The battlefield did not cool after Greed fell.
If anything, it grew heavier.
Stone still smoked where Nine Lives Blade Works had carved its impossible path, the ground split and ruined in overlapping scars that refused to settle. The boy stood among them, swaying, breath shallow and uneven. His body felt hollowed out—like something vital had been scooped away and replaced with echoes. Every muscle trembled when he moved. Every heartbeat felt delayed, as if his chest had forgotten the rhythm it once obeyed.
Greed's card lay sealed within the black box at his side now, its weight unmistakable even through the reinforced casing. Berserker. Silent. Contained.
He did not look at it again.
Because the air changed.
Not violently. Not with pressure or malice.
With need.
It crept in like a slow inhale—warm, wet, intimate. The scent of iron thickened, mixing with the dust and smoke until it coated the back of his throat. His skin prickled, instincts screaming without a clear direction to flee.
Then he heard it.
A sound like breath drawn too deeply.
A step.
Soft.
Measured.
The boy turned.
Someone stood at the edge of the ruined field, framed by the broken stone and drifting ash. He had not appeared with spectacle. There had been no tearing of the earth, no distortion of space.
He had simply arrived.
Gluttony was beautiful.
That was the first, most unsettling thought.
He was tall, though not towering—built with a knight's proportions rather than a monster's bulk. Golden hair fell loosely around his shoulders, catching the light in a way that felt almost deliberate. His armor was pristine compared to the carnage around him: white plates traced with gold, unmarred by battle, as if violence itself hesitated to touch him.
In his right hand rested a sword.
Not oversized. Not brutal.
Perfect.
Its blade was long and straight, polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the broken world around it. Runes lay dormant along its fuller, restrained, dignified—waiting.
His left arm hung slightly apart from his body, relaxed, fingers loose. There was nothing visibly wrong with it.
Yet.
His face bore a calm smile, gentle enough to pass for kindness. His eyes, however, told another story—emerald and endlessly hungry, fixed not on the boy's weapon, nor his stance, but on the blood drying along his clothes.
"Ah," Gluttony said softly. His voice was warm, almost pleased. "So this is where it ends for you."
The boy straightened despite himself, pain flaring sharply down his spine. A blade traced into his hand out of reflex, steel humming faintly as it took form. He did not raise it yet.
"Get in line," he replied hoarsely.
Gluttony chuckled, the sound light and amused. He took a step forward, boots crunching gently over fractured stone.
"I would," he said, "but I'm afraid I don't like sharing my meals."
The distance between them closed—not rushed, not forced. Gluttony walked as if confident the world would make room for him. With every step, the pressure in the air increased, not crushing, but invasive, like fingers pressing into a wound to see how deep it went.
The boy shifted his footing, careful not to stumble. He could feel the Archer card stabilized now—functional, but exhausted. His reserves were thin. Too thin.
Gluttony stopped a dozen paces away.
Up close, the boy could see it.
Not blood on Gluttony's armor.
But stains beneath the surface—faint, dark shapes moving slowly through the white metal, as if it had absorbed countless battles and never let them go.
"You fought well," Gluttony continued, eyes never leaving the boy's injuries. "Greed rarely falls so… thoroughly."
His gaze dipped briefly to the boy's side, where blood still seeped despite crude binding.
"And you're bleeding."
The smile widened just a fraction.
The boy felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"Don't," he warned, tightening his grip.
Gluttony tilted his head. "Don't what?"
The boy answered by moving first.
Steel flared into existence as he lunged—fast, decisive. Kanshou and Bakuya formed in tandem, twin blades crossing as he closed the distance in a blur. The motion pulled painfully at his injuries, but he forced his body to obey.
Gluttony's sword met them effortlessly.
The clash rang sharp and clean, the impact sending a tremor up the boy's arms. He twisted, reversed, slashed again—Bakuya cutting low, Kanshou arcing high.
Gluttony stepped through it.
Not dodging.
Not retreating.
He let the blades scrape his armor, sparks flaring harmlessly as his own sword slid between them with surgical precision.
Then—
Pain.
A thin line opened across the boy's forearm.
He hissed, stumbling back instinctively.
The cut was shallow.
Barely anything.
But the blood did not fall.
It lifted.
Drew upward in a slow, obscene arc, pulled toward Gluttony like a living thing. The droplets vanished against his blade—and in the same instant, a faint crack along Gluttony's pauldron smoothed away, metal restoring itself with a soft, wet sound.
The boy froze.
Gluttony inhaled.
His eyes brightened.
"…Yes," he murmured. "That will do."
The boy leapt back, heart pounding violently now, staring at his arm as the bleeding slowed—then at Gluttony, whole and untouched.
Understanding settled like ice in his gut.
Every cut feeds him.
Gluttony raised his sword, stance perfect, relaxed, inexhaustible.
"Come," he said kindly. "Let's not waste what you have left."
The battlefield seemed to close in around them.
And the boy realized, with sudden clarity—
This fight would not be about winning.
It would be about surviving long enough to find a way to stop bleeding at all.
Gluttony moved first this time.
Not with speed.
With certainty.
The space between them vanished in a single step, the ground cracking beneath Gluttony's heel as his sword swept forward in a clean, flawless arc. The boy barely raised Kanshou in time—steel met steel, and the impact sent a shock through his arms so violent his fingers nearly went numb.
He was forced back three steps.
Not because he chose to retreat.
Because his body was ordered to.
Gluttony pressed forward, sword flowing seamlessly from one strike into the next. There was no wasted motion, no excess strength. Each cut was measured, efficient, and utterly merciless—textbook perfection honed into something lethal.
The boy blocked again. And again.
Each clash rang sharper than the last, sparks scattering like shattered stars. Kanshou cracked under the pressure, the blade fracturing along its spine. He abandoned it instantly, Bakuya twisting up to intercept the next blow.
Too slow.
Gluttony's blade kissed his shoulder.
The cut was shallow.
The pain was not.
Blood welled—and once more, it rose, drawn away from his flesh in thin crimson threads. Gluttony's armor pulsed faintly, runes along the sword's fuller flickering as if in approval.
The boy staggered back, teeth clenched, clutching his shoulder.
"So fragile," Gluttony said gently, stepping after him. "You break faster than the others."
Another inhale.
Another pulse of stolen vitality.
The boy felt it immediately—an unnatural weakness creeping into his limbs, like his strength was being siphoned out through open wounds.
He couldn't let this continue.
Mana surged.
He leapt back and traced his bow mid-motion, the familiar weight of the black bow settling into his grasp as he slid across broken stone. An arrow formed—compressed, spiraling with destructive intent.
He loosed.
The shot screamed through the air, a streak of condensed violence aimed straight for Gluttony's heart.
Gluttony did not dodge.
The arrow struck his chest—
—and shattered.
Not deflected.
Not blocked.
Disintegrated.
Fragments of mana scattered harmlessly as the arrow unraveled upon contact, as though the very concept of a projectile had been rejected.
Gluttony glanced down at the point of impact, then back up at the boy.
A hint of disappointment crossed his face.
"Oh," he said softly. "You didn't know?"
He stepped forward again, sword never lowering.
"I do not accept arrows."
The boy fired again.
And again.
Three shots in rapid succession—each one stronger than the last, the final infused with enough power to tear through stone.
All three dissolved on impact.
Gluttony's armor remained immaculate.
The boy swore under his breath and dismissed the bow, tracing a new blade as Gluttony closed in. A longsword this time—heavier, reinforced, meant to withstand punishment.
The clash was immediate.
Gluttony overwhelmed him.
The longsword bent under the first exchange, cracked on the second, and shattered on the third. A brutal kick followed, driving the boy backward through the air. He crashed hard, rolling across rubble until his back struck a broken pillar with a sickening thud.
His breath left him in a wet gasp.
Gluttony was already there.
The sword descended.
The boy barely rolled aside as the blade carved through the stone where his head had been, cleaving the pillar cleanly in two. Dust exploded outward as Gluttony stepped through the debris, relentless.
"You are tired," Gluttony observed. "Your body knows it. Your blood knows it."
Another slash.
The boy blocked with a hastily traced blade, the impact forcing him down to one knee. The sword shattered instantly, fragments cutting into his face and arms.
Blood spilled.
And rose.
Gluttony's smile widened, just slightly.
The boy felt it then—something terrifying in its simplicity.
This wasn't regeneration like Greed's.
This was consumption.
As long as he bled, Gluttony would not tire.
As long as Gluttony fed, the boy would weaken.
Desperation flared.
He traced Caladbolg.
The twisted blade formed in his hand, its warped geometry humming violently as he forced power into it. He swung with everything he had, the strike tearing through the air with explosive force.
Gluttony met it head-on.
Their blades collided—
—and Caladbolg detonated.
The blast tore the ground apart, a violent eruption of mana and stone that engulfed them both. The boy was thrown clear, tumbling across the battlefield as the explosion ripped his grip away.
He hit the ground hard, vision swimming.
For a moment, there was silence.
Then footsteps.
Unhurried.
Gluttony emerged from the smoke, armor scorched but already mending, the damage knitting itself away as faint red light pulsed beneath the plates. His sword remained untouched.
He looked… pleased.
"That was closer," he admitted. "But you paid dearly for it."
The boy pushed himself up, blood dripping freely now from half a dozen wounds. His hands shook violently as he traced another blade, then another—discarding them as quickly as they formed.
He was running out of options.
Gluttony raised his sword, stance flawless, inexhaustible.
"You cannot win a battle of attrition against hunger," he said calmly. "And you cannot stop bleeding forever."
The pressure in the air intensified, the battlefield itself seeming to bow to Gluttony's presence.
The boy steadied his breathing, ignoring the way the world tilted at the edges of his vision.
Then—
He smiled.
Not confident.
Not calm.
But sharp.
"Then I'll stop letting you touch me."
Steel answered his resolve.
More blades formed—faster now, more precise. Kanshou and Bakuya returned to his hands, spinning into position as he shifted his stance lower, tighter.
Gluttony's eyes narrowed.
"Good," he said. "Struggle more."
They lunged toward each other—
—and the clash that followed split the battlefield with a sound like ringing bells and tearing flesh, the opening notes of a duel where one side devoured endlessly—
—and the other was running out of blood.
They collided again.
This time, the boy did not retreat.
Kanshou and Bakuya crossed in a blur of motion, their twin forms spinning into a defensive spiral as Gluttony's blade came down with merciless precision. Steel rang out—once, twice, three times in rapid succession—each clash sending tremors through the boy's arms, but he held.
Barely.
Gluttony's sword technique was flawless in a way that felt inhuman. There was no anger behind it, no haste. Each cut was placed where the boy had to be, angles closing off escape routes before he even realized they existed.
A thrust forced him to twist sideways. A follow-up slash carved through the space his neck had occupied a heartbeat earlier. Kanshou met the next blow head-on—and cracked.
The boy dismissed it instantly, letting the broken blade dissolve as Bakuya reversed its arc, cutting low for Gluttony's legs.
Gluttony stepped over it.
His knee came up, slamming into the boy's stomach with crushing force. Air burst from the boy's lungs as he was sent skidding backward across stone, boots carving shallow trenches in the ground.
He barely rolled aside in time.
Gluttony's sword plunged down, cleaving through rock and leaving a jagged fissure where the boy's torso had been. The impact sent shards flying like shrapnel. One sliced across the boy's cheek. Another tore into his thigh.
Blood spilled.
And rose.
Thin crimson threads pulled free from his wounds, drawn irresistibly toward Gluttony's armor and blade. The sensation made his skin crawl—like something vital was being peeled away piece by piece.
Gluttony exhaled slowly.
The shallow dents and scorch marks on his armor faded, metal smoothing as if it had never been damaged. Even the faint discoloration from Caladbolg's explosion was gone.
"You feel it, don't you?" Gluttony said, advancing once more. "Every drop you lose belongs to me now."
The boy forced himself upright, legs shaking.
He traced another sword—longer this time, heavier, meant to endure punishment. He met Gluttony's next strike with a full-bodied block, teeth clenched as the impact drove him back several meters.
The blade held.
For half a second.
Then it buckled.
Gluttony twisted his wrist, redirecting force with surgical ease. The boy's sword snapped at the midpoint, the broken half spinning uselessly through the air.
Gluttony's free hand shot forward.
He grabbed the boy by the collar and slammed him into the ground.
Stone shattered beneath his back.
Pain exploded through his spine, stars bursting across his vision. Before he could recover, Gluttony's sword pressed against his throat—not cutting, not yet, but close enough that he could feel the cold edge against his skin.
Blood trickled.
Gluttony leaned down, face calm, eyes unwavering.
"You rely on variety," he said. "On adaptability. But all your answers bleed."
The sword pressed closer.
The boy's pulse thundered beneath the edge.
Then—
A sudden twist.
The boy let himself fall limp.
Gluttony's eyes flickered—not with surprise, but calculation—as the pressure shifted. In that instant, the boy traced again, a short blade forming in his left hand at point-blank range.
He stabbed upward.
The blade punched into Gluttony's side, slipping between armor plates and biting deep into flesh.
For the first time—
Gluttony hissed.
The boy didn't hesitate. He ripped the blade sideways, widening the wound before kicking off Gluttony's chest and rolling free.
The weapon dissolved immediately after the strike, but it had done its job.
Dark blood poured from the gash.
It did not rise.
Gluttony looked down at the wound, then back at the boy. Something sharp entered his gaze—not anger, not fear.
Interest.
"So," Gluttony said quietly. "You can still surprise me."
The boy didn't answer. He was breathing too hard, chest heaving, vision narrowing as blood loss and exhaustion gnawed at him. His hands shook as he formed Kanshou and Bakuya again, blades flashing into existence with less stability than before.
Gluttony straightened fully, rolling his shoulder as the wound slowly began to knit closed.
"Do not misunderstand," he continued. "This changes nothing."
He raised his sword.
Mana gathered.
Not explosive.
Not overwhelming.
Dense.
The air grew heavy, pressure settling over the battlefield like a closing jaw. The boy felt it immediately—his movements slowed, his breathing labored, as if the world itself had grown heavier.
Gluttony took a single step forward.
The ground cracked.
"Hunger is patient," he said. "And you are running out of time."
The boy lowered his stance, blades angled defensively, blood dripping steadily onto the stone.
He was losing.
He knew it.
But as Gluttony advanced once more, sword poised to finish the exchange—
—the boy's eyes sharpened.
Because somewhere beneath the pain, beneath the exhaustion, beneath the creeping fear—
he felt it.
A rhythm.
A timing.
A narrow path where Gluttony's perfection could be broken.
And he stepped into it.
The next exchange would not be about endurance.
It would be about who failed first.
The rhythm shattered.
Gluttony moved first—not fast, not slow, but inevitable. His step crushed stone into powder, the pressure around him tightening as if the air itself bent to his will. The sword came in from the right, a clean warning cut meant to force movement.
The boy obeyed.
He slid back, Kanshou and Bakuya crossing instinctively, sparks screaming as steel met steel. The impact rattled his bones. His feet skidded, heels biting into cracked stone to stop himself from being driven flat.
Gluttony did not pursue.
Instead, he pivoted.
The blade reversed direction mid-swing, flowing into a thrust that split the air like a scream. The boy twisted aside by instinct alone. The tip grazed his ribs—
—and pain exploded.
Blood spilled freely this time.
Gluttony inhaled.
The boy felt it immediately.
Not a pull.
A drain.
The blood did not merely rise—it rushed, torn from his wound as if responding to a command older than hunger itself. It streamed toward Gluttony's blade in thin, shimmering strands, vanishing into the steel.
The shallow crack that had formed along Gluttony's gauntlet sealed.
His breathing steadied.
His posture straightened.
The boy staggered.
"Don't let me touch you," Gluttony said calmly, stepping forward. "That should be obvious by now."
The boy clenched his jaw and traced again.
A longsword formed—thicker spine, reinforced edge, meant to endure. He raised it just in time to intercept Gluttony's next cut.
The blade held.
For a heartbeat.
Then Gluttony shifted his grip.
The force behind the strike multiplied.
The traced sword shattered violently, fragments exploding outward. One shard cut across the boy's shoulder. Another embedded itself into his thigh.
More blood.
More loss.
Gluttony was on him instantly.
The sword slammed into the boy's guard again and again, relentless, crushing. Kanshou and Bakuya reappeared only to be battered aside. Every clash numbed his arms further. Every retreat cost him ground he could not afford to lose.
The boy attempted distance.
He leapt back and drew his bow in one fluid motion, black limbs unfolding as mana condensed into a dense, spiraling arrow. He released without hesitation.
The arrow screamed across the battlefield—
—and dissolved.
Not deflected.
Not blocked.
It simply… ceased to exist a meter from Gluttony's chest, unraveled by an unseen resistance that swallowed projectiles whole.
"Arrows don't reach me," Gluttony said, almost gently. "They never have."
He closed the distance in three steps.
The boy barely had time to react.
A heavy kick caught him square in the chest.
He flew.
His body slammed into a broken stone wall hard enough to cave it inward. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs completely, leaving him gasping, vision dimming at the edges.
Gluttony followed without pause.
The sword came down.
The boy rolled desperately, the blade carving a deep furrow into the ground where his head had been. He forced himself upright, traced blindly—
Caladbolg.
The spiral-patterned sword manifested just as Gluttony advanced, its unstable mana thrumming violently. The boy didn't hesitate. He swung with everything he had.
The blade detonated.
Mana exploded outward in a violent spiral, tearing up the ground and engulfing Gluttony in a storm of light and force. The shockwave hurled the boy backward again, tearing fresh wounds across his body as debris slammed into him.
For a moment—
Silence.
Dust filled the air, obscuring everything. The boy coughed, dragging himself upright on shaking legs. His vision swam. His chest burned. His heart hammered erratically against his ribs.
He squinted through the dust.
A figure emerged.
Gluttony walked forward calmly, armor scorched, cloak torn, but posture unchanged. The damaged sections of his armor were already smoothing over, metal knitting itself together as faint crimson light pulsed beneath the surface.
"You took something," Gluttony admitted. "But you gave me more."
The boy felt dizzy.
Too dizzy.
He realized why an instant later.
The blood he had spilled during the explosion—his blood—was rising now in thick streams, drawn toward Gluttony like obedient servants. The sensation was unbearable, like his veins were being gently inverted.
Gluttony's presence swelled.
His wounds vanished completely.
He raised his sword again.
The pressure became suffocating.
The boy dropped to one knee.
His vision blurred, tunnel narrowing, the world pulsing in and out of focus with his heartbeat. His limbs felt heavy, sluggish, refusing to respond with the speed he demanded.
This was domination.
Pure.
Absolute.
Gluttony approached slowly, deliberately, savoring the inevitability.
"You're creative," he said. "I'll grant you that. But creativity doesn't fill an empty stomach."
He stopped an arm's length away.
The sword angled downward, poised to strike—not to kill instantly, but to carve, to drain, to prolong.
The boy's fingers dug into the stone.
No strength left.
No tricks remaining.
His mind raced desperately, searching for angles, for openings, for anything—
—and found only one truth.
He could not win like this.
Not by matching strength.
Not by trading blows.
Not by endurance.
His breathing steadied—not because the pain faded, but because something else took precedence.
Focus.
He lifted his head.
Met Gluttony's gaze.
"You're right," he said hoarsely. "I can't outlast you."
Gluttony tilted his head slightly.
"But," the boy continued, forcing himself to stand, "you still swing like someone who expects the world to make room for him."
Mana stirred.
Not violently.
Precisely.
Steel began to form in the boy's hands—not one blade, not two, but a sequence, overlapping outlines flashing briefly before collapsing into a single, reinforced form.
Gluttony's eyes narrowed.
"Oh?" he said.
The pressure spiked.
Gluttony moved.
The boy moved with him.
The next exchange erupted—
—and this time, it was not Gluttony who dictated the pace.
The clash rang out like a bell struck too hard.
Steel screamed.
Blood followed.
And for the first time since the fight began—
Gluttony was forced to step back.
Just once.
The battlefield held its breath.
Because something had changed.
And Gluttony felt it.
Gluttony's retreat lasted less than a heartbeat.
But that single step—forced, unwilling—rang louder than any explosion.
The boy didn't let the moment breathe.
He surged forward, mana snapping into alignment as steel answered his will. Kanshou and Bakuya split into his hands, black and white blades crossing in a blur as he closed the gap. His movements were rougher now, less refined, but sharper—pared down to only what mattered.
Gluttony met him head-on.
The clash detonated.
Steel screamed as blades met, sparks cascading in violent arcs. Kanshou slid along Gluttony's sword, locking it just long enough for Bakuya to dart toward his ribs—
—and stop.
The blade froze inches from flesh.
Gluttony's left hand had closed around it.
Barehanded.
The metal groaned, cracks spiderwebbing outward as his grip tightened. With a casual twist, he wrenched the blade free and hurled it aside like scrap.
Blood streamed from his palm—
—and reversed.
The crimson liquid snapped back into his hand, flowing along his arm and sinking into his skin. The wound sealed instantly.
The boy's eyes widened.
"Still feeding," Gluttony said, stepping in. "Even now."
The sword came up in a brutal diagonal slash.
The boy barely ducked beneath it, felt the edge shear away strands of hair as he slid inside Gluttony's guard. He drove Kanshou upward—
—and was kicked square in the stomach.
The impact lifted him off the ground.
He flew back, crashing hard, rolling twice before stopping on one knee. He coughed, dark blood splattering the stone. His vision doubled, then snapped back into focus through sheer refusal.
Gluttony advanced again.
Unhurried.
Unstoppable.
"Every wound you take becomes mine," he continued calmly. "Every drop of blood shortens this fight."
The boy clenched his jaw.
"Then I'll stop bleeding," he spat.
Mana surged.
Not recklessly.
Deliberately.
The black bow unfolded in his grasp once more, heavier than before, limbs groaning as he overcharged it beyond safe limits. An arrow formed—not a projectile, but a condensed mass of spiraling mana so dense it distorted the air around it.
He loosed.
The arrow screamed forward—
—and vanished again, consumed by Gluttony's invisible resistance.
The recoil slammed through the boy's arm, tearing fresh wounds along his shoulder and back. He staggered, nearly dropping the bow.
Gluttony didn't miss the opening.
He crossed the distance in an instant, shoulder-checking the boy with enough force to send him skidding across the battlefield. The sword followed, slamming down like a guillotine.
The boy traced without thinking.
A shield—too slow.
The blade struck.
The impact blasted him through it, shattering the construct and carving a deep gash across his chest. Blood poured freely, soaking his clothes, splashing onto the stone.
Gluttony inhaled deeply.
The blood lifted.
Thick streams of it tore free from the boy's wounds, drawn irresistibly toward Gluttony's sword. The sensation was horrifying—like something reaching inside him and gently pulling.
The boy screamed.
Not in fear.
In defiance.
"No—!"
He forced mana through screaming circuits, severing the pull by sheer will. The blood snapped back, splattering uselessly to the ground.
Gluttony's brow furrowed.
"You're learning," he said. "That's unfortunate."
He raised his sword again.
The boy's legs shook violently as he pushed himself upright. His breathing was ragged now, each inhale scraping raw against his lungs. His body was failing—badly.
But his eyes—
His eyes were clear.
He traced again.
Not a sword.
A concept.
Steel unfolded around him in layers—overlapping outlines flickering into existence, each discarded in favor of the next. The pressure spiked sharply, forcing Gluttony to pause for the first time.
"What—"
The boy moved.
He slipped under Gluttony's guard, movements sharp and economical, Kanshou reforming in his hand just long enough to strike at the knee. The blade shattered on impact—
—but the angle was wrong.
Gluttony's stance faltered.
Just enough.
The boy pivoted, tracing Bakuya mid-motion, slashing across Gluttony's side. The cut was shallow, barely breaking skin—
—but blood flowed.
Gluttony recoiled instinctively, stepping back again.
The blood did not rise.
It fell.
Hit the ground.
Gluttony stared at it, expression darkening.
"You changed something," he said.
The boy panted, barely staying upright. "You don't eat steel," he replied. "You eat me."
Mana surged again.
This time, it didn't scatter.
It locked in.
A heavier blade formed in his hands—broad, reinforced, absurdly dense. The weight of it bent his posture slightly, boots grinding against stone as he adjusted.
Gluttony recognized it.
His eyes widened a fraction.
"That sword—"
The boy raised it, arms trembling under the strain.
"Caladbolg," he said, voice low and steady.
Gluttony lunged.
The boy swung.
The spiral-patterned blade carved through the air, mana screaming as it destabilized violently. The impact was catastrophic. The explosion tore across the battlefield, swallowing both of them in a storm of light, force, and shattered stone.
The boy was thrown back hard, slamming into the ground and skidding to a stop. He lay there gasping, vision flickering, ears ringing.
Slowly—
Gluttony emerged from the smoke.
His armor was cracked now, deep fissures running across the chest and shoulder. Blood streamed freely from multiple wounds.
And this time—
It didn't all return.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, eyes burning.
"…You're costing me," Gluttony said quietly.
The boy dragged himself upright, every movement agony. His left arm hung uselessly now, numb and unresponsive. His right hand shook violently as he forced it to raise another blade.
"You're not done eating," he rasped. "But I'm not done cutting."
Gluttony smiled.
Wide.
Hungry.
"Good," he said, stepping forward once more. "Then bleed for me."
The ground trembled as both of them moved at the same time.
Steel flashed.
Blood followed.
And somewhere beneath the clash of blades and the roar of mana, the battlefield itself seemed to realize—
This fight was no longer about survival.
It was about which one of them would run out first.
And neither intended to be the answer
They collided again with the violence of inevitability.
Gluttony moved first—always first—his sword cleaving forward in a savage arc meant to end the fight outright. The boy twisted sideways, the blade shaving past his ribs close enough to burn, and retaliated with a short, desperate slash of Kanshou.
It shattered on impact.
Fragments scattered like black glass.
Gluttony didn't slow.
He pressed forward relentlessly, every strike heavier than the last, each one forcing the boy back step by step. Stone cracked beneath their feet. The air screamed under the pressure of sword against sword, mana flaring and collapsing in unstable bursts.
The boy traced again.
Bakuya.
Then another.
Then another.
Swords formed and died in rapid succession, each lasting only long enough to deflect, parry, delay. His body moved on instinct now, conscious thought stripped away under the sheer speed of combat. Pain became background noise. Blood loss became an abstraction.
All that existed was timing.
Gluttony's blade came down.
The boy slipped inside the arc and drove a short sword toward Gluttony's exposed side—
—and felt his wrist caught.
Gluttony seized his arm mid-strike, fingers closing like iron bands. The pressure was crushing. Bones creaked dangerously.
"Got you," Gluttony murmured.
The sword plunged.
The boy reacted without thinking.
A barrier snapped into existence between them—imperfect, incomplete—but enough. The blade punched through it, tore through flesh, and buried itself in the boy's shoulder instead of his heart.
Agony exploded.
Gluttony leaned in close.
Blood spilled freely now, pouring down the boy's arm and chest. It rose almost immediately, drawn toward Gluttony's blade in thick, eager streams.
The boy screamed, teeth clenched so hard his jaw cracked.
"No—!"
He forced mana through shattered circuits, burning them raw. The pull weakened—but didn't break.
Gluttony drank deeply.
Color returned to his skin. Cracks in his armor sealed. His breathing evened out, strength flooding back into him with every stolen drop.
"This is what you don't understand," Gluttony said calmly. "Every exchange favors me."
He wrenched the sword free and hurled the boy aside like a broken thing.
The boy hit the ground hard, rolling until he slammed into a jagged outcrop. He slumped there, barely conscious, vision swimming.
Gluttony approached slowly.
"You're impressive," he continued. "Truly. Most die long before this point."
The boy coughed weakly, blood staining the stone beneath him.
"Shut… up," he rasped.
Gluttony raised his sword.
And paused.
Something was wrong.
The blood on the ground—his blood—did not rise.
It didn't move at all.
The boy's hand twitched.
Mana surged—not outward, but inward. The Archer card pulsed faintly, synchronizing with something deeper, older. The boy pushed himself upright on shaking legs, eyes burning with stubborn clarity.
"You heal by taking what I lose," he said quietly. "So I just have to stop losing it."
Gluttony frowned.
The boy traced again.
This time, it wasn't a familiar blade.
It was heavier.
Denser.
A long, crimson spear formed in his grasp, its barbed tip gleaming with a malevolent sheen that made the air recoil.
Gluttony's eyes widened in recognition.
"That spear—"
The boy planted his feet, ignoring the way his legs screamed in protest.
"Gáe Bolg," he said.
He hurled it.
The spear did not fly in a straight line.
It twisted through space, curving impossibly, rewriting causality itself as it sought its target. Gluttony reacted instantly, swinging his sword in a powerful intercept—
Too late.
The spear pierced straight through his chest.
Not where he stood—
—but where his heart had to be.
Gluttony froze.
Blood erupted outward in a violent spray.
For a moment, he simply stared down at the weapon embedded in him, disbelief flickering across his face.
Then—
His body collapsed.
The spear dissolved.
The boy dropped to one knee, gasping, vision narrowing. Every nerve screamed as backlash tore through him, blood pouring from his nose and mouth.
Greed—no, Gluttony—convulsed violently on the ground.
His flesh began to knit back together.
Slowly.
Painfully.
But it did knit.
He rose again, breathing heavily now, one hand pressed to his chest.
"…That," Gluttony said hoarsely, "was expensive."
The boy wiped blood from his lips, forcing himself upright once more.
"That was one," he said.
Gluttony stared at him.
And laughed.
Loud.
Hungry.
"So you've figured it out," he said, rolling his shoulders as his strength returned. "Good."
He raised his sword again, mana surging around him like a rising tide.
"Let's see how many times you can do that before your body breaks."
The ground shook as Gluttony stepped forward, killing intent erupting unchecked.
The boy traced again—this time not a weapon, but a shield.
Layered.
Petaled.
Seven overlapping plates unfolded in front of him, each one heavier than the last.
"I am the bone of my sword," he whispered, voice barely audible beneath the rising roar of mana.
Gluttony lunged.
The battlefield exploded into motion once more.
And the countdown began in earnest.
Gluttony's charge was not fast.
It was absolute.
The ground caved beneath his step, stone imploding into dust as his sword came down in a crushing diagonal meant to erase everything in front of him—shield, body, resolve alike.
The boy braced.
Seven petals of Rho Aias bloomed fully.
The impact was catastrophic.
The first layer shattered instantly, exploding into prismatic fragments that tore through the air like shrapnel. The second cracked, the third buckled, the fourth screamed as stress fractures raced across its surface.
The boy felt every break like a hammer striking his spine.
He was driven backward, boots carving furrows through stone as the remaining petals peeled away one by one, collapsing under force they were never meant to endure head-on.
The fifth plate failed.
The sixth barely held.
The seventh—
Held.
For half a heartbeat.
Long enough.
The boy rolled aside as the final petal detonated, shockwaves ripping outward in a violent halo. He hit the ground hard, shoulder screaming, lungs burning as he dragged in air that felt too sharp to breathe.
Gluttony did not pursue immediately.
He stopped.
Looked at the wreckage of the shield.
"…Interesting," he said, tone almost thoughtful. "You used it correctly."
Then he smiled.
"And it still wasn't enough."
He vanished.
Not disappeared—crossed distance.
The boy reacted on instinct alone.
Kanshou and Bakuya formed together, twin blades snapping into existence as he crossed them defensively—
—and was still sent flying.
The blow didn't cut.
It launched.
He crashed into a broken column, stone collapsing around him as he tumbled through debris, body slamming to a stop in a cloud of dust and blood.
His vision blurred.
Too slow.
Too tired.
Gluttony stepped through the rubble without concern, blood already beginning to rise from the boy's wounds, drawn toward him in thin crimson threads.
The pull returned.
Stronger.
The boy gritted his teeth, forcing mana inward again, trying to clamp down on the bleeding, but his body was failing him now. Muscles trembled uncontrollably. His left arm barely responded.
"You see?" Gluttony said, spreading his arms slightly, almost welcoming the flow. "Every second this drags on, you become less."
The boy forced himself upright, swaying.
"And you become full," he replied hoarsely.
Gluttony's eyes gleamed.
"Yes."
He lunged again.
This time, the boy didn't retreat.
He dashed forward, slipping inside Gluttony's reach as the massive sword swept past him. Kanshou and Bakuya flashed in a crossing strike aimed for Gluttony's wrist—
They bit.
Not deep.
But enough.
Gluttony snarled as the blades carved shallow gouges across his forearm. Blood spilled—and for the first time, it did not immediately return to him.
The boy was already moving.
Caladbolg formed in his hands mid-stride, the twisted greatsword humming violently as mana flooded into its warped core. He planted his feet and swung with everything he had left.
The blast tore through the battlefield.
Stone vaporized. Air detonated. The explosion hurled both of them apart in opposite directions, the boy skidding across the ground in a broken tumble while Gluttony slammed into a distant outcrop hard enough to split it in half.
Silence followed.
The boy lay on his back, staring at the sky, chest heaving. His hands shook violently, fingers numb.
Too much.
Way too much.
He rolled onto his side and retched, blood splattering onto the stone.
Across the battlefield, Gluttony rose slowly.
Smoke curled from his body. Cracks ran across his armor. His breathing was heavy now, chest rising and falling with visible effort.
He touched his side.
Looked at the blood coating his fingers.
Then laughed.
"Ah," he said. "There it is."
He stepped forward again, blood beginning to rise once more—but slower now. Less certain.
"You're learning," Gluttony said. "But learning costs."
His sword lifted.
Mana gathered.
The pressure changed.
The air thickened, compressing around the blade until the world itself seemed to lean away from it. The ground beneath Gluttony fractured in perfect radial lines, cracks glowing faintly as power pooled at the weapon's core.
The boy felt it instantly.
This wasn't just strength.
This was a name being called.
Not yet spoken—
—but close.
He forced himself to his knees, tracing desperately, weapon after weapon flickering into existence and collapsing just as quickly as his body rejected them.
No.
Not like this.
Not head-on.
He looked at Gluttony's stance.
At the way his weight shifted.
At the way his left arm—still damaged from earlier—lagged a fraction of a second behind the rest of his movements.
There.
The boy inhaled sharply.
One more time.
Just one more opening.
Steel formed in his hand—not a blade, not yet. Something longer. Heavier. Familiar in a way that made his bones ache.
A sword took shape.
Broad.
Radiant.
Unyielding.
Durandal.
Gluttony's eyes widened slightly.
The boy rose fully now, blood streaming down his arm, grey-threaded hair plastered to his face with sweat.
"Come on," he whispered. "Eat this too."
Gluttony roared and charged, sword blazing as the name of his Noble Phantasm burned at the edge of his voice—
The boy stepped forward.
The battlefield tightened.
Steel met inevitability—
—and the next strike would decide whether hunger ended here, or devoured everything that remained.
The moment stretched thin.
Gluttony's charge did not slow—but it changed.
The way he leaned forward, the way his right foot dug deeper into the stone, the way his grip tightened around the hilt of his sword—this was no longer a pursuit. It was preparation.
The boy felt it instinctively.
That tightening in the air.
That pressure that didn't crush, but commanded.
Durandal trembled in his hands, its radiant blade humming as if in warning. His legs screamed with every step forward, muscles threatening to give out, but he forced them to move anyway. If he stopped now, he would never move again.
Gluttony's eyes locked onto him.
Not with hatred.
With hunger.
"Good," Gluttony said, voice resonant, almost reverent. "Show me everything you have left."
They collided.
Durandal met Gluttony's sword in a blinding flash of sparks and sound. The impact was thunderous, a shockwave tearing outward and flattening what little remained of the battlefield. Stone shattered. Dust rose in a choking cloud.
The boy was driven backward instantly.
Not thrown—overpowered.
His boots skidded violently across the ground as he fought to keep his footing, arms shaking, Durandal screaming as its blade dug into Gluttony's. The difference in strength was obscene. Every second of contact felt like trying to hold back a collapsing wall.
Gluttony grinned.
His left arm—still damaged, slower, less responsive—twitched uselessly at his side.
So he compensated.
With everything else.
He shoved forward, raw power surging through his body, and Durandal finally broke away with a shriek of steel. The boy was hurled aside, slamming into the ground and rolling hard, ribs protesting as pain exploded through him.
He barely had time to react.
Gluttony was already there.
The sword came down.
The boy twisted, Durandal flashing up just in time to deflect the strike—but the force traveled straight through the blade, into his arms, into his spine. He felt something tear in his shoulder.
He screamed.
Gluttony followed with a kick that caught him square in the chest.
The world flipped.
He hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs entirely, vision flashing white. He tasted blood. Felt it being pulled from him almost immediately, threads of crimson lifting from his wounds and flowing toward Gluttony's body.
The pull was stronger now.
More aggressive.
His body felt lighter by the second.
"No—!" he gasped, forcing mana inward, trying to slow the bleeding, but Gluttony laughed as the blood reached him, wounds knitting together visibly, muscle reknitting with greedy efficiency.
"Every cut you suffer feeds me," Gluttony said calmly. "Every second you breathe, you make me stronger."
The boy forced himself to roll away as the sword slammed down again, carving a crater where his head had been. He scrambled to his feet, swaying, vision darkening at the edges.
Think.
He traced.
Kanshou and Bakuya flashed into existence again, twin blades spinning into his hands. He hurled them—not as thrown weapons, but as anchors—burying them into the ground behind Gluttony.
Then he moved.
He dashed in low, slipping beneath another massive swing, and slashed upward with Durandal, targeting Gluttony's left arm—the damaged one.
The blade bit deep.
Gluttony roared, not in pain, but in fury, his left arm finally giving out entirely as the strike tore through muscle and tendon. The limb went slack, blood pouring freely before it could be drawn back.
The boy didn't stop.
He twisted, ripping Durandal free and driving it forward again, slamming his shoulder into Gluttony's chest to force space.
For a single heartbeat—
He succeeded.
Gluttony stumbled back a step.
Only one.
Then his presence exploded.
Mana surged outward in a violent pulse that slammed into the boy like a tidal wave. He was thrown back, crashing hard into the earth, Durandal dissolving from his grip as his concentration shattered.
Gluttony straightened.
His left arm hung uselessly now, torn and ruined—but his expression was anything but concerned.
"Impressive," he admitted. "You've crippled me."
He raised his sword with his right hand alone.
"And now, you will disappear."
The air screamed.
Light began to gather.
Not mana shaped into illusion or reinforcement—but something far older. Far heavier. The sky itself seemed to dim as a golden radiance pooled along the blade, compressing into a blinding core.
The boy felt his blood run cold.
This wasn't an attack meant to kill him.
This was an attack meant to erase everything in front of it.
Gluttony's voice rang out, no longer conversational, no longer amused—only absolute.
"Excalibur."
The world broke.
A torrent of golden light erupted forward, a beam of annihilation that tore across the battlefield with apocalyptic force. The ground vanished beneath it, vaporized into nothingness. The air itself burned.
The boy reacted on instinct alone.
He slammed his hand into the ground.
"I am the bone of my sword—!"
Mana detonated outward as Rho Aias bloomed again, seven layered petals slamming into existence just as the beam struck.
The first petal vanished instantly.
The second disintegrated.
The third and fourth shattered simultaneously, fragments flung backward like molten glass.
The boy screamed as the impact drove him into the ground, bones cracking, blood pouring from his mouth and nose as the shield buckled under pressure that felt infinite.
The fifth petal failed.
The sixth fractured.
The seventh—
Held.
Barely.
For less than a second.
Long enough.
The shield exploded, the force launching the boy backward like a broken doll. He crashed across the ground, skidding, tumbling, finally coming to a stop in a smoking crater.
Silence followed.
The beam faded.
The battlefield was gone.
In its place lay scorched earth and glassed stone, the air shimmering with residual heat.
The boy lay motionless.
Gluttony exhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling as the glow faded from his sword.
"…You survived," he said, genuinely surprised.
He stepped forward.
Then stopped.
The boy's fingers twitched.
Then curled.
He rolled onto his side, coughing violently, blood splattering onto the blackened ground. Every nerve screamed. His body felt like it was coming apart at the seams.
But he was alive.
Barely.
He dragged himself to one knee, vision swimming, grey-threaded hair falling into his eyes.
Gluttony stared at him.
And for the first time—
There was uncertainty.
The boy lifted his head, eyes burning with stubborn defiance.
"You're right," he rasped. "I'm weaker than you."
He forced himself to stand.
"But you already paid for that arm."
Steel began to form again around him—flickering, unstable, but present.
"And I don't need to overpower you."
Gluttony's grip tightened.
"…What?"
The boy inhaled, pain screaming through his lungs.
"I just need you to bleed."
The battlefield trembled again as mana gathered—not explosively, not violently—but with grim, grinding inevitability.
The hunger had reached its limit.
And the next exchange would decide whether Gluttony devoured the world—
—or choked on what refused to be consumed.
The ground was still smoking.
Heat shimmered above scorched stone, the air warped and thin, carrying the bitter stench of burned earth and blood. The afterimage of Excalibur still lingered in the boy's vision—a blinding phantom etched into his eyes every time he blinked.
Gluttony stood amid the devastation like a king surveying a conquered land.
His left arm hung ruined, torn beyond immediate regeneration, blood still dripping in thick, dark strands that steamed as they hit the ground. Yet his posture was steady. Dominant. His chest rose and fell slowly, deliberately, as if he had all the time in the world.
The boy stood opposite him on shaking legs.
Every breath scraped his lungs raw. His muscles screamed with delayed agony from Rho Aias' collapse, bones cracked and barely holding together. Mana flow stuttered through his circuits like a dying pulse. He could feel his blood loss now—heavy, dragging, the kind that made standing feel optional.
But his eyes never left Gluttony.
Steel flickered around him—unfinished traces, half-formed blades dissolving as fast as they appeared. His control was slipping. His body was past its limits.
Gluttony noticed.
A slow smile spread across his face, sharp and satisfied.
"You're emptying," he said calmly. "Your body knows it. Your blood knows it."
He stepped forward.
With every step, the pull intensified.
The boy felt it immediately—his wounds burning as blood tried to rise from them again, drawn toward Gluttony like iron filings to a magnet. His vision darkened. His knees buckled.
"No," Gluttony continued, voice almost gentle. "You don't need to swing again. Just stand there."
Another step.
"I'll take what's left."
The boy clenched his jaw so hard his teeth cracked.
Steel screamed into existence.
Kanshou and Bakuya formed fully this time, twin blades spinning into his hands with familiar weight and balance. He moved—not forward, not back—but sideways, forcing motion, forcing distance.
Gluttony lunged.
The sword came down in a brutal diagonal arc meant to cleave him in half.
The boy ducked beneath it, blades flashing in a cross-pattern strike that carved deep into Gluttony's side. Blood sprayed—not drawn, not stolen—spilled.
Gluttony snarled.
The regeneration stuttered.
Not stopped.
But slowed.
The boy felt it instantly.
So that's it.
You can't drain what you can't keep.
He didn't give Gluttony time to adapt.
He pressed forward.
Kanshou and Bakuya became blurs, a relentless rhythm of slashes, thrusts, reversals—each strike aimed not to kill, but to bleed. Gluttony parried most of them with brutal efficiency, his sword moving like an extension of his will, but the difference was there now.
Subtle.
Crucial.
Every time blood spilled freely, Gluttony's movements slowed—just a fraction.
The boy paid for every inch.
A backhand strike sent him skidding across the ground, ribs screaming as something cracked again. He rolled, barely avoiding a follow-up that shattered the stone where his head had been.
He came up coughing blood.
Still, he smiled.
"You're hungry," he rasped. "But you don't know how to pace yourself."
Gluttony's eyes narrowed.
He rushed him again—faster this time, sword swinging in wide, devastating arcs that left no room to breathe. The boy retreated, parrying desperately, Kanshou and Bakuya screaming as cracks spread across their blades.
They shattered.
Fragments dissolved into light.
He didn't stop.
Another sword formed—then another—cycling weapons faster now, burning mana recklessly, ignoring the protests of his body. Each blade existed only long enough to cut, to draw blood, to force Gluttony to heal again and again.
The battlefield became chaos.
Steel.
Blood.
Impact.
The boy was struck hard in the shoulder, sent spinning, his arm going numb instantly. Gluttony followed, bringing his sword down in a killing thrust—
—and the boy traced instinctively.
Caladbolg.
The twisted sword slammed into existence just long enough for him to drive it forward point-blank into Gluttony's chest.
The explosion was deafening.
Mana detonated outward, tearing a crater into the ground and hurling both of them apart. The boy hit the earth hard, rolling until he stopped face-down, limbs refusing to respond.
Gluttony staggered.
He looked down at the gaping wound in his chest—already closing, flesh knitting together violently.
Then he laughed.
"You adapt well," he said. "But you can't kill what you don't understand."
He raised his sword again.
The boy didn't move.
He couldn't.
His vision tunneled. The world dimmed.
This is it.
Then—
A memory surfaced.
Not a voice.
Not words.
A sensation.
Steel cutting flesh again and again, each strike different, each wound final. A body pushed past collapse through sheer refusal to fall. A future that had already paid this price.
The boy's fingers twitched.
Mana surged—not violently, not explosively—but aligned.
His bones screamed.
Not in pain.
In recognition.
The battlefield dissolved.
He was running again.
White.
Endless.
The older man stood ahead—taller, broader, hair still grey but threaded unmistakably with brown strands beneath the ash and wear. His eyes were tired. Not empty. Just… resolved.
This time, he spoke.
"Once," the man said calmly, "is never enough."
The boy stopped.
Understanding slammed into him like a hammer.
He reached out—
And the world collapsed inward.
He was back.
Time fractured.
The boy rose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Greed's—no, Gluttony's sword came down—
—and the boy moved.
Not faster.
Perfectly.
Steel erupted around him in an instant, dozens of blades manifesting simultaneously—not summoned, not thrown, but executed.
He grabbed the slab-like sword.
The one Gluttony wielded.
The massive, brutal blade tore itself free from Gluttony's grasp as the boy traced it perfectly—weight, balance, murderous intent copied down to the last fault.
He raised it.
And spoke.
"Nine Lives Blade Works."
The first strike came down like judgment.
The blade tore through Gluttony's shoulder, severing flesh, bone, and mana structure alike.
The second struck from the side, cleaving through ribs.
The third pierced the abdomen.
The fourth shattered his knee.
The fifth crushed his spine.
The sixth tore out his heart.
The seventh split his skull.
The eighth ripped through his throat.
The ninth—
Ended him.
Each strike was different.
Each weapon was different.
Each wound was absolute.
Gluttony never screamed.
He simply stopped.
His body collapsed inward, regeneration failing catastrophically as too many rules were broken at once. Flesh turned to ash. Mana unraveled. The hunger that defined him screamed silently as it was denied anything left to consume.
The giant fell.
Gone.
The boy collapsed with him.
He hit the ground hard, body convulsing as the backlash tore through him. Blood poured freely from every opening, his nerves screaming as his body finally gave up its borrowed defiance.
He lay there, unmoving.
For a long time.
Then—
Silence.
The battlefield was still.
No pull.
No hunger.
No presence.
Gluttony was dead.
When the boy finally stirred, it was with a weak groan. He rolled onto his side, coughing blood, every movement agony.
He reached for the box with trembling hands.
Opened it.
Inside, the cards rested in quiet order.
Rider.
Caster.
Assassin.
Lancer.
Berserker.
He placed the final card inside.
Saber.
The lid closed with a soft click.
The boy lay back against the scorched ground, staring up at the sky as dawn finally broke through the smoke.
He was alive.
Barely.
And somewhere deep within him, steel waited—
—for the next Sin to learn what it meant to starve.