"I…" Kairo began, his voice carrying the weight of the battlefield still fresh behind him. Valen and the bandits lay defeated, the smoke of their ruin curling into the crimson skies above. His eyes narrowed slightly as he gazed at the three new arrivals — Lyra with her proud horns and flowing white hair, Claymond with his composed expression and polished glasses, and the orange-clad spiky-haired lord who grinned as though he owned the world. Their armies stood like iron walls behind them, spears glinting, banners swaying.
But just as Kairo opened his mouth to answer their proposal, the spiky-haired one stepped forward, cutting him off.
"Name's Jacks," the man said with a cocky tilt of his head, his yellow hair catching the light. " the lord of the southern ruins, And before you say a word, let me make something clear — I'm not here for pleasantries. I'm here for you. Lyra's little… choice of interest, huh?" His grin widened. "I want to see what's so damn special about you. So how about a duel? No death, no blood feuds. Just a friendly clash between men who call themselves Lords."
The suddenness of it left a ripple of surprise in the air. Soldiers shifted uneasily, Flint's jaw clenched, Theo immediately took a step closer to Kairo, his sword ready for another battle if needed, and even Shiri, ever composed, narrowed his serpent eyes.
Kairo's own expression didn't change. He merely adjusted his cloak slightly and answered flatly, "No."
Jacks blinked. "...No?"
"No duel. And no alliance." Kairo's tone was steady, dismissive. "I don't gamble my people's safety on the whims of strangers. Especially not strangers leading armies to my doorstep with vague promises."
The silence that followed was heavy. Then Jacks barked out a laugh, sharp and mocking. "You're kidding me. You—refuse? Just like that? Do you even know what you're turning down?"
Kairo's gaze hardened. "What I'm turning down is a risk. You come with an offer but no proof, no clarity, and no guarantee. Tell me why I should entrust my home and my people to some so-called Ruin Lord Alliance?"
Claymond finally spoke, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with calm precision. His voice was smooth, composed, professional, the voice of a man used to presenting reason. "Because our alliance is not just some collective of ambitious warlords. We are united with purpose — to upset the stagnant balance of this Fallen Continent. The false equilibrium held by the Three Great Powers keeps us shackled, divided, and weak. We seek to overturn it… and create something greater."
"The Fallen Continent?" Kairo confused, repeated quietly.
That single phrase seemed to rattle the circle more than his refusal had. Lyra's crimson eyes sharpened, Shiri coiled his long body closer with an incredulous hiss, and even Jacks tilted his head, confused that Kairo wasn't familiar.
"You…" Shiri's forked tongue flickered briefly as his golden eyes widened. "Kairo, You mean to tell me… you don't know of the Fallen Continent's history? Not even the wars that shattered it?"
Kairo raised a brow, unbothered by their disbelief. "Should I?"
For the first time, Lyra spoke, her tone low, carrying both elegance and danger. "Every Lord knows of the Fallen Continent. It is the land we were born to inherit. The ruins, the bloodshed, the curse that shackles us — all of it defines why we are called Lords of Ruin. For you not to know…" Her gaze lingered on him, curious, almost suspicious. "You truly are an enigma, Kairo."
Jacks snorted loudly, throwing back his head. "Hah! You mean he's clueless. Doesn't even know where he stands, yet tries to play the cautious strategist. That's rich." He pointed a finger at Kairo with a grin that showed sharp teeth. "Fine then. That's even better. Let's fight. If you win, you'll get your precious answers. If I win, you join our Alliance, no more excuses."
Theo immediately stepped forward, his voice a growl. "If it's a duel you want, you'll face me instead. I won't let you risk my Lord's—"
Flint cut him off, his axe already resting on his shoulder. "No, it should be me. My lord doesn't need to dirty his hands against some loudmouth with spiked hair."
Both men glared at Jacks's side, their loyalty burning bright.
But Kairo raised his hand, silencing them. His eyes never left Jacks. "…No. This battle is mine to decide. And I won't take it personally." He turned slightly, his black hair shifting in the wind as he called a single name: "Onyx."
From the shadows at Kairo's side, the skeletal yet dominating figure of the Shadow Reaper emerged. Silent. Cold. A living void draped in ragged black, his lance gleaming faintly with a chill light. His very presence sent a hush across the gathered soldiers, as though the air itself recoiled from him.
"This battle," Kairo continued, "will be fought by my hand… through him."
Jacks's grin only widened. "Heh. You really think some spooky lance-wielder can keep up with my champion?"
He raised his hand, and from his army a roar erupted — the ground shook as a massive beast charged forward. A hulking ork clad in crude but barbaric armor, tusks sharp as knives, a battle axe larger than a man slung over his shoulder. The ork rode upon a massive armored boar, its eyes bloodshot, its breath steaming in the air like smoke from a furnace.
"Behold!" Jacks shouted proudly. "The one who carved up a breakout of wild beasts alone, the wild butcher of the South Wastes! My Hero-Tier — Grashnak!"
The ork smirked, revealing jagged fangs, and bellowed deep laughter that rumbled across the field. "So this is my prey? A pewny sack of bones? Hah. I'll crush him like a bug beneath my axe."
Onyx said nothing. He merely lifted his lance, the motion smooth, deliberate. His one cracked horn gleamed faintly in violet as if swallowing the light around it.
Between the two, silence fell. A silence so heavy it drowned out even the shifting of armor among the watching armies.
Kairo met Jacks's gaze one last time. "If I win, you will tell me everything about this Fallen Continent."
Jacks smirked. "And if I win, you'll march under our banner. No whining, no hesitation. Agreed."
"Agreed."
The field was set.
Onyx stepped forward, shadows coiling around him like serpents, his lance poised like death's own scythe. Grashnak snarled, hefting his axe as his boar pawed at the ground, eager to charge.
The duel was not one of life and death… but of pride, knowledge, and fate itself.