Nihilus steadied himself. Then he smiled. . Adrenaline flooding what passed for his veins.
He chose escalation. [ Force Draining]
The hunger twisted inward and outward at the same time—Force Drain evolved past consumption, fused with Force Sever into something uglier. but a devouring resonance carried through his voice. Life wasn't taken from bodies. It was stripped from the Force itself and fed into the void he carried. Even without intent, his presence weakened lesser beings. Now he invoked it fully.
Nihilus shrieked. The Excalibur Galatine began to fail.
The solar blade dimmed as its structure was eaten from the inside, light unraveling into nothing. Nihilus focused everything on the sword, starving it deliberately instead of letting the drain wash the world. Even so, the land reacted. The ground split. Magma surged upward in violent bursts. Volcanic activity tore open the forest floor as the imbalance rippled outward. The sword collapsed.
Nihilus turned his mask toward Morgan. "This hell will be your tomb," he said in Basic, voice low and absolute. "This is where you will be buried."
Morgan adjusted. The fairy armory shifted behind her, weapons rotating out of alignment as she recalibrated for speed rather than impact. Her shoto lightsaber disengaged from its idle state and slid into her left hand, pink light humming clean and precise.
Morgan rolled her shoulders once, freeing her movement.
Nihilus answered by pushing further. His lightsaber darkened as Force draining bled into the blade itself, hunger riding along the edge. When he moved again, it wasn't measured—it was fast. Too fast. He vanished from her front and reappeared at her flank, the blade lengthening mid-swing to cut through space rather than distance.
Morgan reacted instantly. A shield snapped into existence in her off-hand, broad and white, its surface marked with sacred geometry older than this galaxy. Galahad.
The lightsaber struck the shield and screamed, red energy sliding uselessly across its face. The drain bit—and was rejected. The contact sent a shudder through Nihilus' arm, feedback snarling up the blade.
Morgan didn't press the advantage. She stepped back once and spoke a single phrase.
"Lord Camelot."
The shield answered. White walls erupted from nothing, materializing around her in layered formation. Stone, light, and oath fused together as the conceptual fortress of Camelot unfolded—not as a place, but as a principle. Ramparts locked. Towers sealed. Morgan stood within it, perfectly still, protected by an idea that had never fallen.
Nihilus reached out and drained. The walls did not weaken. The hunger slid off them as if the concept itself refused to be eaten. Camelot did not exist to be consumed. It existed to endure.
Nihilus tilted his head. So he changed tactics.
.
Nihilus' arm drew back as pressure condensed around his palm. The sphere swelled—dense, unstable—built from thought rather than matter, pulsing with hunger. A weakened Thought Bomb, tuned to drain intent instead of stone.
Morgan moved first. The white wall split open and the fortress answered like artillery. Excalibur Morgan fired as a cannon, the black blade launching forward in a straight, annihilating line. Space buckled in its wake.
Nihilus aborted the construct mid-formation and tore sideways, dodging by instinct alone. The blade carved through where he had been and vanished into the forest beyond, the impact ripping a corridor through reality. He rushed in.
Nihilus surged straight through the collapsing wall, closing the distance at full speed, reaching for Morgan's face to drain her directly—
His hand passed through her.
The flesh melted, softened, dissolved into a collapsing thoughtform. A decoy. The clone unraveled into smoke and sigils as his grip closed on nothing.
Behind him, steel sang. The real Morgan stepped out from a nearby wardrobe of folded space, already in motion, Excalibur Morgan in her hands—the true blade, black and merciless—cutting for his spine.
Nihilus twisted and barely avoided it, the edge passing close enough to peel heat across his back.
He reached for the Force— It stuttered.
The pull failed. The pressure didn't answer.
Morgan's voice cut in, calm, almost instructional. "Duelist arena. No insane supernatural escalation." She leveled the blade. "That applies to me too. Fight me as a knight."
Nihilus straightened, amused. His lightsaber shrank back to its normal length, the hunger settling into something sharper.
"You seem more like a ruler than a knight," he said, voice dry. "Telling your enemy that kind of weakness. You must be insane."
Morgan didn't flinch. "I'm telling you because I can defeat you without my godlike power."
Nihilus laughed once, short and genuine. "Fucking arrogant bitch ."
He moved. Sith closing distance with lethal intent.
His lightsaber snapped up in a clean diagonal cut, footwork precise, economy brutal. The blade didn't arc wide. It didn't test. It went straight for the neck, angle tight, speed optimized.. This was a warlord executing a kill pattern refined over centuries—back when the Force still punished hesitation.
Morgan shifted her stance. It was Artoria Alter's posture—low center, blade carried heavy, shoulders forward, weight set to advance rather than retreat. muscle memory forged through endless executions, battles where mercy had never been an option.
Their blades met. Red light screamed against black steel as the first clash detonated between them. Sparks tore outward in a violent spray. The ground cracked under the impact as they slid past each other, boots carving parallel scars through soil and stone.
Nihilus pivoted immediately, saber snapping back across his body in a tight reverse cut meant to take her spine. Morgan turned with it, black blade hammering down in a brutal parry that sent shockwaves rippling through the clearing. Trees shuddered. Loose stone lifted and skittered outward.
They didn't pause. Nihilus cut low, blade dipping toward her legs, then snapped upward at the last instant to bait a guard. Morgan read it instantly. Her wrist turned, angle collapsing inward, and she answered with a crushing counter that forced him back half a step—the first ground he'd given.
Too fast for mortals. Nihilus slid sideways, boots barely touching the ground, saber flashing in a flurry of compact strikes. Every movement was minimal. No wasted energy. Each cut flowed into the next, probing for joints, tendons, arteries—places where even immortality hesitated.
Morgan met him head-on.. She advanced. Her swings carried weight, not speed alone. Each strike came down like a sentence passed, the black blade hammering through blocks hard enough to jar Nihilus' arm, to make the red blade shriek in protest. When she missed, she didn't overextend. When she was blocked, she didn't disengage. She pressed, forcing him to give ground or trade.
They clashed again. Steel rang. Red light smeared across black as they locked for a fraction of a second, strength grinding against precision. Nihilus twisted free, blade snapping toward her throat. Morgan ducked under it and answered with an upward cut meant to split him in two.
He barely avoided it. The edge passed close enough to scorch his robes, heat licking across the hollow space beneath the mask. He spun with the momentum, saber coming around in a tight horizontal arc. Morgan caught it on the flat of her blade and drove forward, shoulder slamming into his chest.
Nihilus skidded back through broken stone, boots tearing trenches. He recovered instantly, saber already rising again.
They exchanged blows in blinding succession.
Sith precision versus knightly brutality.
Nihilus fought with minimal motion, every strike calibrated for lethality. He attacked from angles that didn't exist a heartbeat earlier, blade lengthening and shortening mid-swing to bypass expected guards. He aimed not to overwhelm, but to end—clean, efficient, final.
Morgan answered with raw intent. Her blade came down like an executioner's cleaver, each strike carrying finality even when blocked. She used her weight, her momentum, her willingness to trade pain for position. When Nihilus slipped past a guard and carved a shallow line across her side, she didn't retreat. She stepped into it and answered with a blow that would have crushed a lesser opponent's skull.
The ground continued to break beneath them.
Nihilus adjusted. He shortened his strikes further, closing into her space, trying to deny her leverage. His saber flickered in tight, lethal patterns, aiming for wrists, elbows, throat. Morgan responded by tightening her guard and accelerating, turning defense into offense, her blade slamming down again and again, forcing him to block rather than strike.
They moved as one violent blur.
Advance. Parry. Counter. Lock. Break.
Nihilus slipped behind her and cut for her back. Morgan twisted mid-step, blade snapping up over her shoulder to catch the strike inches from her spine. Sparks exploded between them. She drove her knee back into his midsection and followed with a downward chop that split the ground where he'd been standing a fraction of a second earlier.
He rolled. Came up. Struck again.
They were even. And they both felt it.
The realization didn't slow them. It sharpened everything.
Nihilus pressed harder, blade flashing in ruthless sequences meant to overwhelm by inevitability. Morgan answered with heavier swings, forcing collisions that rattled bones and sent shockwaves rippling through the clearing.
Steel rang again and again. Neither yielded. Neither retreated.
Their movements began to sync, instinct answering instinct, counters forming before strikes fully committed. They fought like beings who understood exactly what it meant to be broken and still stand back up—who had lived through eras where survival meant killing what stood in front of you without hesitation.
Nihilus laughed again as he deflected a strike that would have taken his head. "Jikujihahahaha—"
Morgan's laughter broke free with the next exchange, sharp and unrestrained. "Ahahahahah—"
Steel rang again and again as they pressed closer.
Nihilus gave ground—step by step—until his back hit stone. The wall stopped him cold. No room to retreat. No angle left to fade away. Morgan felt it immediately. The shift. The corner.
Her stance tightened. One clean finish.
She surged in, blade rising with brutal intent, targeting the mask. Jin-Woo's words echoed without sound. Break the mask, and what remains is nothing. A specter without shape. Without threat.
Her strike came down— And red lightning crawled along Nihilus' blade. The lightsaber met her sword and detonated sideways. Red energy ripped across Morgan's side, burning through flesh and cloth in a single violent arc. Pain tore through her—but she didn't step back. She didn't even flinch.
Immortality carried her forward. She crashed into him instead, shoulder slamming hard, forcing space as the wound bled freely. Her attention wasn't on the pain.
It was on him. On his left arm. Behind it. A fracture.
Tiny. Almost nothing. A hairline break in the arena's imposed rules, carved deliberately into the boundary where force suppression failed to seal completely. Not enough for spectacle. Just enough for cheating.
Just enough for lightning. Morgan laughed under her breath. . "I forgot… Sith love to cheat."