In truth, the battle between them hadn't ceased at that moment.
Even though Duq'arael had realized some discrepancies, his pride wouldn't allow him to simply accept defeat and end things there.
Thus, their fight continued—although this time, things were rather straightforward. After shattering the sea of blood around them, Don Quixote dragged Duq'arael into open combat, defeating him decisively in a direct confrontation.
This was the power of The City's strongest Bloodfiend.
Finally, two hours after their conversation, the battle concluded with Don Quixote's victory. As everything settled, Don Quixote dropped heavily to the ground, resting his hands on his knees, and fixed a solemn gaze upon Duq'arael, speaking slowly:
"Well, we've fought enough. Now perhaps it's time we clarified some things?"
Duq'arael sat opposite Don Quixote, wounds rapidly knitting closed. Soon enough, he was healed completely. Even so, he simply sighed, refraining from further aggression.
There was no longer any point.
He understood clearly what prolonging the battle would entail.
Both possessed ridiculously strong regenerative powers; even fighting for a week straight would likely yield no decisive outcome.
Rather than engaging in meaningless struggle, it seemed wiser to take this chance for a brief respite.
"…Where exactly are you from?" Duq'arael finally asked.
"The City. La Mancha Fixer Office," Don Quixote replied succinctly. Duq'arael paused to reflect before carefully asking:
"Then… how exactly are 'Bloodfiends' defined where you come from?"
Throughout the fight, he'd become increasingly perplexed.
Though powerful, Don Quixote gave Duq'arael the constant impression of being fundamentally different from the Bloodfiends he knew on Terra.
Perhaps this was precisely because Don Quixote belonged to a completely different lineage of Bloodfiend.
"Well…we're beings consumed by an uncontrollable bloodthirst—an insatiable craving that can only be alleviated by human blood. We absorb human emotions through blood to quell this hunger…"
Don Quixote grew calmer as he spoke:
"Yet, once a person's blood is drained, they become mere 'blood bags,' no longer useful. And since you can't reuse a blood bag, conquest is ultimately futile…"
Don Quixote shook his head. Though he hadn't explicitly stated it, Duq'arael already understood clearly:
Because conquest was ultimately unsustainable.
They needed emotions—but once drained, a person could never provide again. If they pursued conquest, they might temporarily secure abundant resources…but afterward, what then?
These Bloodfiends resembled something akin to nomadic tribes, always forced to move on after exhausting their resources.
"…These are the Bloodfiends from your City?" Duq'arael frowned slightly as he murmured this softly.
"Yes, exactly."
"Here… Bloodfiends have never shown this sort of hunger you describe."
After some hesitation, Duq'arael finally spoke these words. When he did, Don Quixote stared back at him in astonishment.
"No bloodthirst?" he blurted out instinctively.
"Then you must be living quite blissful lives…"
Don Quixote exhaled softly in envy. Duq'arael, however, laughed coldly and retorted with bitter pride:
"No. Why else would I seek conquest?"
"Because here on Terra…there will never truly be a place for Sarkaz. Bloodfiends, as Sarkaz, live forever chained within deep-rooted discrimination."
"If we don't conquer—if we don't personally repay this hatred and contempt—how else could Bloodfiends ever attain the same standing as normal people?"
Both Don Quixote and Duq'arael fell silent after these words.
Duq'arael now understood clearly why Don Quixote placed so much faith in coexistence. It wasn't simply idealism, but necessity—such coexistence ensured his kind's survival.
Through coexistence, everything would become sustainable. Only then could Bloodfiends, who risked madness due to bloodthirst, ever live as equals among humans.
Yet as Duq'arael grasped Don Quixote's reasoning, Don Quixote simultaneously understood Duq'arael's mindset clearly.
What Don Quixote hadn't expected was that Bloodfiends on this land felt no such bloodthirst. To them, blood represented culture and battle rather than a desperate biological urge.
Even more unexpectedly, they still suffered discrimination despite lacking that uncontrollable urge…
After all, City Bloodfiends lived underground primarily because of fundamental conflict with humans.
"Do you understand me now?" Duq'arael narrowed his eyes slightly, asking Don Quixote.
"No. Truthfully, I still believe coexistence is preferable to conquest."
Don Quixote calmly shook his head. Duq'arael's icy expression flared briefly with anger.
"Conquest will only transform discrimination into hatred," Don Quixote added softly.
"But they will fear us."
"But eventually, whatever you do to others will inevitably rebound upon yourself."
When not involving Fixer fantasies, Don Quixote's words were always direct and clear-cut.
He spoke plainly: "Conquest does nothing to alter Bloodfiends' actual circumstances. Even if Sarkaz someday ruled all of Terra, your kind's situation wouldn't change."
"You'd still be…despised."
"And you think you have a better solution? Relying on your equally impractical, absurd dream of coexistence?"
Duq'arael nearly sneered as he challenged Don Quixote's idea.
But Don Quixote suddenly broke into a broad, optimistic smile—returning instantly to his usual buoyant cheerfulness:
"But I'm stronger than you, aren't I? Doesn't that clearly show whose ideals are more convincing?"
"No matter how difficult it might be, I possess greater strength than you to uphold this dream. Besides…"
"If it weren't difficult, could we even call it a dream?"
At Don Quixote's words, Duq'arael fell silent for a long moment, eventually closing his eyes briefly in exhaustion.
This conversation gave him a headache.
Yet it wasn't unpleasant.
For a moment, even Duq'arael felt somewhat curious: just how far could this Bloodfiend, even stronger than himself, truly go?
"Very well," Duq'arael softly chuckled, voice carrying complex amusement, "let's see, then."
"Between your dream and mine—which path will truly bear fruit?"
"In that case, I'll place my bet entirely on myself—after all, I'm the strongest."
Don Quixote rose confidently to his feet, boldly declaring:
"I won't lose."
Thus, from this very moment onward—
A small seed was quietly planted, destined to sprout and flourish, ensuring Don Quixote would leave a profound mark upon Duq'arael's life.