The execution ground is not yet fully dry from blood.
Johan stands upright at the center of the silent circle. In the distance, five marshals from various nations watch from elevated tribunes along the horizon. They are guarded by the remaining archers—bows raised, ready to fire if necessary.
"This is it, gentlemen," Johan declares loudly. "The enemy of the world stands among us now."
The wind blows gently, stirring his long coat.
A cynical smile forms on his face as he turns halfway, extending a hand toward the legendary female warrior behind him.
"Here is a worthy opponent for you, Isabelle. So that your journey here is not in vain." His smile widens slightly. "Of course, if you lose… you will be executed afterward."
Isabelle does not respond.
A long, slender sword rests in her grasp. Armor covers her chest. Half of her face is wrapped in bandages, her gaze both empty and sharp.
Nearby, Zeco steps forward.
"You are the most intelligent man I have ever met," he says calmly yet clearly, addressing Johan. "Therefore… I will make you a fool right now."
The atmosphere freezes.
Zeco slowly draws his sword.
Johan turns fully, staring without blinking.
Zeco raises his blade—not toward Johan.
Toward Isabelle.
"She is already dead. Just like Predator," Zeco says loudly. "Yet you manipulate it as if they still live. The truth is… you revived them, you bastard."
The marshals glance at one another. Several rise from their seats.
Zeco passes Isabelle, approaching Johan.
"Do you know why I entered the government?" A faint smile appears. "To declare the truth you have long defiled."
Johan chuckles softly.
"Are your words supported by evidence?" he asks lightly. "I think not. There will be no proof beyond your claims."
His expression turns flat.
"Execute him."
Isabelle moves.
In a single step, the distance vanishes.
CLAAANG!
Two blades collide in midair. Sparks flare across their faces.
The armor on Isabelle's chest glimmers dimly. Her slender sword moves swiftly, precisely, without hesitation. She presses Zeco relentlessly.
A slow breath escapes.
Several meters away, the fight unfolds.
Isabelle continues pressing forward, true to her title—Legend. Zeco defends with precision, yet his feet shift half an inch at a time.
SPARK!
Steel meets steel again.
SKLAH!
A direct slash targets Zeco's chest. He blocks, yet is forced several steps back.
His breathing grows heavier.
He retreats again. Inhales and exhales. Forces calm upon himself.
A memory crosses his mind.
"I am proud of you, son. Whether or not you reveal the truth they have defiled… I am always proud of you."
His father's message.
Zeco closes his eyes for a fraction of a second.
Then opens them.
His stance changes.
The sword turns behind his body. Low position. Unusual angle.
Isabelle pauses briefly.
"Damn… not this again?!" Johan mutters irritably.
Zeco bursts forward.
SPLASH!
A full-force slash crashes into Isabelle's chest.
Her armor cracks.
The blade pierces through metal and flesh.
Isabelle staggers half a step.
"That's it…" Zeco murmurs.
But Johan allows no space.
"EXECUTE HIM!"
Isabelle charges again.
She closes the distance instantly. Too close.
Her sword swings.
Zeco has no time to lift his blade again.
BLASHH—
A long slash tears across Zeco's body.
"Ukh—!"
There is no time to evade.
Blood sprays.
Eyes close.
Two more forward strikes from Isabelle would end his life.
Movement begins.
Isabelle swings again—
SKLAH—
The second slash strikes Zeco's body. He collapses to his knees, powerless.
Isabelle raises her sword high.
The final strike.
A sword is thrown.
CLAAANG!
Isabelle's blade is deflected by the precisely angled impact of the thrown weapon.
She turns.
Her gaze shifts.
Several steps away, a stance is already formed.
For a brief moment, hands are empty—then another sword is seized from the ground.
Eyes close slowly. A deep breath is drawn.
"Here…" a calm but clear voice says, "stands someone worthy of you, Legend."
A heavy breath follows. Thin dust fills the lungs, dry and bitter. The eyes close briefly, calming the irregular heartbeat.
Vision clears.
Isabelle charges.
Her steps are light, barely touching the ground. The slender blade drives straight toward the neck.
WUSH—
The body tilts aside. The edge passes by, leaving a sharp wind against the skin.
WISH—
A second swing comes from the side. Half a step backward; the shoulder nearly grazed.
WUSH—
WISH—
WUSH—
WUSH—
Relentless attacks. No pause. No mercy.
There is no counterattack. The body moves before thought—tilting, ducking, stepping back, turning. Each strike meets only air.
The thin metal glimmers beneath the light, slicing through space once occupied.
"Why do you not fight back?" her voice remains calm, even while attacking.
There is no reply. Only observation.
Among the fallen bodies lies a sword—once belonging to a defeated soldier. Nothing remarkable. The blade slightly chipped at the tip, the hilt stained with blood.
Enough.
A backward leap avoids a direct thrust that nearly pierces the chest, then a sideways dash follows.
WUSH—
Her blade pursues.
A duck, a roll, a hand grips the sword's hilt.
Now there is weight in the hand.
Standing again.
Isabelle pauses briefly, assessing.
"Good," she says softly. "Now you look like a fighter."
Two choices arise.
Albert's stance.
Or Jiza's stance.
A slow breath.
Albert first.
Feet spread slightly wider. Shoulders lowered. The sword drawn back, ready to strike in a single explosive line. A style relying on initial pressure—shattering defense before rhythm can be read.
Preparation to charge—
But Isabelle moves first.
She vanishes from sight for an instant.
Immediately.
From an attacking stance, the body is forced into defense. The sword rises crossed before the chest.
CLANG!
The first impact sends vibration through the arms.
She does not stop.
The second strike comes from below, targeting the abdomen. A twist of the wrist deflects it, the body turning with the flow.
Too close now.
She thrusts.
A slight lean to the right allows the blade to pass the ribs by an inch—
And within that narrow opening—
SKLASH—
The waist rotates and a full slash is delivered.
The blade sweeps from her front ribs across to her back. Hard. Deep. Without hesitation.
Passing by.
Now both bodies stand back to back.