The duel roared to life beneath a perfect sky.
The morning sun burned gold across the open field, throwing long shadows from the two warriors as they clashed.
Moro lunged first. He moved like lightning, closing the gap in a heartbeat, blade flashing in a silver arc. The clash rang through the clearing steel on steel, sparks scattering across the grass.
Sir William absorbed the blow without flinching, his massive frame shifting just enough to deflect the strike. His claymore met Moro's katana with the sound of thunder cracking against stone. The weight difference was immense; each swing of William's weapon felt as if it could split the ground in two.
But Moro didn't let up. He pressed forward, a blur of motion—cut, step, pivot, strike. His feet barely disturbed the dirt as he flowed around the knight, testing for any weakness in the armor.
William's swordsmanship, though slower, carried terrifying precision. He parried with perfect timing, every movement deliberate—centuries of discipline behind every swing. Moro's speed gave him the early edge, but William's reach and strength forced him to stay just out of range; one mistimed dodge would mean death.
Their blades met again, a burst of sparks lighting their faces. William drove forward with a heavy downward swing that made the earth shudder. Moro twisted aside, the blade cleaving through a tree trunk where his head had been.
William turned, calm even in the flurry.
"You are quick, Moro Ashin. But quickness fades. The weight of steel does not."
Moro exhaled through his nose, circling, sword poised.
"Then let's see whose lasts longer."
They clashed again—faster, harder—the knight's strikes slow but shattering, Moro's cuts light but relentless. Each step left scars in the ground, each impact a sound like hammer on anvil.
Then the rhythm broke.
Sir William feinted high, then drove his shoulder forward, the weight of his armor turning the motion into a battering ram. The impact sent Moro skidding backward, boots carving trenches through the earth. He caught himself just short of falling—but the knight was already upon him.
The claymore fell.
Moro twisted aside a heartbeat before the blade struck. The sword slammed into the ground where he'd been—an eruption of dirt and shattered earth exploding skyward. The impact left a crater a foot deep, cracks spider-webbing outward from the blow.
Birds startled from the nearby trees, scattering into the clear blue sky.
Moro rolled to his feet, dust streaking his face. The knight's sword still hummed faintly from the impact, a low metallic growl vibrating through the soil.
Sir William lifted the weapon with calm ease, sunlight glinting off the edge.
"Had you hesitated, boy," he said, voice even, "you'd be two halves of a legend."
Moro smirked, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.
"Gotta keep it interesting."
They began to circle again, boots crushing fresh grass underfoot. The morning wind tugged at their clothes, carrying the scent of steel and earth. The crater between them smoked faintly from friction—a silent warning of what waited if either man faltered.
They clashed once more, steel screaming against steel. Moro ducked beneath a wide swing, countered at the knight's ribs, but his blade glanced harmlessly off the armor. Sir William answered with a backhand strike that nearly took Moro's head off. The air itself seemed to vibrate from the power of their movements.
Dust rose around them in shimmering waves. Every impact echoed through the valley like cannon fire.
High above, on the ridgeline overlooking the field, five shadows crouched among the rocks. Their silhouettes blended perfectly with the terrain, faces hidden behind featureless masks. Not a sound escaped them—not a breath, not the faintest rustle of cloth.
"There he is," one whispered. "Our mark."
"And the knight?" another asked.
"A complication. Nothing more."
Through their lenses, the two combatants looked like gods made of steel and blood. Moro's speed—inhuman. Sir William's strength—monstrous. Every blow that missed still sent shivers through the ground and the tree tops where the Shinobi hid watching.
"Wait for it," their leader murmured. "Let them wear each other down. First hesitation, That's when we strike."
Back in the field, Moro and William locked blades once more. The sound carried all the way to the cliffs, sharp and clean under the brilliant morning sun.
Moro and Sir William faced one another across the scarred field, both breathing hard, both bloodied. The knight's armor was cracked along the side, and a thin trail of blood trickled from Moro's temple. Neither had the advantage anymore; they had become mirrors of endurance and will.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of wind moving through the grass.
Then William's eyes narrowed.
Something glinted in the sunlight—a faint flash from the ridge beyond. He recognized it instantly.
"Down!" he barked.
Moro barely ducked his head before a star-shaped blade hissed through the air. William swung his claymore with frightening speed, catching the projectile mid-flight. The impact rang like a bell; the weapon split in half, releasing a thin mist that hissed as it hit the ground, eating through the grass.
Poison.
From the treeline came the sound of movement soft, rhythmic, and organized. Shadows began to take shape among the branches, five of them, each stepping forward in perfect unison. Their armor was black as pitch, their faces hidden behind expressionless steel masks.
"So," Moro muttered, sword rising. "friends of yours?"
"Not mine," William said, his tone darkening.
The clearing fell silent again. Only the wind moved through the grass.
Then five shadows emerged from the treeline, silent and deliberate. They spread out in a crescent around Moro and Sir William, their formation tightening until the two warriors stood at the center of a perfect circle.
Each Shinobi's armor was black as volcanic glass, their movements inhumanly smooth. Faint blue lines pulsed across their masks and gauntlets like claws.
The leader stepped forward, his mask etched with a vertical scar across its faceplate. A faint distortion crackled through the modulator of his voice.
"We're here for Moro. Remember Ogawa wants him alive for some reason."
One of the others, crouched low with twin daggers at the ready, turned his head slightly.
"Affirmative. What of the knight?"
The leader's tone didn't change.
"The knight is irrelevant. He dies."
No other words were needed. The circle tightened.
William shifted, lowering his stance, the tip of his claymore brushing the grass.
"The Kurokage," he muttered, voice tight. "And working for Ogawa, no less."
Moro arched an eyebrow, sword half-raised.
"We can finish our little duel later," he said, his tone edged with dry sarcasm. "A more urgent matter has appeared."
They moved without another word, stepping back until their shoulders nearly touched—two warriors surrounded, each facing a different side of the tightening circle. The sunlight glinted off William's dented armor and off Moro's drawn blade.
"So be it," William said.
Across the field, the Shinobi leader raised his hand.
"Now!" he barked.
Five shadows lunged as one.