Edgar caught the weight of the blow, his halberd locking against the massive Grafted Blade Greatsword in Singh's hands. In that moment, Lucian darted forward, his blade thrusting for the Leonine's abdomen.
Singh did not dodge. He let the sword bury itself deep into his gut.
With a sudden, brutal yank, Singh pulled back on the Grafted Blade Greatsword. Edgar's stance faltered under the sheer force, though he quickly recovered, leaning back with all his strength, engaging in a desperate tug-of-war.
Blood gushed from Singh's stomach, but Lucian recognized the opportunity—soft flesh, unarmored, vulnerable. With every ounce of his strength, he tore the wound wider.
Blood poured like a river, and fragments of entrails spilled free. But rather than weaken, Singh's fury ignited into something primal and unstoppable. His gaze locked on Edgar—one target, one kill.
He released the Grafted Blade Greatsword's pull and lunged forward.
Edgar, already straining, was caught off-guard. The sudden shift from pull to pounce sent him crashing to the ground, Singh's heavy frame slamming down atop him, armor creaking under the crushing weight.
One clawed hand pinned Edgar's chestplate, the other free to act as Singh's massive, fanged jaws descended toward his head. One bite, and Edgar's skull would be gone.
Edgar abandoned his halberd, shoving both hands against the beast's upper and lower jaw, straining to keep those teeth at bay.
Lucian slashed again and again at Singh's back, opening deep wounds, but the Leonine ignored him entirely.
At the last possible moment, Evan charged in, uncorking an entire flask of Spark Aromatic and hurling it into Singh's open maw.
The explosion was immediate and violent. The blast scorched Edgar's face and hands black, but it forced Singh back, sparing his life.
Roaring, Singh swung an elbow into Evan, smashing him into the stone wall with bone-breaking force. Whether Evan lived was uncertain.
A savage kick followed—Edgar's armor buckled inward as the blow sent him tumbling across the floor, coughing blood, unable to rise.
Now, with both of them crippled, Singh turned his gaze to Lucian.
Lucian kept his distance, studying the Leonine's condition.
Singh was weakening. His once-golden fur had dulled to a coagulated red, like dried blood. His muscles shrank, his body wasting away. He could no longer wield the Grafted Blade Greatsword one-handed.
But the life he lost flowed into the blade itself, sustaining his battle strength. Singh stuffed his protruding entrails back into his body, black mist sealing the wound in a crude, unnatural fashion.
Lucian's heart sank. That sword was monstrous—its wielder could fight so long as a single breath remained. Even if death followed immediately after, in battle it was terrifying beyond reason.
If he were in peak form, Lucian might simply outlast the Leonine until its life-force ran dry. But his own condition was dire—his wounds reopened with every movement, his flasks long spent, his sorcery drained to the point he couldn't even muster a single Ash of War. His mind, too, was nearing its limit.
He resolved to use his final Wind Spirit Moon Shadow while he still could move.
Singh dragged the Grafted Blade Greatsword as he charged, but Lucian held his ground, waiting for the opening.
Then—
Thwip, thwip, thwip!
Several bolts whistled through the air. Lucian tensed, fearing more assassins.
But instead, the quarrels buried themselves in Singh's flesh. Most missed vital marks, but one lucky shot pierced his knee, sending him to the ground.
From a side chamber, two Soldiers of Godrick burst forth, casting a heavy net over the Leonine.
Lucian blinked in surprise—he'd been ready to burn his last hidden reserve, and here came unexpected reinforcements. A welcome twist.
Four more soldiers followed, each bearing Brass shields and long spears, crossbows hanging from their belts—the source of the bolts. They were a mixed band, some showing signs of undeath, others barely older than sixteen.
They formed a shield wall around Singh, stabbing relentlessly through the net's gaps.
With the Grafted Blade Greatsword braced, Singh tore through the net and forced himself upright.
Edgar struggled to his feet, his eyes fixed on the young soldier leading them. He had ordered him to guard the townsfolk—if the defense had failed while they fought here, what then? Yet, without their arrival, all three of them would surely be dead.
Singh's body withered further, fur falling away in clumps. Even wielding the blade two-handed was now a struggle. But he kept swinging, unable to break the soldiers' formation.
Blow after blow clanged against brass shields, spears striking back in turn. Soldiers fell, but others filled the gaps without hesitation.
At last, Singh could lift the Grafted Blade Greatsword no more. He collapsed onto his back, spent.
The soldiers circled him, waiting for Edgar's judgment.
Edgar and Lucian approached. Singh now looked like a man on the brink of death, gaunt and skeletal, his former might nothing but a memory.
The Grafted Blade Greatsword's surface dulled to black, its malice receding, awaiting another to lift it and swear vengeance. The severed fingers clinging to its hilt fell away.
Evan limped forward, one hand braced against the wall. The single elbow strike he'd taken had nearly shattered half his ribs.
He looked into Singh's eyes—once pink beneath the enchantment, now fading as the charm of the Bewitching Branch died with him.
"Singh," Evan said softly. "At least face death in your right mind."
Perhaps it was Evan's voice, or simply the magic's final ebb, but the beast's gaze cleared.
In that clarity, the "enemy" before him became his friends again. Confusion turned to grief, blood-tears welling in his eyes. Twice, he had been used, twice made a weapon against the innocent—against his own comrades.
With trembling resolve, he leaned his neck toward the Grafted Blade Greatsword's edge, ready to end himself.
Lucian stepped forward, stopping him. His voice was firm.
"A warrior's end is not by his own hand. Allow me to grant you your final honor. This is my respect for your courage."
Singh closed his eyes. With the weight of his sins, he expected no honor—but as the defeated, he accepted the victor's judgment.
Lucian raised the Lordsworn's Greatsword and drove it through the beast's chest.
Singh did not resist. He died in silence, the blade standing tall from his body like a gravestone, marking the life of a tragic yet proud warrior.