.

...I surrender.

Surrender didn’t hurt as much as he imagined; it felt like cool water after fever.

The greatsword halted over his crown. He lifted his head and gave Andor a punch, a feather-fist just to vent.

Maybe he still had a card hidden, so it didn’t feel like losing. That thought was small, like a mouse in the rafters.

Once a fighter surrenders, he can’t keep attacking. You won’t report me over that punch, right?

No. That’d be petty. Raven would laugh at me, like bells on a jest.

This guy did it on purpose. Andor mimicked his mocking grin, then pulled down a lower eyelid and made a face, like a child.

He flexed his arms and walked toward the girls, steady as a bear.

Hey, Catherine, right? Your teammate Abigail surrendered. You can’t beat me and Elina alone.

Catherine still looked sour. Even knowing she couldn’t win, she gripped her iron gauntlets tight, like anchors.

Head bowed, she muttered so softly no one caught it, words like gnats:

...Damn. I was one shade away from killing Elina by ‘accident’...

Catherine, what did you say? Don’t worry. I have a plan. There’s the revival bracket. We still have a seat in the Final Four.

Abigail took Catherine’s hand. He whispered in her ear, and her eyes eased, like frost thawing.

...Fine. I surrender too.

Catherine raised a hand to the judge. The judge acknowledged, like a flag dipped.

Then, winners of the Top Six bout: Team Andor–Elina!

I’ll be back. Abigail’s usual sharp tongue was gone. He couldn’t find a handsome line; his mouth felt empty.

Mm. I believe you’ll climb up from the losers’ bracket, Andor said, stone-faced as ever.

Miss Raven was still in the stands. Abigail didn’t want to show himself as a loser before his crush, so he left with Catherine at once.

Steward Steve waited in the lounge and bowed. Abigail had no mood to answer; he waved for home, like closing a curtain.

Maybe Raven and Andor would celebrate together, all smiles. That would cast him as the villain, a shadow at their feast.

Abigail kept the proud smile on his face and left the bitter one inside, like salt hidden under sugar.

Back at the dorm, Abigail stripped off his shirt, showing a body carved by strict training, like stone chiseled clean.

Your Highness, are you—

Mm, yes. I want to use it. My brother said to hide it and wait for the right time, like a sword sleeping in a scabbard.

I think the time is now. I’m strong enough to master this blade. Strong enough to protect myself. Let’s go kill the Demonfolk.

Abigail still sounded proud, but his words tangled like threads. He pressed a hand to his heart and clawed down hard.

Your Highness—

The old steward’s protest couldn’t break his resolve. Abigail shoved his hand into his chest and drew out the blade hidden deep, like a star under water.

The Godslaying Sword, Awakening, came into the world, like dawn cracking the long night.