The black smoke of the combat still hovered over the field, thick and unwilling to dissipate.
Snow and ash mixed with hardened blood, forming an irregular mosaic that seemed to deny any notion of purity. Beneath that gray sky, the Council's medics advanced with measured steps, as if a single wrong movement might awaken the violence once more. They carried the unconscious bodies of the duelists: Arhelia, small, curled in on herself, barely supported by the stretchers; and Redimir, enormous, his muscles still tense, as if even in sleep his body refused to accept defeat.
The elders of the Council remained silent.
It was not a solemn silence.
It was an uncomfortable one—dense, the kind that forces thought before speech.
One of them broke the stillness, drumming his fingers against the blackened arm of his throne.
"The girl's will…" he murmured. "No Semi Level 1 should have endured something like that."
"She didn't even try to impose herself," replied another, his white beard still dusted with frost. "She allowed every blow."
A third, with sharp eyes and a dry voice, slowly shook his head.
"No. She accepted them."
Their gazes crossed—hard, evaluative. They were not only discussing strength; they were discussing usefulness.
"Every wound was a calculation," continued the elder with the frost-covered beard. "She bled her opponent, forced him to spend his body, to trust in his advantage. She defended… until the weight of others' mistakes did the rest."
A young disciple, pale, his hands still trembling, gathered the courage to speak.
"So then… all that suffering…?"
The oldest elder answered without looking at him.
"It was the price. And she paid it without hesitation."
"But…" interjected a counselor with a deep voice. "Do we realize what this means? This isn't just a duel. It's an army of a single individual. A machine of obedience that does not fear, that calculates, that survives."
Some nodded, eyes shining. Others frowned.
"If we could create more like her," said one, his voice almost secretive. "Imagine what we could achieve. Troops capable of enduring any training, any torture, any order… perfect soldiers."
"Soldiers," another snapped. "Or monsters. The line is thin." His fingers drummed against the stone table. "We are not talking about abstract utilities: we are talking about people shaped for war, for politics… to be a weapon no one can escape."
"And what about the inheritance?" intervened a younger counselor, pointing toward Arhelia's figure. "Her grandfather was a demonic cultivator. Many will see her as a return to what we swore to contain. Some will call it blasphemy. Others, an opportunity."
"Opportunity," murmured an elder with a slow, heavy voice. "That's what rulers think. The armies of the south, the clans of the north, the cities of the center… all will want to possess her as a pawn. Not for her, but for what she represents: power, obedience, results."
"Yes, and the benefits are clear," said another. "Territorial control, impenetrable defense, prestige. Even the economy could tilt in favor of those who dominate her. She is a weapon, a strategic resource."
But some looked on in horror, their fingers trembling on their staffs, as if touching the idea itself were heresy.
"And what happens then?" one asked, his voice breaking. "What is left of us if we turn children into instruments of war? This… this is blasphemy."
The murmur spread through the hall like an icy wind. They debated whether her existence should be celebrated, exploited, condemned… or hidden.
At the edge of the field, Arhelia's parents watched without moving. Their hearts pounded in their chests with a violence rivaling the duel that had just ended.
"My daughter…" Sátira's voice cracked, thin as glass under pressure. "She shouldn't have survived something like that."
Grissfor adjusted his gloves, inhaling slowly.
"Her body is destroyed," he admitted. "But her mind… did not yield for a single moment."
A short distance away, Eina's parents exchanged silent glances. Their daughter's death had ignited this trial, this vengeance. And now the result lay before them, uncomfortable and final.
"Look at him," León said quietly, pointing at Redimir. "She almost killed him."
His wife clenched her teeth.
"But she didn't. And he's still breathing. The girl too."
Arhelia's parents stepped forward.
"Survival is a victory," Grissfor said. "In a Duel of Law, that is enough."
"Don't oversimplify it," Eina's mother replied, her eyes wet and hard at the same time. "Redimir was trained to destroy. If not for the accumulated exhaustion… this would have been a massacre."
Sátira crossed her arms, holding back a tremor.
"So are we arguing about who deserved to break first?" she asked. "Because Arhelia knew exactly what she was facing."
The medics continued their work without intervening. The carts moved away slowly, carrying bodies, blood… and rumors.
"This isn't over," León said, a restrained anger vibrating beneath every word. "Justice for Eina still stands."
The elders of the Council looked at one another. They understood that what had happened was not merely a combat. Every decision, every blow allowed, had shifted deeper balances.
"So who won?" whispered a disciple.
The oldest elder, his face marked by long experience and wisdom, said nothing. He smiled and pointed toward the arena.
The sun was descending, staining the blood-soaked snow in red and gold. The duel had ended.
But something far more dangerous had just begun.
From a shadowed corner, a young man with crimson eyes observed. His posture was rigid, his expression impassive. He did not intervene, did not comment… he only evaluated, measuring every gesture, every word, every shadow. And without saying a thing, he knew that something was moving beyond the permitted limits.
— — —
Four weeks later, the battlefield was little more than a memory.
One that still lived inside her body.
Arhelia awoke with a muffled scream.
She tried to sit up.
She couldn't.
The attempt was punished immediately: a brutal pain tore through her back as if red-hot iron had been driven straight into her spine. Her muscles reacted late, badly, twisting into chaotic spasms, as if they no longer remembered how to obey.
"Ah…! No… no…!" she gasped, her voice broken. "I can't move…!"
Even the simple act of breathing made something burn beneath her skin. It wasn't an open wound. It was worse. A deep, internal burn, as if her back had been scraped against slow fire for hours.
She tried to clench her fists.
Her fingers barely trembled.
"Damn it…!" she screamed now, without restraint. "It hurts! It hurts too much…!"
The sheets were soaked as her body convulsed again. Every muscle protested, torn beyond exhaustion. There was no glory. No clarity. Only accumulated pain, demanding its price with interest.
"It was… it was stupid…" she sobbed through clenched teeth. "What was I thinking…?"
For an instant—just one—she regretted it.
Not the fight.
But allowing so much.
Pushing her body beyond the point where even will could hold it together.
"I… I didn't want it to hurt like this…" she whispered, her voice breaking. "Not like this…"
A nurse stepped back, pale.
"She can't keep screaming," she murmured. "Her back… the channels… they're raw."
"These aren't normal injuries," the other replied. "It's as if her body burned from the inside."
Arhelia kept cursing—at the ceiling, the bed, her own decision. Each word was an expulsion of pain, not an act of bravery. Half an hour later, exhausted, she stopped struggling.
Not because the pain was gone.
But because she no longer had the strength to scream at it.
"It still…" she whispered. "…burns…"
Then she saw them.
Her parents were there.
Still. Too still.
"Da… Dad…" she said with difficulty. "Was it… worth it?"
Silence.
A heavy one.
"Yes," Grissfor finally answered. "But it almost cost you everything."
Sátira didn't speak. She simply took her daughter's hand carefully, as if afraid she might break her.
Arhelia closed her eyes. A tear slid down, silent.
"Then…" she murmured, "…I learned where the limit is."
A pause.
"And next time… I won't cross it so easily."
The pain was still there.
Burning.
Reminding her that she had won.
But that her body would not forget the price.