The courtyard was quiet in a way that didn't feel alive.
The world outside still moved wind pushed dust across the broken temple, a bird cried somewhere far away but here, inside these walls, it felt like even sound refused to enter. It was the kind of silence that pressed on your chest, the kind that whispered: something is wrong.
Allen stopped just past the gate, boots crunching on shattered tiles. He had fought through many guards before, but this felt different. Not just dangerous planned. The place felt built to bring him here, to hold him in this heavy pause. As if the world itself waited to see if he would go forward or run away.
His body ached deep now, not sharp anymore the kind of pain old wounds leave behind. Ravik's white aura still burned faintly in his chest, a cold, biting pressure that snapped at his Serra every time he reached for the Iron Chain. The weapon that once made him untouchable now felt locked away, sealed with every beat of his heart.
And at the center of the courtyard stood a knight.
Not a soldier. Not a mercenary. Not a monster.
A knight.
He stood like carved stone broad silver armor covered in scars, a huge sword so heavy it looked like it could cut pillars in one swing. Both hands rested on the hilt, its tip buried in the cracked earth like a grave marker for the fallen. The knight didn't move. Didn't breathe. He simply was.
Allen's mouth went dry.
Every instinct in him trained in alleys, in prisons, in bloody noble halls screamed the same warning: This one is different.
The knight's stance showed no bravado, no threat, no invitation. It was worse it was stillness without weakness. A mountain shaped like a man.
Allen flexed his fingers. His heart beat too loud for the silence to ignore. A thought slipped in bitter, hot, unwanted: If Ikki were here, he'd already know what this is. He'd know how to win. Allen shoved the thought away like a burning coal in his throat. Not now. Not ever.
He forced a smirk thin, fake.
"So," he muttered into the hollow air, "you're the one they left standing. The last key-holder. You don't look like much."
No answer.
The knight didn't even turn his head.
Allen let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Guess you're the quiet type. Fine. Let's make this quick."
He stepped forward. Serra rolled down his arms in slow, rough waves weaker than it should be, still strong enough to burn his veins. Every step stabbed pain into the places Ravik had burned open inside him. He ignored it. He had been ignoring pain for months. Pain didn't matter anymore not compared to what waited here.
Five steps away now.
The knight lifted his head, visor tilting up slightly.
Then he moved.
No flourish. No challenge. Just the creak of old steel as both hands gripped the sword and raised it slow, heavy, sure. The weight of it hummed through the air like a bell struck underwater. Allen's breath caught.
The knight stepped once. Stone cracked underfoot.
The sword came down.
Allen barely got his arm up in time. Serra hardened along his bones, bracing for impact and still the hit felt like being crushed by a falling tree. His body lurched, boots skidding over stone. The sword tore a scar into the ground where his head had been a heartbeat ago.
Allen stumbled back, coughing, blood and dust mixing in his mouth.
"…Shit."
The knight didn't pause. The sword rose again, like an executioner repeating a sentence, and swung wide a horizontal cut that carved the air itself. Allen ducked, rolled, felt the rush of death brush the hair on his head, and looked up just in time to see a pillar split like rotten wood.
This wasn't speed. It wasn't grace. It was inevitability.
Each swing carried weight that didn't need to aim perfectly. Weight that crushed walls, shields, whoever was foolish enough to stand in its path.
Allen's instincts sharpened. This wasn't a fight to win. It was a storm to survive. He dodged, sidestepped, let the knight's own momentum bury the sword into the ground, then slipped behind and struck a Serra-powered punch to the ribs that would have shattered most men.
The knight barely moved.
Allen jumped back, heart pounding. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me."
The knight turned, sword dragging through stone like a plow through dry soil, breathing steady, eyes hidden. He swung again. And again. The rhythm never changed. The weight never slowed.
For long minutes that felt like hours, Allen played the coward's game: avoid, deflect, retreat, repeat. Each blocked strike rattled through his bones like a cracked bell. Each dodge left him with less and less space to move. Sweat stung his eyes, breath tore at his lungs, and a poisonous thought crept in:
Maybe this is it. Maybe this is where it ends not in fire, not in chains, not in victory just under the weight of something too heavy to move.
A wide swing roared past his chest, the air screaming as the blade split it. Allen felt the pull of death graze his ribs.
He ducked, teeth clenched, Serra burning just enough to keep him upright as he slid across the broken floor. He had no room left. Nowhere left to run. The knight advanced slow, steady sword dragging behind, carving stone like earth.
Allen spat blood, breath coming in sharp, ragged knives.
"This is…" he muttered, "…stupid."
The knight didn't react. Didn't speak. Just raised the sword again.
Allen dove left too slow. Steel screamed across the floor, shards exploding against his shoulder. He stumbled, barely keeping balance.
The knight turned, blade rising again, swinging low a cut meant to split him in half. Allen didn't think. He moved. Serra packed into his legs, muscles screaming, and he launched forward, under the deadly arc, fist drawn out of raw instinct.
And he struck.
A single punch, Serra flaring at the last instant, slammed into the knight's middle.
For a heartbeat silence.
Then metal groaned deep, warping and Allen's fist tore through armor, through cloth, through flesh punching out the other side in a wet burst.
Both froze.
Allen stared, breathing hard, arm buried to the elbow in a man he thought couldn't be hurt.
The knight looked down, helmet tilting slightly, almost curious about the hole in his own body.
Neither spoke.
And then like the slow, wrong crawling of something against nature the wound began to close.
Muscle twitched. Skin pulled together. Blood flowed backward, veins drinking it whole.
Allen ripped his arm free and stumbled back, eyes wide.
"No…"
The knight straightened. Lifted the sword again.
Allen laughed sharp, cracked, almost hysterical. "No. No, no, no. You've got to be kidding me."
I thought you were stronger.
He looked at the hole now gone. At the flesh, whole again. At the armor still broken around it.
A grin spread across his face.
"Oh," he breathed, giddy with disbelief. "Ohhh, you heal, don't you?"
He barked a laugh half-cough, half-crazy joy. "You're not some god of war. You're just a corpse on repeat."
The knight stepped forward.
Allen's shoulders shook with laughter, echoing in the quiet. "All that weight. All that drama. And you can't even die properly!"
The fear drained from him like blood from a wound. What replaced it was sharper. Meaner. Easier.
Confidence.
Allen rolled his neck, flexed his bloody fingers, Serra humming like a hungry blade. "Alright, knight," he said, this smirk real now. "Let's see how many times you can put yourself back together before you give up."
He moved.
This time, he attacked.
Serra wrapped his arms like invisible armor, a storm through fists, elbows, knees. Every hit was precise plates dented, straps snapped, buckles flew. Gauntlets shattered, shoulder guards ripped off and thrown aside.
The knight swung, but Allen was faster now not because the knight had slowed, but because Allen no longer fought in fear. He slipped through the arcs like a shadow, landing blows meant not to kill but to humiliate.
A rib cracked. A knee buckled. An elbow joint split open, metal shrieking.
The knight fell. Rose. Allen grinned wider.
"Oh, come on," he taunted, grabbing the knight's front plate and slamming him into a pillar hard enough to shake dust from the ceiling. "At least scream a little. Make me feel like I'm working for this."
The knight's sword swung up wild, desperate cutting a scar into the stone beside Allen's head.
Allen laughed, stepped back, and with one Serra-powered kick, broke the sword into three jagged pieces.
"No more toys," he said. "Now it's just you and me."
The knight swung a fist Allen broke the wrist. The other Allen shattered the elbow. A knee Allen stomped it backward with a crack.
And still, the knight crawled forward.
Fingers gone. Knees bent wrong. Chest caved in. He dragged himself forward, a grotesque picture of willpower.
Allen watched, grin fading, breath rough.
"…You've got to be kidding me," he muttered.
The knight's mouth opened behind the broken helmet. No words just a wet sound as he lunged not with a punch, but with a bite.
His teeth sank into Allen's boot.
Allen stared down, shocked, then laughed, disbelieving. "You're actually biting me?!"
The knight bit harder, jaw shaking with effort, trying to tear like an animal.
Allen kicked him off, sent him sliding but the knight rolled, got onto his stomach, and began crawling again. Dragging himself with his chin and one half-healed hand, leaving bloody streaks behind.
Allen stood still, chest heaving, a strange quiet settling over the fight.
It wasn't funny anymore.
It wasn't frightening either.
It was… something else.
Pity.
Not the soft kind. Not human pity. The kind you feel when looking at something that should have died long ago but didn't not out of strength, but out of refusal.
Allen shook his head. "…You're not strong," he said quietly. "You're just too damn desperate to quit."
The knight didn't stop. Didn't look up. Didn't hesitate. He just kept crawling broken, bleeding, faceless toward a fight he couldn't win.
The courtyard trembled under the weight of their struggle. Dust floated around Allen's boots, mixing with blood's metallic scent. Every move he made felt heavier, every strike slower, but he kept going.
Before him, the knight crawled torn, shattered yet relentless. Every inch forward spoke of something unspoken, unbroken.
Then Allen saw it.
A single drop slid down the knight's cheek, beneath the cracked visor. A tear, shining in the dim light.
Allen froze. Heart pounding. The sight struck him but not with understanding. He saw it and guessed wrong. Weakness, fear, surrender it had to be. A tear meant the end, right?
He straightened, smirk returning, breath ragged with pride. "So that's it," he muttered. "You're scared. Weak. That's all you are."
Did someone force you to do this?
The knight didn't flinch. Didn't stop.
Allen narrowed his eyes. He let the idea feed him. No more hesitation. No more doubt. Every blow now carried his triumph, his frustration meant not just to wound, but to humiliate.
He ripped off another shoulder guard with a storm of punches. The knight's arm swung blind, but Allen saw it coming. Every hit bent metal, broke bone, tore flesh.
And still, the knight crawled.
Allen's grin slipped for a moment as he caught that same tear, catching the broken light. He shook his head, refusing to believe it meant anything else. It couldn't be strength. Couldn't be will. Had to be fear.
So he struck harder.
A kick snapped a kneecap. A shoulder smashed the floor. Yet the knight rolled, pushed up again, stepped forward again.
Allen laughed harsh, ragged. "All that weight, all that drama… and you still keep crawling? Is this fear, or just insanity?"
No reply. Just another inch forward, dragging himself across the cracked stone like a man half alive, half gone.
Allen rained down blows. Serra cracked like thunder with every punch, every elbow, every kick. Armor buckled, bones snapped, metal screamed. The knight fell, rose, crawled, over and over always with that tear glinting beneath the visor.
Allen's chest tightened. He'd expected begging, surrender, a scream. He got none. Only that same stubborn will staring back at him from the edge of death.
"You're done now," Allen growled, teeth clenched. "There's nothing left to fight with."
The knight's hand twitched. He pushed with his chin. Crawled forward. Bloodied. Broken. Yet unstoppable.
A cold shiver ran through Allen not from fear of strength, but from fear of this will. This refusal to die. That tear wasn't weakness. It wasn't fear. It was something far worse.
Allen struck harder. Knee in the chest, fist in the shoulder yet the knight kept moving.
The truth hit Allen like a spike through the heart: it wasn't power that scared him. It was will. The will to keep moving when nothing was left.
Allen's arms shook. Serra flickered like a dying flame in his bones. Every breath felt like fire. Every step like lifting stone.
And still, the knight came.
Allen's grin was gone. Only focus, desperation, and a burning need to finish what was started remained. He lunged, last strength coiling in his fists, Serra screaming for release.
The knight took every blow. Fell. Rolled. Crawled.
Allen's heart pounded, vision blurred. He stumbled back against a shattered pillar, lungs screaming. That tear that cursed, shining tear echoed in his head. He had been wrong about it from the start.
Finally, with a deep, broken roar, Allen poured Serra into a storm of strikes punches, kicks, elbows, a final avalanche of fury. Plates shattered. Bones snapped. Blood sprayed across the broken temple.
The knight collapsed. His body sprawled, ruined. But a twitch of the hand a faint lift of the chin showed he was still not done.
Allen sank to one knee, gasping, blood and sweat dripping from his face. His eyes stayed on the knight. And finally, he understood. That tear wasn't weakness. It was will. Pure, endless, terrifying will.
Allen tightened his grip on Serra but his gaze no longer held hate. Only bitter respect. This fight had shown him a truth he hadn't wanted to see: strength isn't the scariest thing in the world. Refusal is.
The knight didn't speak. Didn't move. He simply existed a monument to persistence, even in ruin.
Allen exhaled, voice soft, almost to himself, almost to the dead air:
"…So this is what I'm really up against."
And in that silent, shattered temple, both men one broken in body, the other in spirit hung in the weight of their struggle.