The Morito Sword feels alive in Onaga Kei's hands.
Not metaphorically.
Alive.
The sensation is immediate and invasive, something that does not wait to be understood before it begins to act, the crimson veins beneath the black metal pulsing slowly against his palm with a rhythm that aligns—perfectly, disturbingly—with his own heartbeat, as if the blade has already found the pattern inside him and decided to follow it, or worse, to guide it. Each pulse presses inward, not outward, sending thin, creeping strands of something cold beneath his skin, like water slipping into places it should not reach, threading through veins and nerves alike.
But unlike Aldo.
Unlike Hano.
Onaga breathes steadily.
In.
Out.
Slow.
Measured.
He does not rush the air, does not force it, letting each breath settle fully before the next begins, building a rhythm that is his, not the sword's, even as the two begin to overlap in uncomfortable synchronization.
The night wind brushes strands of wet hair across his forehead, cool and persistent, carrying with it the scent of broken earth and disturbed water, while the shattered lakeshore around him groans under the weight of recent destruction. Broken stone—remnants of Hano's collapsed golems—litters the ground in uneven piles, jagged edges catching faint light as steam rises from them in thin, ghostlike trails, the residue of heat still bleeding away into the cold air. Muddy water slides back and forth through fresh cracks carved violently into the shoreline, the ground no longer holding its original shape, reshaped into something unstable and restless.
The forest nearby holds its breath.
No cries.
No rustling.
No movement beyond what the wind forces.
Animals have retreated into silence, into hiding, into whatever spaces promise distance from what has unfolded here. Even the insects—constant, unnoticed—have vanished from the soundscape.
Only the lake remains active.
Dark waves roll beneath the fractured moonlight, heavy and deliberate, rising and falling with a slow, unnatural cadence that resembles muscle shifting beneath skin more than water responding to wind.
Comtois paces beside him.
Restless.
Impatient.
Energy contained poorly within movement, boots dragging through mud, steps uneven as he circles rather than stands.
"Give me the sword already."
Onaga does not answer immediately.
He keeps breathing.
The corruption presses harder.
It recognizes delay.
It leans into it.
The pulses sharpen, the cold beneath his skin spreading further, threading deeper, the sensation no longer subtle but insistent.
Whispers begin to form at the edge of his hearing.
Not words.
Not language.
Something cruder.
Urges.
Violence without structure.
He suppresses it.
Not by force, but by refusal—by not engaging, not interpreting, not allowing it to take form.
Then, calmly, he turns toward Comtois.
"Wait."
Comtois throws both hands upward, frustration spilling out immediately.
"BRO EVERYONE KEEPS TELLING ME TO WAIT. FIRST ALDO. THEN HANO. NOW YOU."
He points violently toward the lake, arm cutting through the air with sharp emphasis.
"THAT THING IS STILL ALIVE."
Onaga's gaze does not shift.
"I know."
"Then let me cook."
"No."
"Why?"
"Because you're impatient."
Comtois stiffens, offended.
"THAT IS A PERSONALITY TRAIT, NOT A TACTICAL WEAKNESS."
Ryong snorts despite himself, the sound brief, slipping out between exhaustion and tension before he can stop it.
Nearby, Hano groans weakly from the ground, his body still heavy with strain, while Lei Delun kneels beside him, hands moving carefully, checking for injuries, for signs of something worse. Black veins linger faintly along Hano's neck, remnants of corruption that have not yet fully receded.
Without warning, Comtois bends down, grabs Hano under both arms, and starts dragging him backward through the mud, boots digging in as he pulls with uneven determination, his complaints continuing without pause.
"Look at this. Look what you made me do. I'm evacuating casualties like some responsible adult."
Hano winces sharply, teeth tightening.
"You're pulling my injured side."
"Skill issue."
"I hate you."
"Mutual."
Then Comtois abruptly stops, cups both hands around his mouth, and shouts toward the tree line, voice cutting through the heavy air.
"LEI! GET ALDO AND THIS ROCK-OBSESSED IDIOT BACK TO SAFETY!"
Lei Delun raises one hand silently in acknowledgment, adjusting Aldo's unconscious weight more securely over his shoulder without breaking rhythm.
Ryong, still clutching his soaked notebook tightly against his chest as if it matters more than anything else here, immediately moves after Comtois, half-walking, half-trotting to keep up.
Onaga ignores all of them.
The lake matters now.
Only the lake.
Everything else falls away—voices, pain, the ruined shoreline, the scattered remains of stone constructs dissolving into silt. All of it narrows into a single point of focus that pulls forward with absolute clarity.
He steps forward.
Mud shifts underfoot, water licking at the edges of his boots.
Then—
He teleports.
The air implodes with a deep, concussive crack.
It is not a clean disappearance. The space he occupied collapses inward for a fraction of a second, as if reality itself folds to fill the absence he leaves behind. Sound follows the motion—a sharp, compressed boom that ripples outward across the shoreline, disturbing loose dirt and sending faint tremors through the ground.
One moment he stands on shore.
The next—
He appears directly above the center of Lake Admonito.
Moonlight stretches across the surface beneath him, fractured by constant motion. The black water reflects it in broken shards, each ripple catching and distorting the pale glow into shifting patterns that never settle.
For half a second—
He hovers.
Suspended in silence over the enormous dark expanse.
No wind touches him. No sound reaches him. The lake below churns, but up here, in that brief suspended moment, there is only stillness.
Then—
He plunges downward.
Gravity takes him cleanly, pulling him toward the surface with accelerating force. The reflection of the moon fractures beneath him as he descends, stretching and warping—
Then shattering.
The lake swallows him instantly.
Cold.
Violently cold.
It crashes against him like a solid wall, seizing his body in an instant, dragging heat away with ruthless efficiency. The shock bites into muscle and bone, constricting movement, forcing breath tight against his chest.
But before the water can fully close around him—
Onaga swings the Morito Sword downward.
The motion is sharp. Decisive.
The blade cuts through the water with intent—and something answers.
A beam erupts from the sword.
Not fire.
Not light.
Pressure.
It surges outward in a focused line, invisible except for the way the water reacts. The lake splits.
Not gently.
Violently.
A gigantic vertical cut opens through the water itself, forcing everything aside. The lake parts around him in an instant, driven back by overwhelming force, creating a temporary tunnel that stretches straight down toward the unseen depths.
Walls of displaced water rise on both sides.
They do not flow.
They tremble.
Held in place by sheer pressure, the liquid forms towering barriers that quiver under strain, their surfaces rippling constantly as they resist the unnatural separation. Fish caught in the displacement thrash helplessly within the suspended walls, spinning in tight arcs. Broken debris—stone fragments, splintered wood, shards of ancient ruins—hangs suspended, caught mid-motion in a moment that should not exist.
The entire lake screams around the wound.
Currents strain against the division, pushing inward, trying to collapse the gap. The pressure builds, forcing the walls to shudder more violently with each passing second.
Onaga descends through the opening rapidly.
He drops straight down, the tunnel guiding him, the water held back just long enough to grant passage. The exposed path reveals glimpses of the chaos below—dark shapes, drifting debris, flashes of movement in the depths.
Then—
The water collapses.
The moment the pressure falters, the walls surge inward with explosive force. The tunnel snaps shut, the lake rushing back into itself in a violent convergence that erases the opening completely.
Darkness engulfs him.
Immediately.
The light from above vanishes, swallowed by layers of disturbed water and suspended sediment.
Underwater visibility is terrible now.
The earlier battle has transformed the lake bottom into a field of ruin. Mud churns thickly through the water, turning everything into a shifting haze of black-green obscurity. Movement disturbs it constantly, sending clouds rolling outward in slow, suffocating waves.
Broken ruins lie scattered everywhere.
Fragments of ancient structures rest at unnatural angles, half-buried beneath fresh layers of silt. Pillars lie snapped in segments. Collapsed walls form jagged ridges across the lakebed, their edges softened by years of submersion now violently disrupted.
Pieces of Hano's destroyed golems are mixed among them.
Massive limbs, shattered torsos, chunks of sculpted stone that once held form now reduced to debris. One giant stone hand rests partially submerged in the sediment, fingers curled inward.
It twitches.
Once.
A faint, residual motion—leftover magic firing through a dead structure.
Then it becomes still.
And ahead—
Through the shifting murk—
The Drakolimne.
Still alive.
Barely.
Its massive body coils protectively around Teufel once more, forming a barrier between him and the chaos beyond. The creature's movements are slower now, heavier, each adjustment deliberate but strained. Many of its scales are broken, jagged edges exposing raw tissue beneath.
Yellow blood leaks steadily from its wounds.
It drifts outward in thick, curling trails, spreading through the water like poisonous smoke, staining everything it touches.
Teufel has regained consciousness.
Barely.
He kneels beside the creature, one hand braced against the fractured remains of the ruined platform, the other resting weakly against his own leg as he struggles to stay upright. His posture is unsteady, as if even maintaining that position requires effort.
His armor flickers.
Silver light pulses weakly across its surface, traveling along engraved lines in intermittent bursts. Cracks mend slowly—inch by inch—sections of damaged plating pulling themselves back into alignment. But the process is sluggish, uneven.
Something interferes.
Dark residue clings to the metal like oil stains, seeping into the enchanted surface and dulling its response. The earlier contamination from Hano's rogue golem lingers, resisting the restorative magic, slowing it.
His sword lies nearby.
It repairs as well—but imperfectly.
Fragments draw together, reconnecting along fractured lines. The blade regains shape, but the glow it once carried flickers inconsistently, stuttering between brightness and dimness as if struggling to stabilize.
Teufel exhales, the movement subtle but visible in the way his shoulders shift.
He looks—
Exhausted.
More than that.
Worn.
Older, somehow, as if the strain of what has happened has carved years into him in moments.
Then—
His eyes widen.
The murk ahead shifts violently.
Onaga cuts through the water again.
Not with a beam this time—
But with motion.
A sudden surge, a displacement of water forced aside as he drives forward, carving a path through resistance with sheer force. Sediment erupts around him, spiraling outward in expanding clouds as he advances directly toward them, the Morito Sword angled forward, its presence pressing against the water like a blade against fabric.
The distance closes.
Fast.
Another massive slash parts the lake horizontally.
The blade does not merely cut—it forces space to divide, carving a violent line through the water as pressure detonates outward from the arc, splitting the surface and the depths alike. For a fleeting instant, a hollow forms around Onaga, a temporary vacuum where water cannot exist, a spherical absence born from sheer force. Then it collapses.
Water explodes outward.
The pressure wave expands in all directions, dense and crushing, sending ripples that become walls, currents that become impacts.
It slams directly into both Teufel and the Drakolimne.
Teufel barely raises his sword in time.
Steel meets black cursed metal.
The collision shrieks underwater, a distorted, piercing sound that vibrates through bone and liquid alike, sharp enough to feel more than hear. Sparks scatter between the blades, brief bursts of orange and white swallowed instantly by the surrounding dark.
Both weapons grind against each other, edges scraping, biting, resisting.
The Morito Sword howls.
Not audibly—
But undeniably.
A violent satisfaction pulses through it, the crimson veins flaring brighter as if responding to conflict itself.
Teufel's blessed weapon dims further.
Its glow flickers, strained, overwhelmed by something it was never meant to endure.
Onaga vanishes.
No transition.
No delay.
Teleportation.
Then—
He appears directly behind Teufel.
Slash.
The blade tears across the knight's back, armor splitting open with a sharp, jagged line, fragments breaking loose and drifting into the water like shattered shells.
Teufel reacts instantly despite the pain.
He spins.
Controlled.
Precise.
But Onaga is already gone.
Another teleport.
Another angle.
Another strike.
This time—
The leg armor fractures, a partial split running along its structure, weakening its stability.
Then—
Another teleport.
Another cut.
Another.
Another.
Again.
Again.
Again.
The battlefield dissolves into chaos.
Not random—
But overwhelming.
Shadows flicker in and out of existence, positions shifting faster than the eye—or even trained instinct—can fully track. Each reappearance is already an attack in motion, each strike landing before the previous current has settled.
Onaga moves like calculated lightning.
Every action placed.
Every motion efficient.
No wasted energy.
No hesitation.
No words.
Teufel struggles to keep up.
His body moves on instinct, on training carved deep into muscle memory, reacting to threats that barely exist long enough to be identified. His blade swings, parries, deflects—but always just behind the true point of impact.
Every teleport leaves warped currents behind.
Distortions ripple through the water, lingering echoes of displacement that interfere with movement, with balance, with prediction.
Every strike weakens his armor further.
The enchanted plates attempt to repair themselves, faint light flickering along cracks, seams trying to seal—
But the corruption spreads faster.
The Morito Sword eats through restoration magic, unraveling it before it can stabilize.
A shoulder plate shatters.
Fragments scatter outward, spinning slowly before sinking.
The scabbard is ripped away, torn loose by a passing strike, disappearing into the depths.
A gauntlet splits apart, metal peeling back under pressure.
Teufel breathes harder.
Even underwater, the motion is visible—chest tightening, rhythm breaking, movements losing their earlier precision.
Yet—
He still fights beautifully.
Even now.
Even here.
Even exhausted.
Even terrified.
Years of training remain embedded in every reaction, every adjustment, every attempt to regain control of a fight that is slipping beyond him.
Then—
A shift.
A pattern noticed.
A timing understood.
Finally—
Teufel predicts one teleport.
He turns fully, committing to the motion, blade sweeping in a wide, circular arc that cuts through the surrounding water with deliberate force.
Onaga appears—
Mid-movement—
Directly into the path.
Impact.
The strike connects.
Clean.
Violent.
Onaga is launched backward, his body thrown through the water with explosive force, momentum carrying him far before resistance slows him.
Mud erupts behind him as he crashes into the lakebed, the impact driving him down hard enough to sink several inches into the softened ground, sediment bursting upward in thick clouds that swallow the space around him.
Teufel surges forward instantly.
There is no pause, no hesitation, no moment of recalculation.
The instant Onaga breaks through the murk, Teufel moves.
Water folds violently around him as he drives forward, his body cutting through the current with explosive force. Sediment erupts behind him in a spiraling wake, the lake itself displaced by the sheer speed of his charge.
His sword rises—
Then comes down.
Brutal.
The strike carries weight that should not exist underwater, the blade dragging pressure with it as it descends. The surrounding water compresses along its path, forming a distorted arc that follows the motion like a second weapon.
Onaga reacts at the last possible moment.
The Morito Sword snaps upward, held horizontally.
Steel meets steel.
The collision detonates through the water.
A deep, concussive shockwave bursts outward from the point of impact, forcing currents back in all directions. Sediment clouds are blown apart instantly, carved into rings that ripple outward into the surrounding darkness. Loose fragments of stone are thrown aside, spinning wildly as they scatter.
Teufel does not pull back.
He pushes.
Downward.
Harder.
The pressure intensifies immediately. The angle of his blade shifts slightly as he leans into the strike, forcing more weight through it, converting momentum into crushing force.
Onaga's arms strain.
The Morito Sword trembles under the load, its dark veins pulsing faster, responding to the pressure with hungry intensity.
But it is not enough.
The lakebed beneath Onaga gives.
Stone cracks.
Mud collapses.
His feet sink deeper as the ground yields under the force pressing down on him. The ruins beneath fracture further, ancient stone splitting apart as his body is driven lower into the lake floor.
The knight's strength is monstrous underwater.
Teufel's face twists.
Not with rage alone—
With desperation.
His expression tightens, eyes burning with something deeper than anger, something raw and unstable.
"You whelps know nothing of what this cursed world grinds men into!"
His voice distorts through the water, warped and uneven, carried more through vibration than sound. The words arrive broken, stretched—but the force behind them remains intact.
"You think orders and missions are truth?! They are chains, nothing more!"
Onaga says nothing.
He does not answer.
His body holds.
His grip tightens.
The Morito Sword hums louder.
Teufel drives the blade downward again.
Harder.
The pressure spikes.
Cracks spread beneath Onaga's footing, the ground fracturing outward in jagged lines. His body sinks another inch, then another, forced deeper into unstable terrain that collapses under sustained stress.
"I HAVE FAILED HIM ONCE—AND THAT SHAME STILL BURNS IN MY BLOOD!"
The words tear out of Teufel, sharper now, edged with something that borders on breaking.
Then—
He moves.