The fist fell.
It wasn't a strike. It wasn't even an attack.
It was a law.
A command written into stone and air and bone: crush.
The hall buckled before it landed. Beams shrieked and folded. Steel warped. Every cadet still standing was thrown to the ground, not by touch, but by weight itself. Their lungs collapsed in their chests, their screams cut short as though stolen from their throats.
Hae-won stood in the center of it.
Knees shaking. Spine bent. The cursed sword screaming through his marrow.
The Titan's shadow swallowed him whole.
Arin's voice broke behind him. "Hae-won!"
The blade's whisper surged, hot and triumphant. Now. Offer. Spill her and you will live. Spill anyone. One coin for one opening.
Hae-won's jaw locked so tight blood filled his mouth. His own blood. His own coin.
"Not them," he rasped.
And then he let go.
Not of the sword. Not of the fight.
Of himself.
The blade drank. It ripped through muscle and marrow, swallowing his strength, his pulse, the very years of his life as though siphoning ink from a pen. His vision flickered black. His chest caved with a thousand invisible hands clawing out his vitality.
But the Titan's fist did not crush him.
Not yet.
Because the sword roared.
Its edge flared white-hot, light carving cracks through the falling shadow. The pressure didn't lessen—it grew. The world itself rebelled, the ledger-script above screaming in red slashes:
[ ERROR. DEBT NOT LOGGED. ]
[ Correction Refused. ]
[ Adjustment… Overdue. ]
The Titan shuddered, its many mouths gurgling, ledger-voice stalling as though the concept of refusal was a wound it couldn't process.
And in that fracture, Hae-won moved.
His body tore with every motion. His veins burned, his flesh seared, his heart convulsed like a trapped animal. The sword's weight was no longer steel—it was an entire universe demanding his offering. But he swung.
Not with grace.
Not with control.
With defiance.
The blade met the Titan's fist. The collision tore a howl through the hall, glass-shard shrieks and thunder rolled into one. Sparks became fire. Dust became storm.
And the Titan's flesh—flesh that erased wounds, flesh that corrected itself—split.
Not healed. Not cancelled.
Split.
A jagged scar ripped across its knuckles, spraying ink-dark blood that sizzled in the air like acid. The ledger-script across its body spasmed, red characters glitching, colliding into static:
[ Adjustment… Pending. Pending. Pending. ]
For the first time, the Titan stumbled back.
The floor heaved under the retreat, stone shattering as it dragged its massive body a step away. Its voices shrieked in disharmony, no longer the smooth chant of "unpaid," but a broken cacophony.
"…un… un… error… error…"
Cadets gasped for breath, air flooding back into their lungs as though the world itself had been pried open. Some sobbed. Some stared at Hae-won as if he were no longer human.
Arin's hands trembled against the ground where she'd fallen. Her eyes wide, locked on his back. Not with fear. Not with awe.
With hope.
Hae-won couldn't feel it.
Couldn't feel anything except pain.
His arm was shredded from wrist to shoulder, strips of skin flayed where the sword had drunk too deep. His heartbeat faltered, erratic, each thud a struggle. His breath rattled like torn cloth.
But he was still standing.
And the Titan bled.
The cursed sword hissed in satisfaction, its voice silk over razors. Yes… yes. More. Give more, and I will rewrite him from existence. More, and I will erase the debt itself.
Hae-won's vision swam, black flecks crowding the edges. He couldn't even hear the cadets anymore, couldn't hear Arin's broken sob.
Only the hum.
Do-hyun's hum.
The Titan's chest still rattled open, ribs yawning wide like a grotesque cage. Inside, Do-hyun's face flickered, caught between existence and erasure. His lips moved faintly.
Hae-won couldn't hear the words. But he knew them.
The lullaby. The same lullaby that had carried them through nights of fear, when monsters clawed at the gates and children huddled under blankets.
It was still there.
"Do-hyun…"
His whisper cracked, almost lost.
The Titan screeched, lurching forward. Its ribs snapped wider, ledger burning scarlet. Its chant surged back, fury layered over broken rhythm.
"UNPAID—UNPAID—"
Its other fist rose, larger than walls, blotting out the last remnants of ceiling light.
Hae-won staggered, the sword dragging him to his knees. His body screamed for surrender, begged for collapse.
But he planted his feet.
Blood pooling beneath them.
And he lifted the blade again.
The hall shattered.
The Titan's strike collided with his swing, force against refusal. The impact ripped the world apart—stone cracked like eggshell, pillars split, windows imploded into storms of glass.
Cadets were thrown back once more, but not by despair. This time it was the backlash of defiance.
The Titan's second hand split just as the first had. Ledger-script exploded into sparks, raining fragments of burning letters that hissed as they struck the ground.
Hae-won roared, voice raw, tearing his throat. The sound wasn't human—it was survival given noise.
And he drove the cursed blade upward.
Through ribs.
Through ledger.
Through debt.
Straight into the Titan's chest.
The ribs cracked wide, pages of script tearing apart as though the very book of fate had been ripped down the spine. The lullaby poured out clearer now, Do-hyun's voice trembling but alive, the sound a dagger of hope in the ruin.
The Titan shrieked, all mouths screaming, its body convulsing as if the strike had poisoned its very existence.
[ ERROR. ERROR. ]
[ DEBT CANNOT BE ERASED. ]
[ LEDGER… CORRUPTED. ]
Its arms flailed, smashing against walls, pulverizing stone. But it wasn't crushing cadets anymore. It wasn't erasing wounds. It wasn't inevitable.
It was bleeding.
The impossible had been written.
Hae-won sagged, blood gushing down his arm, his vision fading to nothing but red. The cursed sword's laughter roared in his skull. More! More! You've tasted it now—tear deeper, erase him, erase everything—!
"No," Hae-won croaked. His throat burned. His vision flickered. His legs gave out, dropping him to the ground. But his hand still clung to the hilt buried in the Titan's chest.
"No more."
The sword writhed in his grip, furious. It tried to pull, to swing, to carve, but his fingers locked like iron. If it wanted more, it would take only from him.
Behind him, Arin's voice broke again, but this time it wasn't despair. It was a gasp.
"He… he hurt it. He really…"
Cadets staggered up, staring at the bleeding Titan. Seok's eyes burned, hard and calculating, but even his voice cracked when he spoke.
"Form up. Protect him. This is our opening."
The Titan roared, ribs snapping wider, its voices a cacophony of rage and error. Its body twisted, reforming, trying to close the wound. But the cursed sword glowed in its chest, light spilling from the crack like a second sun, holding the ledger open.
And inside—
Do-hyun's eyes opened fully.
Alive.
Hae-won slumped forward, consciousness fraying. He didn't know if they would live the next minute, the next breath. He didn't know if his strike had saved them, or only postponed the inevitable.
But he knew one thing.
The Titan wasn't invincible.
The ledger could be broken.
And Do-hyun wasn't gone.