Lancer body trembled, still scorched from Niko's last counter. The ground beneath him had cratered slightly from the force of his landing, and streams of wind coiled off his back like they refused to leave him—like they hadn't yet realized he was losing.
His gaze lifted slowly. Blood traced the edge of his mouth, but his eyes were cold, defiant. He looked up at Niko, who stood a few meters away, glowing in the remnants of Surge Path—blue lightning coiling around his body like a god barely leashed.
"You're going to liberate me?" Lancer said, breath hitched. "I'm already free of my father's approval… what else can you possibly do to me?"
He paused. The wind around him slowed.
"…Bug."
Niko's chest rose once, then fell. Then—he laughed.
Not mocking.
Sharp. Final.
"I'm not here to change your mind," he said, walking forward, the electric crackle with each step echoing through the broken street. "I'm not your father. I'm not a prophet. And I'm not your savior."
His eyes narrowed, sparking deep navy blue.
"I'm liberating you… of your life."
There was no hesitation in his voice. No theatrics. Just the weight of a verdict handed down.
Lancer's fingers twitched. A final surge of wind gathered beneath his heel—and in an instant he launched forward, one last strike on raw instinct.
Niko didn't blink.
They clashed.
⸻
It wasn't a drawn-out sequence. Not anymore. Their previous battles had cracked the air, torn the skies, demolished the city.
This was different.
Tighter.
Sharper.
Final.
Niko stepped forward, his entire body coiling with light, and ducked the first burst of wind. Gale Fang—a whip of air lashed from Lancer's wrist. Niko shifted left, slid under it, and struck the pressure point behind Lancer's knee with a short, crackling elbow. Essence met resistance. Wind cracked.
Lancer reeled, turning—Gale Reversal—an arc of air meant to slam Niko mid-spin.
Too slow.
Niko was already behind him, lightning tendrils bristling from his shoulders.
He moved in silence now.
Every movement was calculated. Swift. Clean.
Lancer tried again—Gale Cross—two blades of wind sweeping from opposite sides.
Niko disappeared between them.
He reappeared above—mid-air—and dropped. Not with a strike. Just the weight of his body, accelerated by Surge.
Boom.
Lancer collapsed to both knees this time.
Breathing hard. Vision blurring.
Niko landed quietly, in front of him now. Sparks popped off his back like embers from a forge.
Then—
The blitz.
Lancer didn't see it.
One moment Niko was still. Then—
A flicker.
His sword had passed through.
Not from the front.
From the back.
The wind stopped.
Lancer froze.
His head tilted slightly, as if trying to understand what had just happened.
A soft gust ruffled his hair.
He exhaled.
"…So this is what it feels like," he murmured. "To stop running."
He didn't fall immediately. He just remained on his knees, like a statue weathered by time. Looking up. Not at Niko. But at the ruined sky.
"…Niko," he said.
The lightning boy paused, sword halfway into its retraction.
"What?"
"…Do you still seek to destroy the house?" Lancer asked. "Now that I've fallen?"
Niko stood in silence.
"…Of course I do, and I won't let anything else stop me."
Lancer smiled faintly. It was real this time. Not royal. Not defiant.
"…Heh."
"…Then maybe we're the same."
He coughed, blood hitting the cracked stone, but he didn't lower his head.
"I wanted to destroy this place. The way it ate my brothers. Chained my breath. Built me to be… what he wanted."
He shook his head once, voice fading.
"But it seems you've destroyed me instead."
Niko's brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Just watched.
"…Thank you," Lancer whispered.
And like wind tapering off at the end of a storm—
He was still.
His body didn't fall. It just… settled. The gales around him evaporated. The air grew quiet. And for the first time, it felt like the House had let go of someone without taking everything.
⸻
Niko stood still for a long time.
The storm in his body faded, blue lights flickering out.
All that remained was the sound of the ruins… and the quiet howl of a now-masterless wind.
Mena's voice touched his mind.
"…You did it."
He didn't respond at first.
When he did, it was only a whisper.
"…Yeah."
..
…
…
The air near the throne shimmered like a mirage. No heat. Just tension. A silence that gnawed at the soul.
Chalice stepped forward slowly, his golden hair barely swaying. His eyes were half-lidded, but the gleam behind them was unmistakable. He wasn't afraid. He was bored.
Dem Oche sat on the obsidian throne, one leg crossed over the other. His robes were trimmed with thin strands of silver that didn't catch the light — they gave it. His face was smooth, ageless, his jaw rigid as if carved from divine indifference.
"You're late," Dem Oche said. His voice was quiet, but it struck like a bell in the dead air.
Chalice laughed — full-bodied, arrogant, beautiful. "I was mourning your son."
Dem Oche blinked once. "If he was weak, he deserved to die."
Chalice's grin twisted. "You're colder than I remember. Just like the thing that made you." His voice softened into venom. "Tell me… if I kill you — will that little bastard come crawling out?"
Dem Oche's fingers twitched.
"If I die to you," he said, "then I never had the right to be his incarnation."
"Good," Chalice whispered. "Let's test your worth."
He moved first — or seemed to. One second he was standing. The next, his fist was halfway through Dem Oche's throne.
Clang.
Light erupted like a star. Dem Oche had parried, not with an arm — with a beam, a blade of solid white energy so fine it hummed. He countered instantly, slashing sideways.
Boom.
Chalice vanished and reappeared behind him, kicking Dem Oche through one of the throne room's walls. The stone buckled but didn't shatter. This place was built for gods.
Dem Oche rocketed back inside in less than a blink, spinning midair with a barrage of radiant spears.
"Refraction Volley."
The spears arced like sunbeams, too fast for the eye. Chalice caught one — barehanded — and smiled.
"You've gotten better," Chalice said.
He hurled the spear back, not at Dem Oche — but at the light source behind him. The entire wall bent inward as the spear detonated.
Dem Oche didn't even flinch. He stepped out of the haze and held up two fingers.
"Reflected Judgement: 2%."
A second later, the light around Chalice condensed, forming blades behind his back like a judge's wings. They stabbed inward—
—but nothing hit.
Chalice had stepped out of space.
"You reflect now, huh?" Chalice said, reappearing above him, slamming down with a meteor of golden Essence. "That's cute."
Crack.
Dem Oche blocked — barely. His arm skidded back, grinding the marble under his feet to dust. His boots didn't move.
"You move well," Dem Oche said, flicking his wrist. "Shatterpoint."
A burst of black light — light from the absence of it — exploded under Chalice. His shoulder tore slightly, his flesh peeling like cracked armor.
Chalice's eyes widened briefly. Then he grinned wider.
"Oh? That wasn't yours. That was his."
Dem Oche didn't answer.
Chalice circled now, pacing, dragging his finger across a pillar and carving symbols as he walked. "You're like a shadow of him. His leftovers. You create light… he is light. All of it. Every form. Even what we can't see."
Dem Oche adjusted his stance. "And yet I am more than enough to deal with you."
Chalice laughed again, sharp and cruel. "Oh, my sweet idiot… You don't know how many times I've killed you in my mind."
Flash.
Dem Oche went lightspeed — a streak of pure motion, a line across space. He was behind Chalice, palm glowing.
"Judgement Arc: 3%."
He fired point-blank. The blast bent gravity, disintegrating the back half of the throne hall.
Chalice stepped through the beam.
Literally — a golden rune flashing at his heel.
He appeared inches from Dem Oche's face and whispered, "You're not him. You'll never be him."
And then he headbutted the incarnation of light so hard it darkened the world for a second.
Boom.
Dem Oche flew backward, bouncing off the throne, the force of the impact cratering it behind him.
He stood slowly.
Chalice didn't press. He wanted this to last.
The throne room was unrecognizable now — black marble scorched into molten glass, pillars reduced to jagged stumps. Rays of artificial sunlight cut down through holes in the ceiling, slicing past floating debris.
Chalice stood still in the dust, cloak torn, his frame coated in gold sparks. He cracked his neck and smiled like he was enjoying this.
Dem Oche dusted off his shoulder with an absent flick, but his eyes never left Chalice. They gleamed, not with rage — but condescension.
"You know," Dem Oche said coolly, walking through the smoke, "I still remember your face."
Chalice cocked his head. "From where? Your dreams?"
"No. From the day he broke you."
The smile on Chalice's face didn't waver — but something behind it tensed.
Dem Oche kept going, slow and cruel. "The Devil of Light carved your chest open. You begged him for death with your legs broken. And you didn't awaken some divine war gift… you learned Essence."
Chalice didn't blink.
Dem Oche raised both arms. Light flared across his limbs in radiant arcs. "How poetic. The Prince of War — studying philosophy mid-slaughter. A man chosen by a god of carnage… who fights with nothing but human swordsmanship."
He tilted his head, disgust in his voice now. "No destructive power. No overwhelming might. Just footwork, will, and clever little movements."
Then, he sneered.
"And you think that can beat me?"
Chalice's grin returned, easy and bright. "Well… it's gotten me this far."
Flash.
They collided again — light versus golden essence, blade against will.
Dem Oche fired again. "Reflected Judgement: 4%."
The beam split the floor in half — but Chalice weaved through it, flickering like a phantom. He didn't block. He didn't tank it. He moved like he'd been here before.
Because he had.
Chalice's movements weren't flashy — but they were perfect. Each step danced just inches outside of fatal. His blade met Dem Oche's palm with surgical precision, not force. No sparks. Just control.
"You mock swordsmanship," Chalice said mid-spin, parrying a blast of prism-light, "but what is your body doing right now?"
He slashed again — a nick across Dem Oche's cheek.
"Defending."
Dem Oche blinked, blood glittering like starlight.
Chalice pointed at his own chest, just over his heart. "This is the part he left intact. You should have gone for that."
He lunged again — this time faster than before. The air didn't scream. It just folded.
Dem Oche was forced back — his light warping into a dome to block a faint cut that almost cleaved through his thigh.
"You're hiding something," Dem Oche muttered. "No one can just be this fast."
Chalice chuckled. "Maybe it's not speed."
Dem Oche's eyes narrowed.
"Maybe," Chalice said, stepping sideways between two reflected beams, "I'm just closer to you than you realize."
Dem Oche tried to fire again — but a rune flared under his boot, stunning him for half a second.
Half a second too long.
Chalice flicked his sword forward, grazing Dem Oche's forearm — and for just an instant, the light in that arm flickered.
Dem Oche stared down at his limb. "What did you—"
Chalice twirled the blade back and rested it on his shoulder.
"I learned more than Essence that day," he said softly. "I learned what breaks."
A cold wind passed through the ruined chamber — though there were no windows left.
Dem Oche reset his stance, grimacing slightly. "Still just human tricks."
"You keep saying that," Chalice replied, "but your throne's cracked and your arm's fading."
Dem Oche glared.
Chalice just grinned wider.
And behind that grin, hidden even from himself, his soul flickered — bright, ancient, and reaching toward something deeper.