An icy cut descended from the cliffs as if the mountain were breathing down on them.
Snow and ash fell without haste, mingling, until the dueling field looked like a painting made by a god bored of his own creation.
Arhelia advanced.
Small.
Thin.
But at her side orbited the sphere All or Nothing, half light, half shadow, like a heart that had forgotten how to beat and now waited for its owner's instructions.
Redimir looked at her without words.
The hammer in his hands was a sleeping animal.
His Eastern armor gleamed with a dull shine, as if it had already decided that dying, too, was a form of obedience.
Beside him, the Law Cat flexed its legs. Its eyes were two holes that devoured reality.
The counselors fell silent.
Arhelia held the rapier.
It was light, straight, elegant. Made for precision, not brutality. Made for trained hands, not for fingers still trembling from inner scars.
But that was what they had given her. And she could not use the Law of Light.
The sphere All or Nothing floated at her side, slow, silent. Watching. Not intervening.
Arhelia took her stance:
Both hands on the hilt.
Arms crossed above her head.
The rapier's point aimed directly at Redimir.
A closed stance. Defensive. Brutally honest.
Not to show off. To survive.
Redimir stood before her.
High guard.
The hammer held in both hands, pointed upward like a promise of crushing force.
The Law Cat sat beside him, motionless, expectant.
Redimir finally spoke:
—For Eina.
Arhelia spat saliva in mockery onto the ground:
—Then come and take what you think you deserve.
Redimir closed his eyes.
Exhaled slowly.
Not from fear. From control.
The wind passed between them.
Everything began in an instant.
Suddenly, Redimir opened his eyes.
The Cat launched itself with a flash against the ground, shattering it into pellets and slicing snow and ash with a dark line.
Arhelia's eyes widened. But she reacted quickly.
Her shadow stirred like a living being, moving and forming a black, dense, vibrating wall, like living flesh.
The Dark Law answered her will with a speed she herself did not understand.
But there was no impact.
Snow fell onto her, slow, indifferent.
—Huh? —she said, confused.
She heard footsteps approaching, turned her head, and saw him.
Those hunter's eyes. His boots slid over snow and ash. The hammer rested in one hand; the other was hidden, the way a lie is hidden.
She understood the Cat had been a distraction. But it was too late.
Redimir's eyes changed. Feline. Golden. Like embers piercing the soul.
The sensation that followed was not pain, but absolute disorientation. The world tilted, the sky spun, and sanity shattered like thin glass. Distances lied; the ground betrayed every step.
The dagger burst from his belt, fast as an unthought thought.
There was no time to dodge, retreat, or even understand.
Her forearm rose in defense, but the blade pierced flesh and bone, savoring every instant, leaving a trail of hot, thick blood. The tip grazed her cheek—a cruel reminder of her human fragility.
A lightning flash of pain tore a moan from her: a sound that did not come from her throat, but from the earth itself, a primordial lament born of pure pain, impossible to ignore.
The shadows, desperate to protect her, writhed again—but there was no defense left.
From the sky, the Law Cat fell like a meteor.
It struck her back.
It exploded in flames of Law. Everything ignited: snow melted, her back burned, and the spectators felt the heat even beyond the stands, covering their eyes and sweating.
Arhelia was flung like a broken doll, bouncing off stone, rolling, jerking uncontrollably until she stopped near the edge of the arena.
Her head did not feel the ground, but wind and emptiness.
The air left her lungs in a strangled grunt. Pain. Heaviness. Lack of air. She did not feel the dagger embedded in her arm. She did not feel her back burning. She only smelled scorched flesh.
The spectators saw black smoke rising from her back.
Arhelia heard her muscles screaming in agony.
And yet her hand held the rapier. Her will, like iron forged through a thousand trials, refused to yield.
She did not die. Nor was there even time to rest.
Her whole body twisted, obeying an instinct older than thought.
The hammer fell where her skull had been a heartbeat before.
The impact split stone as if it were tired flesh. The ground groaned. A fragment of the stage rose like a petrified wave, suspended for an instant before crashing down with the weight of a sentence.
Redimir did not stop.
Another hammer blow descended, laden with intent, with ancient hatred, with a twisted faith that knows no forgiveness.
Still rolling, still with the world broken inside her head, the Law was called.
The ground answered.
Tentacles of shadow erupted from the earth's entrails. Black, thick, wet. They shot forth like living spears—hungry, conscious—piercing the advancing body without fear.
They burst out through his back.
The hammer dropped to his knees. Blood spilled.
A thick, red, hot vomit splashed onto the snow like an involuntary confession.
He was impaled. And still, he did not fall.
Teeth clenched until they cracked. One free hand seized a tentacle aimed at his heart and stopped it centimeters from final truth.
The shadow screamed when grasped. Flesh screamed when pierced. Jets of blood poured from the wounds, painting the ground with living blasphemy.
But he did not fall.
Staggering, he raised the hammer with one hand toward the indifferent sky and roared.
It was not a human cry. It was the bellow of something wounded that refuses to die. A broken eagle. A roar that tore the air apart.
The hammer descended. It crushed the tentacles impaling him, grinding them against the ground, shredding spikes of shadow into black convulsions.
Redimir stepped back, growling like a wounded animal, jaw clenched until it bled.
Then he looked at Arhelia, who was barely about to rise fully.
The golden, feline eyes—infected by bloodlust—stabbed into her mind again.
And he attacked.
Sanity bent like heated metal.
The attempt to rise failed. Her knees hit the snow. Orientation died. Distances lied again. The tentacles missed. The shadow wavered, confused, betrayed by inner tremor.
A shadow covered her. Not her own.
The hammer struck her clavicle.
The sound was a dry, final crack, like an old branch breaking in winter.
Her body rolled across the snow, leaving a red furrow, an open scar in the arena.
The sphere tried to shield her, desperate, vibrating, like an external heart. But it was struck from the side. It slammed into the ground and trembled, resonating as if something inside wanted to escape, scream, break the world.
The rapier rose, trembling, pointed at Redimir like a challenge; like a wall to keep him from approaching.
Arhelia rose halfway.
Her eyes—one night, one dawn—burned.
—Damn it… —she whispered, voice broken—. You're going to break all my bones.
—That is justice!
—That's obsession —she spat—. And you stink of fear.
She stood. Not clean. Not steady. She stood because there was no other option.
The world offered no refuge, and surrender did not exist.
She tore the dagger from her forearm with her teeth; the sound was not human—it was the roar of will itself.
She clenched her teeth. Her eyes trembled, sparking, and a moan dragged from her throat.
With the same hand that held her pain, she caught the dagger and raised the rapier.
Dual weapons. Dual sentences.
When she blocked with wounded arms, a ravenous tingling raced through her limbs. Every fiber burned, every muscle screamed, and blood poured like serpents, dripping onto snow, ash, shattered earth. Each drop counted a heartbeat, a challenge, a silent oath: I will not fall.
She looks at Redimir.
—You're interesting —she says, panting—. If this continues… maybe… maybe we'll be friends, hehe.
The laugh is a blade, a tangible madness. The blood-smeared smile reveals sharp, white, bloody teeth.
Snow falls, slow, soaking both combatants, mixing red, white, and gray. In their eyes: challenge, calculation, hunger for death.
Someone is going to die.
They advanced.
The dance began.
Between rapier and hammer, bodies and weapons spinning like a tempest.
Metal against metal, a clash resounding like trumpets of the end of the world.
Justice and arrogance, rage and technique—each strike a poem of violence.
They forgot everything. Only bloodlust existed, the vortex of pain and destruction.
Blows, cuts, thrusts, kicks, rips—the ground turned red, ash mixing with sweat and bone. Every breath was torment, every movement a scream of defiance.
Arhelia, soaked in sweat and blood, could barely breathe. Her back burned, ruined. Her eyes tracked every movement, searching for the smallest opening. Every muscle ached, every bone begged for mercy—but mercy was dead. Only focus, will, absolute stubbornness remained.
Pain punished her. One leg was cut; she staggered, retreated.
But her eyes shone with something that was not hope: it was a plan, a strategy born of blood and desperation.
Redimir was a wounded, lethal eagle. Sweat, blood, snow, and ash covered his face.
Each hammer blow was a poem of rage.
Each breath, a torment of fire.
Stone face. Black eyes still as eternal night. Each lung screamed. The air felt denser, darker, and anyone watching would know patience was gone.
Then All or Nothing rose. The Cat materialized. The war multiplied.
Redimir advanced with experience. He twisted perceptions, hurled the Cat like a projectile, withdrew it, fired it again. Arhelia blocked with shadows, steel, and clenched teeth. Walls for the Cat, spikes of shadow for Redimir.
The hammer severed a tendon. Her hand opened. The rapier fell.
Numbness betrayed her. She retreated and pressed the bloodied hand to her chest.
She turned right. The hammer blow passed centimeters away.
Sweat burned her eyes.
She raised a wall just as the hammer descended.
She seized the moment. Lunged for her weapon. Redimir moved first. He rammed her.
Arhelia hit the ground.
She raised her arms to protect herself.
The hammer descended toward her forehead.
A white world enveloped her.
Her arm shattered. The back of her neck struck stone. Blood covered her eyes. Absolute dizziness.
Then…
All or Nothing reacted.
A beam of light burst from the sphere. Pure instinct, not obedience.
It grazed Redimir's neck. Flesh split. Blood sprayed in torrents.
Redimir staggered back, hand to his neck, breath turning into a gurgle.
Arhelia stood. Unsteady. Broken.
She used her dagger and drove it into Redimir's thigh.
The dagger slipped from her hands.
Both fell, rolling, smashing into stone and snow.
Elbows, fists, teeth: pure brutality.
As they rolled in the filthy snow, Arhelia raised walls to keep the Cat out.
They separated.
Standing again.
Arhelia was worse than ever: bruised face, bleeding everywhere, shattered breathing, every inhale a knife through her lungs. Every muscle trembled, every bone ached as if breaking again.
They fought again.
Snow and ash spun around them like an ocean of specters.
Each blow was an earthquake. Each spark of steel or hammer, a lightning bolt torn from the skies.
Redimir found an opening.
The hammer descended straight toward Arhelia's head—heavy, implacable, a chunk of sky intent on crushing her, erasing her.
And then… she smiled.
She smiled with arrogance, with contained madness, with the strength only absolute pain can forge.
The hammer stopped centimeters from her forehead, as if the world itself had chosen to tilt in her favor.
Redimir froze.
Blood had defeated him. Not will, not strength… but the pure, cold, absolute devastation of his own body.
He fell to the ground, heavy, defeated, like a god who had forgotten his power.
Arhelia dropped to her knees, staggering, broken, bathed in blood and sweat.
She raised one hand to the lit sky, and the sun, the snow, and the ash seemed to bow toward her, as if the world itself acknowledged victory.
It was a small, fragile gesture and, at the same time, titanic. A silent declaration: she had survived.
And then… she fainted.
The field fell silent.
Not a common silence: a silence that crushed the air, froze the blood, made hearts tremble.
The world had witnessed something beyond life, beyond death.
Arhelia had won the Duel of Law.
The world took note.
And no one—no one—ever looked at Law, or war, or life, the same way again.