Silence hung heavy over the battlefield, the sky shrouded in smoke.
The world held its breath, as if the arena itself restrained its exhale.
Orestos and Darkis moved slowly, every step deliberate, each leaving deep cracks in the ground.
The distance between them seemed only a few meters, yet stretched like years of repressed hatred and buried memories.
Orestos's eyes gleamed with petrified sternness, blazing with a mixture of duty and anger, while inside him hatred festered.
Darkis, however, wore a calm, heavy smile—
the shadow of a man who knew exactly what he was doing, and exactly how to stab deepest into the wounds.
Orestos spoke, his voice low but cutting:
> "I will not allow you to take another step on this ground."
Darkis paused, tilting his head as if studying his opponent, then replied:
> "The ground? No, Orestos… I do not walk upon the earth.
I walk upon my memories—while you are the one left behind."
Oristos' eyes narrowed, but he gave no reply.
Instead, he inhaled sharply, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword,
and something within him stirred, as if awakening from a long slumber.
Darkis raised his hand slowly, tearing through the fog that covered the arena.
Behind him, black curtains of dense smoke began to ripple,
shaping into a dark stage that stretched like a dead sea under the moonlight.
Before a strike could be exchanged, sparks erupted between them,
a single blow enough to open a gate to their full power.
From behind Oristos, a radiant being appeared—the Oath of Glory—
a colossal golden shield that shone like the sun even amid the smoke of war,
its brilliance piercing faces, its every movement carrying the awe of centuries.
Behind Darkis, the black curtains split open, revealing not sky nor earth,
but a Theater of Absence—a dark void.
Wooden platforms dangled in emptiness, upon which silent ghosts stood,
like actors waiting for a play that had not yet been written.
The air grew heavier with the heat of the battle about to begin.
Hidden soldiers trembled in the shadows.
Darkis smiled lightly and said:
> "Then let us give the audience… what they deserve."
Oristos raised his sword to eye level and replied:
> "There will be no audience after tonight."
The earth itself trembled as both of them began to move,
their feet igniting the sky in flashes, declaring the beginning of the duel—
one that would be carved into the memory of every survivor.
The air between them exploded with the first step,
the arena itself exhaling its final breath.
Darkis lunged first, his feet barely touching the ground,
and the ancient wooden boards beneath him groaned with a strange creak,
as if black threads spread across his stage.
Suddenly, a dark arm coiled around his wrist and lashed toward Oristos.
But Oristos twisted with the pull and swung horizontally,
his sword glowing with enough force to leave a luminous scar in the air.
The blade struck against a mass of shadows—
as if Darkis had conjured a wall of nothingness to parry the attack.
Clash!
The sound was like glass shattering inside a sealed hall,
echoing with sparks that melted into the cold rain.
Oristos smirked faintly, murmuring as if to himself:
> "The stage bends… wherever I extend my hand."
Darkis gave him no time to breathe.
Beneath his feet, a hidden platform emerged suddenly,
two assassins with twin daggers leaping straight for Oristos' throat.
The Oath of Glory rose in defense, its golden shield clashing with ringing metal.
Oristos shoved his sword into the earth, golden cracks exploding outward,
the ground trembling as if the very light of his resolve split it apart.
Darkis leapt back to another high platform of shadow, raining down a storm of blades.
Oristos countered with sweeping arcs, golden wings of energy surging from his strikes.
The two forces clashed—light and shadow,
until the arena itself felt like it could collapse under the weight of their power.
Then, in the midst of the chaos, Darkis appeared right behind him,
his dagger gleaming, reaching straight for Oristos' neck—
Darkis appeared right behind him,
his dagger gleaming, reaching straight for Oristos' neck—
But the golden shield flared at the last instant,
sparks bursting like suns colliding in the dark.
The impact rattled the arena,
driving both men apart for the briefest breath of silence.
That silence shattered when Darkis whispered, almost against his ear:
> "Do you remember… the end?"
Oristos' eyes widened,
the words stabbing deeper than any blade—
and before he could answer, the shadows surged like a tidal wave,
swallowing the light in one crushing sweep.
The shadows swallowed everything—
but through the suffocating dark, a single golden spark pulsed.
Oristos broke free with a roar,
his sword carving an arc so bright it looked like dawn itself had split open.
The darkness peeled back for a heartbeat,
revealing Darkis standing firm, unmoved, his dagger poised.
Their eyes locked—
light against shadow, memory against oath.
Then Darkis smiled, cold and sharp:
> "You can't outrun the rhythm, old friend."
He thrust forward.
Steel scraped, sparks rained—
and this time, Oristos felt the blade tear into his shoulder,
hot blood scattering across the broken stage.