Aham past

Inside the castle hallway

The castle hallway was alive with chaos, the sound of clashing steel reverberating off the cold stone walls. Mephistopheles and Aham circled each other, their breaths heavy, their movements deliberate. The dim torchlight cast flickering shadows, making their forms seem larger and more monstrous. The air between them was thick with sweat, blood, and the faint, acrid tang of burnt stone from previous battles.

Aham’s twin katanas gleamed, their edges keen, as he shifted his stance. His boots scuffed against the uneven floor, sending a whisper of dust into the stifling air. Mephistopheles, equally battered but unyielding, met Aham’s gaze with an intensity that spoke of resolve and fury. Every swing of their blades sent a cascade of sparks flying, the sharp tang of metal biting into metal filling the space like a warning bell.

Back and forth they went, neither gaining a definitive edge. Aham's muscles screamed with exertion, his fingers tightening around the hilts of his blades until his knuckles whitened. He was searching for an opening, a moment to end this fight before it ended him. Each strike carried the weight of his desperation, but Mephistopheles deflected them all with a poise that only deepened Aham’s frustration.

Suddenly, Aham retreated, his chest heaving as he took slow, measured steps backward. His dark eyes glinted with determination as he raised both katanas before him, their polished surfaces reflecting the wavering flames of the torches. His voice cut through the clamour like a knife.

“You’ve reached the last line of defence,” he said, his tone low and dangerous. “There’s no turning back now.”

Blue light erupted from the katanas, pulsating with an almost living intensity. The hallway was bathed in an eerie, otherworldly glow. The light seemed to hum, a resonant thrum that vibrated in Aham’s bones and made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

With a sudden roar, Aham charged. His katanas carved through the air with deadly precision, their glow slicing through the shadows. Mephistopheles sidestepped his movements a dance of calculated precision, and parried the strike. The clash rang out like a thunderclap, reverberating through the corridor.

Aham feinted, then surged forward again, this time closing the distance between them. His blades struck Mephistopheles’s back in a devastating downward arc. The swords tore through flesh and muscle, the wet, visceral sound of tissue being rended filling the space. A sharp crackle accompanied the strike as the glowing energy from the katanas seared into Mephistopheles’s body. Blood, hot and coppery, spattered onto the floor in uneven droplets.

Mephistopheles staggered forward, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Aham withdrew his blades, the motion swift and cruel, and plunged them into the ground with such force that the stone beneath them fractured. Dust and rubble erupted, forming a small crater.

But Mephistopheles didn’t fall. He stood, barely, his knees trembling as he clutched his wounded side. His breaths were shallow, wheezing, yet his eyes burned with unrelenting defiance.

“You’re at your limit,” Aham taunted, his voice cold and resolute. “This is the end.”

Aham raised one katana, its blade wreathed in pulsating blue light. He moved deliberately, savouring the moment of triumph. But as the blade descended toward Mephistopheles’s neck, the unexpected happened.

Mephistopheles’s eyes snapped open, blazing like twin coals. With a guttural snarl, he drove his fist into Aham’s abdomen. The impact was ferocious, knocking the wind from Aham’s lungs and hurling him backward. The world spun as Aham hit the ground, his body skidding across the cold stone floor.

For a moment, silence hung between them, broken only by the distant sound of crumbling debris. Aham pushed himself onto his hands and knees, coughing, the taste of iron sharp on his tongue. His gaze darted around, expecting Mephistopheles to tower over him, ready to deliver the final blow.

But Mephistopheles was on the ground, clutching his side, blood seeping through his fingers. His face was pale, his breathing shallow, yet there was an eerie calm in his expression.

Aham rose slowly, every muscle in his body protesting. He tightened his grip on his katanas and took a step forward. “Let’s finish this,” he said, his voice steady despite the tremor of exhaustion that ran through him.

Mephistopheles reached for the hilt of his Bloodshed weapon, the blade gleaming like a crimson shard of vengeance. He swung toward Aham with surprising speed, the force of the strike sending sparks cascading like a fleeting firework display. The two warriors clashed again, their weapons a whirlwind of fury and desperation.

Their movements grew slower, more laboured until they were both on the brink of collapse. Aham swung his blade one final time, aiming for Mephistopheles’s neck, but his strike was deflected with ease. Mephistopheles countered, and Aham’s wrist buckled under the impact.

As the battle drew to its final moments, Aham’s foot caught on a piece of rubble. He stumbled, falling hard onto the ground. Above him, Mephistopheles loomed, his blade poised to strike. Aham’s heart raced as he stared up at his opponent, the realization of his mortality crashing down on him like a wave.

Aham’s breath caught in his throat. Time stretched, and slowed, as the sword began its descent. His wide eyes reflected the blade’s sharp edge, the finality of its path etched in the trembling pupils of a man who knew his end had come. His mind raced, faster than his failing body could follow. Was this it? Was this all he had lived for? The fleeting years of loyalty, of duty, of blood spilled in service to causes he barely understood—were they enough? Had he done enough?

But then, like a crack of sunlight breaking through a storm-laden sky, a memory surged forward, unbidden and vivid.

It was a summer afternoon in Aizuwakamatsu, the sun’s golden rays cascading over the rooftops like a painter’s gentle brushstrokes. Aham had walked the narrow, winding streets with his fellow samurai, the clang of their armour and swords a melody of disciplined strength. The air smelled of sizzling street food and blooming flowers, mingling with the faint saltiness of the distant sea. But the usual tranquillity was shattered by cries—raw, anguished, and resonant with despair.

Curious and cautious, Aham approached the source. A crowd had gathered, their faces a mosaic of grief and disbelief. Women clutched their children; men stood frozen, their gazes fixed on a digital billboard perched atop a corner building. The screen flickered, showing the pale-faced news anchor, Finnbarr Shirō. His voice trembled with restrained emotion as he delivered the message that sent ripples through the assembly.

“The Ultimate Bloodshed User… has been murdered. The perpetrator: Balisarda Sumernor.”

Gasps erupted, a wave of sorrow and shock. Aham’s chest tightened as the weight of the words pressed down on him. He pushed through the crowd, his hands trembling as he reached an elderly man standing near the front.

“What happened?” Aham’s voice cracked, barely louder than a whisper.

The old man turned, tears streaking his weathered face. “He was stabbed in the back. By one he trusted most. Balisarda Sumernor… betrayed him.”

The words struck Aham like a physical blow. Betrayal. The concept churned in his stomach, acidic and vile. How could someone… no, why would someone do this? His eyes returned to the screen, which now displayed a still image of Finnbarr Shirō, his expression a mask of professional stoicism hiding the same emotions that gripped the crowd.

“Who is Balisarda Sumernor?” The question slipped from Aham’s lips, though no one answered. The name reverberated in his mind like an unrelenting drumbeat, a riddle demanding to be solved.

The rhythmic clatter of hooves against the worn dirt road was the only sound accompanying Aham as he stepped into the quiet town of Aizuwakamatsu. The air carried the scent of rain-soaked earth, mingled with the faint aroma of grilled fish from a distant vendor’s stall. The streets were lined with wooden buildings, their shōji screens glowing softly with lantern light, casting long shadows against the cobbled pathways.

Just as he adjusted the sword at his hip, a voice, light and curious, interrupted his thoughts. “Excuse me, sir. Are you new in town?”

Aham turned, his hand brushing the hilt of his katana out of habit. Before him stood a boy, no older than sixteen, with tousled blond hair and striking green eyes that gleamed with intelligence. He was clad in a black long-sleeved shirt and dark jeans, modern in contrast to the town’s traditional setting.

Aham allowed himself a small smile. “Indeed. This is my first time here. I belong to the Juichimen group. A small number of us have been stationed in Aizuwakamatsu to help maintain peace.” His voice was calm, each word deliberate, the weight of responsibility evident in his tone.

The boy’s eyes brightened with interest. “That’s great to hear! I’ve only ever read about the Juichimen group, but seeing one of its members in person is something else.” He hesitated before continuing, as though carefully choosing his words. “You must be tired from your journey. Why don’t you come inside and rest for a while? We can talk more once you’re comfortable.”

Aham studied the boy for a moment before nodding. “That would be appreciated.”

The boy led him into a modest yet well-kept building. The scent of aged wood and freshly brewed tea filled the air, a comforting contrast to the cold dampness outside. The room they entered was simple, with tatami mats covering the floor and a single futon neatly laid out in the corner. A small lantern flickered softly, casting dancing shadows against the walls.

They both sat down, the floor creaking slightly under their weight. The boy extended a hand. “I’m Tojirou Fujisaki.”

Aham took his hand firmly. “Aham Azurin.”

Tojirou leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “I study at the Dainagon Academy of Justice. I’m in my third year.”

Aham arched an eyebrow. “A prestigious school. And you aspire to be?”

“A lawyer,” Tojirou said with a hint of pride. “I want to help protect our country.”

Aham nodded, his respect for the boy growing. “That’s a noble goal.”

Silence settled between them for a moment before Aham rose and walked to the window. He pushed the shōji open, letting the cool evening breeze caress his face. The town stretched before him, bathed in the silver glow of the moon. He exhaled softly, allowing himself a rare moment of peace before turning back to Tojirou.

“I suppose I should tell you more about myself.” He returned to his seat. “My father is the head of the Juichimen group. I joined when I was twelve.”

Tojirou tilted his head. “That’s young.”

Aham chuckled. “It was necessary.”

Tojirou grinned. “Alright, since you shared something about yourself, I suppose I should return the favour.” He leaned forward slightly. “I grew up in the countryside. Quiet kid, spent most of my time playing with animals. That changed when my father decided I needed to make something of myself. At seven, he sent me to the academy.”

Aham studied him closely. “That must have been difficult.”

Tojirou shrugged. “At first. But I had no choice but to adapt. I studied harder than anyone else, and spent years proving myself. By twelve, I passed the entrance exams and became the youngest to enrol in the Dainagon Academy.”

Aham smirked. “A prodigy, then.”

Tojirou laughed, though there was a note of bitterness beneath it. “That’s what they called me. It didn’t leave much room for anything else.”

Aham understood the sentiment all too well. Duty had a way of consuming one’s youth, leaving behind only expectations and discipline.

“But now, I’m free,” Tojirou continued a glimmer of something unguarded in his voice. “No more titles. No more obligations. I can finally do what I want.”

Aham nodded, a flicker of admiration in his gaze. “Freedom is a rare thing.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Tojirou shifted the conversation. “So, where’s your hometown?”

Aham hesitated. A shadow crossed his expression before he finally said, “I don’t have one.”

Tojirou blinked. “You don’t have a home?”

Aham exhaled, his fingers unconsciously tightening around his knee. “Not anymore. I left my village when I was twelve and moved to the capital.”

“Why?” Tojirou’s voice was softer now as if sensing the weight of the answer before it came.

Aham let out a quiet, humourless laugh. “Because I had no village to return to.” He glanced at Tojirou, his gaze sharp, filled with ghosts of the past. “Bandits burned it to the ground.”

Tojirou sucked in a breath. “I... I’m sorry.”

Aham shook his head. “Ever since that day, I swore that no one else would suffer the way my people did. I dedicated my life to justice—to ensuring that murderers and thieves never go unpunished.” His voice was steady, but beneath it, something simmered—rage, grief, resolve, all woven into a single unbreakable thread.

Tojirou sat quietly for a long time before he finally spoke. “That’s not just justice. That’s something greater. You’re making sure no one else loses what you did.”

Aham gave a slow nod. “Perhaps.”

They remained there, two young men bound by duty, by loss, and by the relentless pursuit of something greater than themselves. In the quiet of that small room, under the glow of a flickering lantern, an unspoken understanding passed between them.

And for the first time in a long while, Aham did not feel alone.

Four Years Later

"Do you know anything about Balisarda Sumernor?" he asked, his voice steady despite the storm of thoughts whirling through his mind.

Fujisaki, who had been pacing anxiously in the room, paused, looking over his shoulder with a furrowed brow. His eyes, dark and full of concern, reflected the weight of his words as he spoke. "No. All I know is that he's an evil man, a ghost in the shadows who uses his power to cause chaos. People say he's ruthless. A killer. And not just any killer—he's taken down politicians, and military leaders. He hunts those with influence, those who pose a threat to him."

Aham’s gaze never wavered. He could see the dread in Fujisaki’s eyes, and the feeling settled in his own chest like a stone. "Yes," Aham murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "That's what I've heard, too."

Fujisaki continued to fidget, his hands gripping the edge of a nearby table. "It’s... frightening. The stories they tell. They say he can summon any sword, and any weapon, and wield them with terrifying precision. His strength is legendary. No one’s ever stood up to him and lived to tell the tale."

Aham’s stomach clenched. He could feel it—a slow, creeping fear, like the coldest winter winds biting at his soul. As Fujisaki spoke, Aham's ears rang with the weight of the words, but before he could respond, his phone buzzed violently in his palm. The ringtone, harsh and insistent, cut through the silence.

He snatched it up, his breath caught in his throat as he pressed the device to his ear. "Hello?"

"Aham," came the voice, clipped and urgent. "This is Rina, one of the operators from the Juichimen group. I have a message for you."

Aham's mind raced. The Juichimen group—what is happening now? His pulse quickened. "Okay. Who’s this?" he demanded, his voice tight, laced with suspicion.

"It's Rina," the voice replied again, each word seeming to carry a weight of dread. "I'm sorry to inform you, but... Balisarda Sumernor has been spotted on the outskirts of Tsubetsu City. He’s heading toward the city right now. You need to hurry."

Aham’s heart skipped a beat. The blood in his veins turned to ice. "I understand," he said grimly, before hanging up the phone. He turned to Fujisaki, his face hardening with resolve. "Balisarda Sumernor might be coming here. I’ll contact my leader and see what we can do."

Fujisaki’s face paled, his eyes wide with terror. "What should I do?" he asked, his voice trembling.

Aham placed a hand on his shoulder, his grip firm but reassuring. "Don’t worry," he said with a forced smile, though the weight of the situation pressed on him. "Just lock the door, stay hidden. Don’t come out until I tell you it’s safe."

With that, Aham bolted to his room, quickly donning his armour. The metallic clang of his boots echoed through the house, his mind racing with thoughts of what was to come. As he ran out of the house, his fingers moved swiftly, dialling the head of the Juichimen group on his cell phone.

"Please pick up," Aham muttered under his breath, the tension in his voice palpable.

The line clicked, and an unfamiliar voice answered, one that Aham had never heard before. "I’m sorry, but I can’t put you through."

Aham’s heart skipped. "Why?" he demanded, a sense of foreboding creeping into his voice.

The voice on the other end was calm, almost too calm. "Because your leader is dead," it said coldly. "Along with everyone else. Including the other members of the Juichimen group."

Aham’s blood ran cold, his knees buckling for a moment as the words struck him like a blow. His chest tightened, and he could feel his throat closing up. "What are you saying?" he managed to choke out, his voice trembling with disbelief.

The voice responded with chilling nonchalance. "I killed them all. They refused to listen to reason. They wouldn’t join me. So I made an example of them."

The world tilted around Aham. His grip on the phone tightened, knuckles white. "You killed them?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

A deep, mocking laugh came through the phone. "Yes. And now you’re next."

Aham’s breath caught. "Who are you?"

The response was cold and confident, a name that sent a wave of ice through Aham’s veins. "I am Balisarda Sumernor. I am one of the two most powerful men in the world."

Aham’s mind reeled. His thoughts spiralled, caught between disbelief and the terrifying clarity of the situation.

Balisarda continued, his voice dripping with an unsettling calm. "I am building something new, Aham. A kingdom. A world without war, without crime. A world of peace and harmony. Doesn’t that sound beautiful?"

Aham stood frozen, his skin prickling with the weight of Balisarda’s words. He could almost feel the man's gaze on him, like a shadow creeping up behind him. "This is madness," Aham finally found his voice. "You are insane. This ends now. I will stop you."

Balisarda’s laugh echoed through the line, harsh and mocking. "Oh, you think so?" He paused as if savouring the moment. "Because I’ve already killed the Ultimate Bloodshed user. And the Juichimen group... they thought they were invincible. They thought they could defeat me. But they were wrong."

Aham's breath hitched. "The Ultimate Bloodshed user?" His heart pounded in his chest as the weight of Balisarda’s words settled on him like a heavy cloak.

Balisarda chuckled, the sound dark and cruel. "Yes. The Juichimen group, those fools. They thought they could challenge me. But now, they’re all dead. And I will rise to power, unchallenged."

Aham felt a wave of rage boil up inside him. "What do you want from me?"

The response was chilling in its calmness. "Nothing for now. But soon enough, you will understand. You will have no choice but to join me."

Aham’s stomach twisted. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, but he refused to give in. "You killed my friends. You killed them all. I will never join you."

Balisarda’s voice was a low growl. "We’ll see. You may be strong, but you’re nothing compared to me. You could have power, too, Aham. All you have to do is swear loyalty to me. You could help build my empire. Imagine the strength we’d have, together."

Aham’s voice rose, filled with fury. "I will never join you! I’ll never bow to someone like you!"

There was a pause on the line, before Balisarda spoke again, his tone almost playful. "Funny. You think you have a choice. But let me tell you something, Aham. The Juichimen group... They had a chance to join me. They refused, so I killed them. But you? You might be different."

Aham’s thoughts swirled, a storm of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. But there was no turning back now. He had to stand firm. "I will never betray my honour. I will never join you."

Balisarda laughed again, and this time, Aham could feel it in his bones. "We’ll see. Because I’m giving you a choice now. You can join me, or I’ll destroy everything you love. Including yourself."

Aham closed his eyes, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and anger. Then, Balisarda's voice broke through once more. "Join me, or everyone dies. It’s your choice."

Aham took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. "I... I’ll join you." The words tasted like ash in his mouth, but he had no choice. His body felt like it had been hollowed out, the very essence of who he was slipping away.

The call ended, and Aham’s knees buckled. He fell to the ground, his chest heaving with grief. The loss was suffocating. His identity. His purpose. Everything had been stolen from him. All for the whims of a maniac.

A sound behind him caught his attention—a low rumble, like the shifting of earth. He turned, and in that moment, a shadow loomed over him. Balisarda Sumernor stood before him, his presence like a storm. The air felt thick with the weight of impending doom.

Balisarda’s voice was cold, his eyes narrowed as he surveyed Aham. "Your words alone are not proof of your loyalty," he said, his gaze flickering toward Fujisaki's house. In the blink of an eye, Balisarda summoned a sword—a sleek, deadly blade that gleamed in the dim light.

Before Aham could react, Balisarda swung the sword. A blast of energy—a twisted, brownish-green curve—shot toward Fujisaki’s house. The explosion was deafening, and when the dust settled, nothing remained but a pile of ash. Fujisaki stood frozen, confusion and terror etched on his face.

Balisarda turned his attention back to Aham, his smile cold and unforgiving. "Kill Fujisaki as proof of your loyalty to me," he said, his voice cutting through the silence. "Or I’ll kill everyone here. Including you."

Aham’s heart pounded in his chest, the taste of betrayal sharp in his mouth. The world seemed to close in around him, leaving him trapped in the suffocating grip of his new reality.

Aham’s mind swirled with chaos as he slowly rose from his knees, the weight of his decision crashing down on him like a thousand boulders. The ground beneath his feet felt like quicksand, pulling him into a suffocating darkness. Every instinct within him screamed to resist, to fight back against Balisarda Sumernor’s command, but his body felt like stone. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out all rational thought as his heart thudded against his chest in a painful, unrelenting rhythm.

The air around him felt thick and heavy, saturated with the acrid stench of burning fear. He could smell it—his own terror, mingling with the lingering scent of sulphur and destruction. Balisarda’s presence loomed like a dark cloud overhead, his shadow casting a chilling pall over Aham’s every movement.

He could hear the low growl of Balisarda’s voice cutting through the silence, its demand sharp and unforgiving. “Kill Fujisaki as proof of your loyalty to me, or I shall kill everyone here—including you.”

Aham’s throat tightened, his breath ragged. His vision blurred, but the image of Fujisaki, standing in the wreckage of his home—confused, wide-eyed, unaware of the doom approaching—flashed vividly before him. The boy, who had trusted him, relied on him. The boy who had been caught in this mess because of Aham’s decisions. Aham’s heart twisted into a painful knot as he looked at Fujisaki, his mouth dry, his fingers numb against the hilt of his sword.

The sword in his hand felt foreign—heavy, cold like it was never meant to be in his grip. His fingers clenched around it, but the sword felt like a weight pulling him under. His legs trembled, and the world seemed to tilt, as though the very ground was shifting beneath him. He couldn’t breathe. He could barely see, his gaze fixed on Fujisaki, who was still standing in stunned disbelief.

Aham’s mind raced, his thoughts clashing like thunder in a storm. No... no, I can’t... I won’t... But every word Balisarda spoke seemed to echo in his ears, urging him forward. He will kill everyone... including you.

His vision refocused, and for a moment, he found himself looking at Fujisaki’s face—no longer the boy he had tried to protect, but a target. Aham’s hand twitches, as if the sword was moving on its own accord, urging him to strike, to carry out the impossible task that had been forced upon him.

Fujisaki’s voice trembled from behind the shroud of confusion. “Aham... what... what are you doing?” His voice cracked, and Aham could hear the tremor in it—a child’s fear, laced with disbelief. “No... don’t—don’t listen to him!”

The words stabbed into Aham’s chest like blades of ice. But still, he couldn’t stop. His body moved before his mind could catch up, a cruel puppet to the strings Balisarda had pulled tight.

With a strangled gasp, Aham lunged forward. His sword sliced through the air with a sharp, merciless sound. The world seemed to slow down as the tip of the blade came closer, and Aham’s heart felt as though it were being torn in two.

Fujisaki’s eyes widened, his face morphing into a mask of horror and shock as the blade pierced his chest. Aham’s arm jerked with the force of the strike, his skin cold with sweat, the weight of his betrayal settling deep into his bones. Blood sprayed—hot and red—staining the ground beneath them, splattering across Aham’s hands, his face, and his armour. The metallic scent of it filled the air, thick and cloying, and he could feel it burning his skin as it soaked into his clothes.

Fujisaki staggered back, his mouth opening as if to scream, but the sound that came out was a strangled gurgle. His eyes locked with Aham’s—hurt, confused, and full of accusation. The boy’s lips trembled, but no words escaped. The life in his eyes dimmed, flickering as if trying to cling to the last remnants of hope. His body buckled, crumpling to the ground in a heap of broken flesh, his blood pooling around him like a dark, viscous sea.

Aham stood there, frozen, his breath coming in shallow, ragged gasps. The world around him seemed to collapse in on itself, the sounds of the wind, the crackling of flames, and Balisarda’s laugh drowning in the blood rush of his own heartbeat.

Aham’s sword clattered to the ground, slipping from his trembling fingers as he sank to his knees beside Fujisaki’s lifeless body. He stared at the boy’s face, now pale, drained of life and colour, the expression of fear replaced with an emptiness that seemed to pierce Aham’s soul. His chest heaved, each breath a painful struggle as a pang of burning, unbearable guilt suffocated him.

Balisarda’s voice pierced through the fog of Aham’s mind. “Well done. You’ve proven your loyalty.” The words were thick with mockery, but there was no warmth, no satisfaction. Just the cold, detached tone of a predator inspecting its prey.

But Aham wasn’t listening anymore. He didn’t hear Balisarda’s laughter or his words. His vision blurred again, and this time it wasn’t just from the blood, but from the raw, unrelenting grief that poured from his heart like an open wound.

The world had collapsed around him. The weight of what he had done crushed him entirely.

Aham squeezed himself back into attending to his tasks, the ghosts in the corners of his mind of the way he ended up serving under Balisarda Sumernor his mind spinning with what he had done, that of the day he would pledge his loyalty to Balisarda Sumernor. The faint scent of stone dust and the sharp tang of burning oil from the sconces lining the castle hallway grounded him in the present. There was no time for reminiscence now—not with Mephistopheles bearing down on him, the black blade of Bloodshed glinting ominously in the flickering light.

The resonance of Mephistopheles' boots against the smooth stone floor told in the vast hall, his tread purposeful. Aham's breath caught when he saw the blade lift high. The air itself felt charged, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end as the weapon descended toward him with deadly intent.

Adrenaline surged through Aham, and a sudden, intense burst of blue light flared around his body like a protective aura, radiating heat that made the sweat on his brow sizzle. With a guttural shout, he crossed his twin katanas in a desperate attempt to parry the blow. The sound was deafening —the metallic scream that went through the corridor. Electric sparks flew from impact, scorching his exposed skin, and flaring his nostrils with the odour of singed metal.

Though Aham’s strength held, the force of the strike sent a jolt through his arms, nearly driving him to his knees. His swords trembled under the immense pressure, and he could feel the vibrations crawling through his bones. A sickening sound of metal scraping against metal reached his ears as one of his blades took a glancing blow, the edge now marred with a jagged scratch from Bloodshed's ruthless touch. He gritted his teeth, tasting copper as he bit the inside of his cheek, the metallic tang mingling with his laboured breaths.

With a final burst of effort, he twisted his blades, redirecting Mephistopheles’ attack just enough to spare his life. The killing edge of Bloodshed swished over his side, almost making contact with the side of his torso where the displaced air choked him, robbing him, a small bead of sweat, of the moisture that breathed against the amour fibres.

Aham barely had time to register his escape before he pivoted on his heel, the motion smooth and instinctual. With a feral sound, he lunged, cutting towards his opponent with a katana, its blade whipping through the air in a clean arc. The steel found its mark, biting into the side of Mephistopheles’ helmet. A thin spit of blood erupted from Mephistopheles’ mouth, warm droplets splattering Aham’s face and the stone floor beneath them.

Mephistopheles staggered, his breath leaving him in a choked gasp as he crumpled. The sound of his tumble was heavy and absolute, like the sound of an enormous door closing. Yet even as he lay there, Aham couldn’t afford to relax. The obsidian-like sword, Bloodshed, was a sword that held a legacy of being able to cut through anything.

Aham stood over him, his chest heaving and his grip on his katanas tight enough to turn his knuckles white. The faint glow of his protective light dimmed, the flickering flames of the sconces now the only illumination source. He could even taste the iron of Mephistopheles' blood, mixing with the old, musty smell of the castle, and his chest pulsed like a war drum.

For a fleeting moment, the corridor was still, except for the low whirr of Bloodshed and Aham’s stuttering gasps. He couldn’t let his guard down—not yet. Mephistopheles was not someone who could be easily defeated, Aham was certain this battle was far from finished.