**Zain.**
He materialized like a specter, sword shaking in his grip, yet stepped forward—one step carrying all his pain and fury.
At the fatal moment, before Kinzawi's swords could cleave Dabmos, Zain struck from behind.
A thrust:
Silent. Precise. Clean.
His blade entered Kinzawi's back and exited his chest, a faint light fleeing the wound with his life.
No scream—just a gasp.
Kinzawi froze, eyes wide, muscles locked, swords slipping from his fingers.
Dabmos's roar split the sky—hoarse, despairing, like a man watching his kingdom fall.
*"ZAIN! STOP!"*
Too late. Far too late.
Zain ignored him. He stood behind Kinzawi, arm buried to the wrist in his spine, sword protruding from his chest.
A cold smile. No remorse. His eyes devoid of humanity.
He whispered, slow as a death sentence:
*"You talked too much, Kinzawi."*
A twist of the blade. Kinzawi shuddered violently, blood gushing.
Zain leaned closer, lips near his ear, words like scalpels:
*"You always boasted of having no scars on your back... didn't you? Wore it like a crown."*
A bitter, hollow chuckle:
*"Look at your back now... your medals are just ragged holes."*
Another slow twist, deliberate humiliation:
*"All that honor... ends here. With one stab."*
This wasn't a warrior felling a beast—just a man executing a corpse without blinking.
The battlefield... fell silent.
Kinzawi swayed, barely upright, blood bubbling at his lips with each ragged breath. His half-lidded eyes still burned—a man refusing death without last words.
With immense effort, he raised his head, staring at Zain's blood-smeared, pitiless face.
In a voice like crumbling stone, he gasped:
*"This... is you... Zain Falim..."*
A wet cough. Then:
*"No honor... That's why... no one ever followed you."*
A broken laugh from a man who feared nothing now:
*"Even your soldiers... never respected you. You're a disgrace... to all Five Kingdoms... to warriors... to this world."*
Zain stood unmoved, a statue watching life drain away.
But Kinzawi wasn't finished.
He lifted his head higher, each word a dagger:
*"You may win... but you'll die... alone."*
Then, with his final breath, he smiled faintly and whispered:
*"The First Kingdom... will rise again... because others carry its heart. Not you."*
His eyes closed.
*"This... is my promise."*
And then... stillness.
Only a corpse and a broken sword remained.
Zain stood frozen, staring at the body for an eternity. His breaths came heavy before fury suddenly engulfed him.
He clenched his sword until his knuckles whitened, turning away violently—as if physically rejecting Kinzawi's words. Yet they festered in his mind like thorns.
The air thickened. The battlefield held its breath despite the ended duel.
Smoke coiled from fissures left by the two titans. Blood seeped into cracks like dark veins under the dim light.
Amid the ruins... Zain stood alone.
His body wrecked. Barely able to grip his dripping sword.
His expression hollowed to cold stone.
Dabmos's footsteps shattered the silence as he approached, each step crunching on scorched earth.
He stopped inches from Zain, silent.
Zain barely raised his eyes, whispering hoarsely:
*"Don't come closer."*
Dabmos ignored him.
He stepped forward until their faces nearly touched—
—and slapped Zain.
The impact snapped Zain's head sideways, too drained to resist.
He didn't look up. Didn't speak.
But the slap was just the beginning.
Dabmos's voice erupted like a cleaver through air:
*"This wasn't a kill! Not courage! You... treacherous coward!"*
His whole body trembled with rage, sparks flying from his eyes.
Zain slowly righted his head, unfazed.
A short, broken laugh escaped him, then words colder than the void:
*"Winning... is all that matters."*
His voice rose slightly, but the tone was hollow—devoid of feeling.
He met Dabmos's gaze without remorse:
*"Losers aren't remembered. No songs for them. Just graves."*
His eyes were dry. No tears. No fury. Just endless cold voids.
Dabmos... snapped.
He seized Zain's collar, lifting him off the ground with primal fury.
Through gritted teeth, he spat:
*"You... are becoming exactly like your father."*
His grip tightened, eyes blazing:
*"Same blindness. Same filth. Same... wretchedness."*
Zain, even while dangling, smiled faintly—a mockery of all things.
He whispered, smile unwavering:
*"That's what makes me... better than him."*
Dabmos froze, stunned.
Then Zain suddenly wrenched free, shoving Dabmos into rubble behind him.
His next words came sharper, each a dagger:
*"I lead this group. And I... cast you out, Dabmos."*
Silence hung heavy.
His tone brooked no argument, even as his body threatened to collapse.
The decision was final—a blade with no return.
Dabmos stared before laughing bitterly, his voice rough:
*"Oh? Thought you smarter."*
He leaned close until their noses almost touched, whispering like a curse:
*"The King won't let me join another group. You've exiled me from nothing."*
Zain, exhausted, smiled again—devoid of joy:
*"So be it."*
Dabmos turned slowly and walked away.
His steps were measured. He never looked back, leaving only hatred and betrayal in his wake.
Zain remained standing, staring at the empty space before him, as if his soul hadn't yet caught up to his body.