The hall no longer maintained its form.
The floor was marked.
Cuts crossed the stone at impossible angles, some shallow, others deep enough to expose the layers beneath.
Cracks spread from points of impact, interrupted halfway through, as if the force had been contained… or diverted.
Broken columns held what remained of the ceiling.
Fragments still hung above.
None fell.
The dust did not settle.
The air did not move.
At the center—
the count remained.
Motionless.
His form still taken by what he had invoked, occupying the space effortlessly.
Incandescent veins beneath the skin pulsed at a low, constant rhythm.
There was no instability.
There was no excess.
Only control.
His eyes, carmine, fixed ahead.
A few meters away—
Éreon.
On his knees.
One hand braced against the ground.
The stone beneath his fingers was cracked, yielding by millimeters under restrained pressure.
Body inclined.
Breathing low.
Controlled… forcibly.
Thin cuts marked fabric and skin. Nothing deep enough to bring him down.
But enough to say:
he had not come out unscathed.
The silence between them was not empty.
It was measured.
Éreon lifted his face.
Slowly.
His eyes met his.
Unhurried.
Unwavering.
The hand on the ground pressed.
The base responded.
The body began to rise.
It was not impulse. It was decision.
When he spoke, the voice came low.
Steady.
Without apparent effort.
"Next time… I won't miss."
The silence did not break.
But something—
moved.
The shadows behind Éreon began to tremble.
Not as reflection. As response.
The distortion appeared first, slight, almost imperceptible.
Then irregular pulses ran through the ground, as if something within them pressed against the shape that contained them.
Éreon did not look back.
His breathing was already steady — short, precise… heavier than before.
Body upright, blade low.
"Mýga."
The whisper sank into the space.
The shadows tore themselves from the ground.
Wings came first, fragmented, incomplete, until they closed with the motion.
Bodies took shape as they advanced.
Crows, dozens of them, crossing the hall not by flight, but as if space yielded before them.
Éreon moved with them.
The crows closed angles.
Covering lines of response.
The count's gaze passed over the advance once.
Enough.
"Disperse."
The voice was low.
Even so—
the forms failed.
The bodies unraveled mid-advance, wings breaking before completing the motion, shadows collapsing into fragments that never reached the ground.
They vanished.
As if they had never been there.
Éreon was already inside.
The blade rose in a direct cut, short, precise, aiming for the center line.
The count reacted without retreating.
His hand moved to intercept, body turning the minimum needed to keep axis—
"Reversum."
The whisper cut the moment.
The point of contact disappeared.
The air collapsed.
Éreon was no longer in front.
He appeared behind.
The blade came down immediately, without adjustment, without correction.
The count turned fast, but not enough.
The cut passed. Opened.
The counter came in the same instant.
The elbow broke through the space backward, heavy, direct to where Éreon was—
But found empty.
The exchange had already resolved.
The impact followed anyway.
The blow sank into the space and drove down to the ground, fracturing the stone in a short line, cracks spreading under contained force.
To the left, Éreon was already emerging again.
No pause.
The blade came in a low arc, seeking the open side.
This time it went deeper.
Flesh gave.
The cut opened clean.
Éreon did not remain.
His foot was already pressing the ground in the next instant, body withdrawing in a single controlled motion, sliding out of the line before any direct response.
The distance reset without rupture, only repositioning.
The count did not retreat.
He remained where he was.
That was when Éreon's gaze dropped.
The cut was closing.
Flesh joined in incandescent lines, blood being pulled back as if it had never left the body.
There was no delay.
There was no process.
Only correction.
The silence held for a moment longer.
The count lifted his chin slightly, holding his gaze on him.
His breathing stayed steady, as if none of it required any effort at all.
"As you can see, no matter how much you cut… this is not how it ends."
The pause remained. The gaze, fixed.
"Continue."
Short. Cold.
Without emotion.
"The moment your body gives in…"
A light pause.
Controlled.
"…will be the last you have."
The count moved first.
There was no preparation.
The body advanced.
The ground gave under the step, cracking in a short line as distance ceased to exist.
Éreon switched.
The point to the left darkened—
The body appeared.
But the strike was already there.
The count's fist tore through the space at the exact point where he appeared, rising from below, direct, no arc, no adjustment.
Éreon reacted on reflex.
The katana dropped.
Intercepted.
The impact was immediate.
The arm absorbed the force, but the body did not hold.
The blow went through the defense.
The base broke.
The body was thrown back, dragging stone on impact before rolling once, twice, until regaining axis amid the fragments.
The count did not wait.
He was already inside again.
The second strike came down direct, heavy, aiming at the point where Éreon was still adjusting his base—
But found empty.
Éreon had already moved.
The body slid to the side, low, the foot scraping the ground as he avoided the impact by a minimal margin.
The count's fist hit the floor.
The stone gave.
Cracked.
Sank under contained force.
For an instant, the arm remained there.
Pressed against the broken ground.
Then he pulled.
Slow.
Controlled.
Fragments coming loose with it.
His eyes found Éreon again.
Unhurried.
With no break in his breathing.
"I said you would have to choose a point."
The voice came low.
Firm.
Effortless.
The gaze did not shift.
"And you always choose the same one."
A short pause.
His eyes narrowed a degree.
"The left side."
His chin tilted slightly.
"A blind spot… predictable."
His foot moved half a step forward.
The stone gave under the weight.
Éreon did not answer immediately.
His body remained low for a moment, breathing stabilizing into a shorter, more precise rhythm.
His foot adjusted millimeters on the ground, not to advance… to align.
The blade rose.
Not in guard.
In flow.
"Moon Dance… Crescent Moon."
The whisper carried no force.
But the body answered.
The advance was not explosive.
It was continuous.
The first step was already inside the distance.
The blade came with it.
An ascending cut, short, precise, aiming below the guard—
The count moved his arm to intercept.
But the strike did not end there.
Éreon's body was already turning.
The second cut was born from the same motion, horizontal, higher, closing the line before the response completed—
The count absorbed it.
The impact entered.
Shallow.
But did not break axis.
The counter came.
Short and direct — but met air.
Éreon had already changed levels.
Low.
The foot slid inside the count's base, the body turning with the hip, maintaining minimal contact as the blade rose again—
Another cut.
Faster.
Closer.
No pause.
No separation between one movement and the next.
The count responded.
His arms began to intercept.
Redirect.
Absorb.
But now—
there was no space between attacks.
Each defense came already pressed by the next strike.
The base still firm.
The breathing still steady.
But—
for the first time—
the body had to follow the rhythm.
And not just control it.
The pressure did not cease.
Éreon kept advancing, his body flowing without pause, each cut born from the previous as if there were no beginning or end to the movement.
The blade crossed in a short arc, shifted angle mid-path and sought to enter inside the line of defense.
The count moved his arm.
Little.
Enough.
The blade grazed.
Opened a thin cut.
But did not enter.
The second strike came immediately, faster, closer, trying to close the space before the response—
The count was no longer responding to the strike.
He was responding to the rhythm.
The body tilted millimeters.
The blade passed.
The hand rose in the same instant, touching Éreon's wrist and deflecting the line before the third cut could be born.
Even so—
it came.
Lower.
Faster.
But this time the count did not need to turn.
The base held.
The movement was minimal.
And the strike… no longer found the same space.
The sequence continued.
Crossing cuts.
Level changes.
Entry inside the guard.
But now—
each advance met something.
A touch.
A deflection.
A minimal delay.
Nothing stopped the attack completely.
But nothing entered clean anymore.
The rhythm was still high.
But it was no longer free.
One cut managed to pass.
Shallow.
Another came right after.
Deeper.
Flesh opened—
And closed.
Faster than before.
Almost immediate.
Éreon saw.
Not on the first.
Nor on the second.
But on the third movement interrupted before completing.
The read was no longer partial.
It was closing.
The next attack came out.
But this time, the body did not follow with the same fluidity.
There was adjustment.
Minimal.
Enough.
The count entered.
Not with the whole body.
Just the arm.
The hand touched Éreon's forearm mid-motion—
and stopped.
Not force.
Not impact.
But enough to break the flow.
The next strike was not born.
Silence.
Short.
Inside the exchange.
Éreon stepped back half a step.
Not from impulse.
By choice.
The distance reformed.
His body remained low.
His breathing… still controlled.
But already shorter.
His eyes remained on the count.
Observing.
Measuring.
The count did not advance.
He remained in the same point.
Posture loose.
The cuts… disappearing little by little.
Without urgency.
His gaze remained on Éreon.
Measuring.
Recognizing.
"Moon Dance…"
The voice came low, firm, unhurried.
"Four phases. Rhythm, rupture… and sacrifice."
A short pause.
His eyes narrowed a degree.
"This is the crescent."
Silence.
"The third time I've seen it."
His chin lifted slightly.
"First Diana."
"Then Nika."
His eyes fixed on him again.
"Now… you."
His hand moved.
Slow.
Controlled.
His nails lengthened with the motion itself.
Darkened.
Curved into short, dense, precise claws — not wild.
The presence did not change.
But the margin… shrank.
"It wasn't a variable I considered."
The voice carried no praise.
Only statement.
"The shadows… had their use."
A light pause.
His gaze did not shift.
"But the fact that you no longer resort to them reveals more than you imagine."
Silence.
Heavy.
"You're avoiding the cost."
His eyes dropped for an instant.
His own wounds.
Now closing.
More slowly.
Still correcting.
But not like before.
And returned.
"The Abyss… never grants without charging."
The air between them seemed denser.
"And when it charges—"
The pause came short and precise.
"—it doesn't accept negotiation."
Éreon did not respond.
His gaze remained on him for a moment longer.
Seeing.
Calculating.
The blade lowered a degree.
His body adjusted its base.
More solid.
Less mobile.
His breathing changed.
Deeper.
Slower.
"Moon Dance… Full Moon."
The advance did not come in sequence.
It came in a single step.
Heavy.
Direct.
The ground gave under the impact.
Distance ceased—
The blade descended.
No wide arc, no variation — a single cut.
Vertical.
Committed.
No return.
Forcing a real answer.
The count answered at the exact timing.
His hand rose—
The claws met the blade.
Held.
Did not deflect.
Contained.
The impact ran through the arm.
Down to the base.
The stone under his feet gave in a dry crack, splitting under the concentrated weight.
The axis did not break.
But it was forced to respond.
At the same instant—
the other hand was already coming.
Short.
Inside the line.
The claws cut the air in a direct path, seeking the space between attack and recovery—
Éreon did not retreat.
His body turned on its own axis.
The blade yielded under the pressure—
and returned.
The cut changed direction mid-motion, sliding along the containment, seeking the open flank at the instant the counterattack passed.
The claws grazed the fabric.
Opened it.
The cut went in.
Deeper than before.
Flesh gave.
Éreon's body followed—
but the step no longer came at the same timing.
The count adjusted his base.
A short step. Necessary.
For the first time… not optional.
He intercepted the second strike before it was fully born—
but the impact had already formed.
Partial.
Even so—
enough to shift the axis another degree.
The distance did not open.
Neither of them retreated.
Their bodies remained close.
Inside.
Where error does not exist without consequence.
Breathing no longer came at the same rhythm.
The fight had changed.
And, for the first time—
maintaining control required choice.
And choice… always demands a price.