The Sword God did not advance.
That, more than anything, was unsettling.
Its stance was flawless—Kaelvar doctrine distilled into flesh—but it waited, blade angled downward, as if granting Tareth the first word in a conversation neither of them truly controlled.
The pressure in the chamber thickened. Not hostile. Expectant.
Tareth felt it press against his qi, probing gently, professionally, the way a master tested a student's guard—not to break it, but to understand where it would fail.
"You're not here to kill me," Tareth said.
The Sword God's eyes flickered, faintly amused. "If I were, you would already be dead. This chamber remembers how."
The walls pulsed once, shallow cuts glowing briefly before dimming again.
"Then why draw?" Tareth asked.
The Sword God's blade tilted, catching the dim light. "Because answers, when left sheathed, rot."
It moved.
Not fast.
Inevitably.
The distance between them collapsed without being crossed. One moment the Sword God stood ten paces away—then its edge hovered at Tareth's throat, stopped by a fraction so precise it felt intentional.
Tareth hadn't moved.
The blade had.
Not his blade.
Space.
The corridor had folded inward, delivering the attack without warning or motion. A perfect demonstration of Sword God doctrine—qi and steel acting in concert, reality adjusting itself to accommodate mastery.
Tareth's sword screamed.
Not audibly—but violently, qi flaring in protest, forcing his arm up as if yanked by invisible hooks. The edges met, barely, and the impact detonated outward in a wave that carved fresh scars into the chamber walls.
Tareth staggered back, boots skidding across stone.
The Sword God nodded. "It answers threats before you recognize them. Fascinating."
"You're testing it," Tareth said, breath ragged.
"Yes," the Sword God replied. "And you."
It came again—this time with intent layered beneath motion. A feint, a pressure shift, a cut aimed not at flesh but at balance. The kind of strike meant to unmake a swordsman before the blade ever touched skin.
Tareth tried to follow form.
His feet moved incorrectly.
The sword corrected him—violently—twisting his body into a motion that felt wrong, reckless, unfinished. The Sword God's strike passed harmlessly through where Tareth would have been had he obeyed Kaelvar doctrine.
The countercut followed.
It did not strike the Sword God.
It struck the decision to attack.
The Sword God froze mid-motion, blade trembling, qi stuttering like a broken breath. For the briefest moment, its perfect stance fractured, uncertainty rippling through armor that had not known doubt in centuries.
The chamber inhaled sharply.
The Sword God stepped back.
Slowly.
"Again," it said—not as command, but request.
They clashed.
Not blades.
Outcomes.
Each exchange rewrote the chamber slightly—walls shifting, cuts appearing where no edge passed, old scars reopening. The Sword God moved with overwhelming precision, every strike justified, every motion efficient.
Tareth moved like a mistake the system couldn't predict.
The sword dragged him through impossible angles, committing him to paths that felt suicidal until they weren't. He felt ribs crack. Felt blood warm his side. The blade did not stop for pain.
It adjusted around it.
"You're letting it choose too much," the Sword God warned mid-exchange, parrying a cut that should not have existed. "That way lies erasure."
"And you're clinging to permission," Tareth shot back, surprising himself. "That way lies stagnation."
The Sword God hesitated.
That was enough.
The blade surged—not striking the Sword God, but past it, carving a line through the chamber floor that split light itself. The cut propagated outward, racing toward the walls—
—and the chamber screamed.
Seals older than Ironreach ignited, chains of qi wrapping around the Sword God's limbs, dragging it backward toward the dais at the chamber's center.
"No—" the Sword God snarled, fighting the bindings. "You don't understand what you're loosening!"
Tareth didn't stop the blade.
He couldn't.
The cut completed itself.
The dais cracked.
Above them, Ironreach convulsed. Towers groaned. Wards failed in cascading sequences. Somewhere, a bell shattered mid-ring.
In the Demon Realm, the ancient thing rose fully from its throne, laughter rippling outward as borders thinned like skin stretched too far.
"Yes," it murmured. "That's the mistake."
The Sword God was pulled back, chains biting deep, sealing itself once more—but not before locking eyes with Tareth.
"Bearer," it said urgently, "if the blade finishes remembering… you won't be holding it anymore."
The chamber began to collapse.
Stone sheared away into darkness. The floor tilted violently, dragging Tareth toward the widening裂.
The sword flared, qi screaming as it fought to stabilize—
—and something answered from beneath.
Not the Sword God.
Not Ironreach.
Something deeper.
Something that had been waiting for the edge to cut far enough down to reach it.
The darkness below shifted.
And reached back.