Sand still danced like fire.
Each grain swept into spirals of fury, wild and gold under a storm not of nature, but of something older—something born from blood, hatred, and will.
Caelvir's legs dragged across the torn earth, one boot sliding as he skidded back. His breath was gone before it reached his lips, snatched by the whirling storm that howled louder than the crowd ever had. His skin was a canvas of wounds, his arms coated in dry streaks of red. Blood from sword. Blood from storm. Blood from failure.
Garrik charged again.
His cursed blade cleaved downward, carving through air and sand with the ease of wind through cloth. Caelvir raised his sword just in time—steel rang out like a scream, and the ground shuddered beneath their clash. Caelvir reeled, feet dragging. His arms trembled.
Garrik didn't stop.
The claymore, massive and alive in his grip, swept horizontally now, a sweeping arc of death. Caelvir ducked, just barely, but a whip of sand carried rusted iron slivers into his cheek. He spun sideways, deflecting the follow-up jab, but another jagged shard caught his shoulder. A hiss escaped him.
Garrik laughed.
Stronger now. Faster. As if the storm fed him.
The sandstorm didn't obscure Garrik—it obeyed him. Winds shifted as he moved, the ground trembling with each step. The sand at his feet swirled like loyal hounds. A twist of his heel sent a rush of particles into Caelvir's eyes, and while he blinked back pain, Garrik closed the gap.
Steel to steel again. A parry, a sidestep. Caelvir deflected the strike upward, only for the flat of the claymore to slam into his ribs. He felt something give. Maybe bone. Maybe hope.
Garrik advanced.
Another blow. A wild slash. A twist. Caelvir danced, but barely. His steps were a fraction too slow now, his shoulders sagged with weight too cruel to bear. The Seren Sword moved defensively, cutting only to survive, never to kill.
Sand rose like steam. Old blades, broken and ancient, flickered through the storm. One impaled near his knee. Another scratched his thigh. They danced like ghosts, whispering past his flesh, nipping like wolves.
Garrik's arms gleamed with shallow wounds. Merely whispers on his skin. But Caelvir—he bled in a dozen places. Too much.
Then came the end.
A final clash. The Seren Sword met the claymore in a last desperate parry—but strength failed him. The cursed blade slammed forward, and Caelvir felt his grip loosen.
His sword—his one sword—flew.
It spun, tumbling end over end, before landing—shhkk.
Point-down in the ground. Still. Watching.
Caelvir dropped to one knee.
Everything in him wanted to stand. But his legs were no longer his. His arms hung loose. His vision danced in black.
Before him, Garrik stood tall, arms raised.
The cursed blade now shimmered with stormlight. His figure framed by the swirling sand like some ancient statue, risen from the desert. His stance, wide and final.
An executioner.
The storm circled. It narrowed. The crowd could see now—a ring of dust and steel, enclosing the two.
Caelvir lowered his head.
So this is how it ends.
No glory. No fire. Just silence and wind. The weight of his own weakness crushing him like stone.
And then—
A flash.
A boy.
Smiling. His arms open, laughter on his tongue.
Then the blood.
That same boy's face, split and drenched in red.
Then her.
Her hair black, wild in wind. Eyes like glass stars. The sound of her giggle faint.
She drifted. Further. Further.
Then nothing.
Darkness.
The cursed blade rose.
Garrik swung.
From the left. Toward the neck. A clean beheading. Executioner's blow.
CRACK.
A jolt in the air. Then another.
CRICK. CRACK.
Caelvir's eyes opened.
Garrik's body was frozen. Arms stuck in mid-swing.
The claymore vibrated.
And then—it dropped.
Thud.
Garrik's body jerked. Legs gave out. Arms, useless. His knees hit the ground.
He spat blood. Confusion etched across his face.
"Wh... what..." he managed.
The crowd gasped. The storm still swirled, but it weakened, slowed.
"The blade knelt," someone muttered.
Caelvir didn't wait.
He moved. Rolled toward where Seren Sword stood, still in the ground.
His fingers closed around the hilt.
He rose.
And brought it down.
Executioner's blow, reversed.
Clean.
Garrik's mouth twitched. "Wai—"
The head fell before the word ended.
The body followed. A mass hitting earth, raising dust like a drumbeat of finality.
The arena waited.
Then—cheers. Uncertain at first. Then surging.
Roars. Cries. Victory.
"He did it!"
"The sword knelt!"
"What the hell did we just see?!"
Caelvir stood, holding Seren's sword. His grip light.
The storm had ended. But something lingered.
A whisper.
In his skull.
It called him.
Not the crowd. Not glory.
The blade.
The cursed claymore still lay beside Garrik's headless corpse. Black veins pulsed in its hilt. Its voice was not words, but temptation. A wheeze in the wind, a promise in the silence.
Take me. Throw away the old. I made you win.
You deserve better steel.
Caelvir's hand twitched.
He looked at Seren's sword. Held it lightly.
And it... shivered.
Not fear.
A plea.
Don't let go.
It asked. It begged. Not in sound. But in the way it felt in his grip. How the metal warmed. How it hummed against his palm.
Please.
He gripped tighter.
All that his arms, cut and tired, could offer.
He stood tall.
Before him, the body of Garrik.
Strangely, even in death, his lifeless hands still held the cursed blade.
Knuckles white. Fingers locked.
One gripped a cursed thing,
Faithless steel that waits for kings.
The other—once hers, the soft and fair—
Seren's blade, from blood stripped bare.
Caelvir had chosen.
He turned.
He stepped away.
Far away from the cursed blade.