The sound came first.
Metal against stone.
Short. Dry. Too close.
The wall groaned under the impact — not as a structure, but as a surface forced to acknowledge movement upon it.
Éon was thrown back two steps before stabilizing his body.
He didn't fall.
His foot found the freshly opened fissure in the stone, and he used the unevenness as an anchor, twisting his torso in the same instant the blade was already rising again.
Lili did not retreat.
She advanced.
Not with speed — with certainty.
The space between them closed as if it had been dismissed from existence.
The katana came down in a low horizontal arc, aiming for the line of the ribs.
She rotated her body along the minimum axis required.
The edge passed a finger's breadth from the ceremonial garment, cutting the air where she had been, not where she was.
The return came immediately.
Her hand did not reach for a weapon.
It sought position.
Her forearm touched Éon's wrist, diverting the angle of the next strike, and her knee rose — short, precise — aiming for the abdomen.
Éon felt the impact before he processed the movement.
The air left his lungs in a controlled burst as he twisted his hips, absorbing part of the force and using the recoil itself to create space.
The blade came back from low to high.
She was already gone.
Not by jumping.
By stepping.
The wall behind Lili answered.
It did not break.
It yielded.
The stone beneath her feet adjusted its level as if it had been instructed to cooperate.
Éon realized too late.
She passed along the edge of his field of vision, low and far too close to track.
The second attack came from there.
A short, closed elbow, directed at the base of the jaw.
He raised his guard at the last instant.
The impact reverberated through his entire arm.
The bones sang.
The shadows behind him reacted by reflex — not as an attack, but as defensive instinct —compressing the space around Éon's body for half a second.
It was enough.
He turned within the pressure, the blade tracing an inverted arc, seeking the flank.
This time, she blocked.
Two fingers again.
But now there was tension.
The steel vibrated.
It didn't stop clean.
The edge rasped against something that wasn't brute force — it was applied decision.
Her light-brown eyes met his.
There was no surprise.
Only updated calculation.
She released the blade and turned her body, using the motion itself to throw Éon forward.
He rolled over the wet stone and rose in the same gesture, the katana already aligned.
Rain fell between them.
The sound of the fight had taken command.
And the wall, now, knew that this was not a conversation.
The wall continued to vibrate, as if it were still deciding whether what stood atop it was movement… or confrontation.
The soldiers below raised their gaze almost at the same time.
Some by instinct.
Others because the stone beneath their feet demanded attention.
One of the youngest swallowed hard.
"So… this is how deities fight?"
No one answered.
The wall groaned again. Short. Contained.
Rynne turned her face slowly.
The look she cast at the soldier was not harsh — it was exact.
"If you're worried about monsters," she said, "don't look up."
The wind changed.
Not strong yet.
But organized.
Rynne turned her eyes to the horizon.
"Look forward."
Dust began to rise in crooked lines, pulled toward a single point.
Loose banners snapped without command.
The air gained weight.
At the edge of the plain, something began to take shape.
First, the shadow.
Too large to belong to a man.
Too defined to be a cloud.
Then, the silhouette.
Long arms.
Steps that didn't hurry the ground — they summoned it.
Rynne brought her hand to her weapon.
"Because that one," she said, without raising her voice, "didn't come to fight above the wall."
The wind closed around the distant figure.
The name was not spoken.
It didn't need to be.
The Drakkouls kept advancing — black bodies in constant motion, weapons raised, jaws open — but the rhythm didn't match the sound.
Too many steps for so little noise. Too much movement for such little response from the field.
It was as if the advance continued… but the world had hesitated to follow it.
As if something had gathered the noise of the field and saved it for later.
Kaelir followed the distant silhouette.
"The advance didn't stop," he said, without tension. "It just lost the beat."
Skýra adjusted the shield on her arm.
"Then it's not a pause," she replied. "It's preparation."
She turned her face toward the wall, where the sound of the fight continued to tear at the stone.
"They're not waiting for orders," she continued. "They're waiting for permission."
Kaelir nodded once.
"And someone has already decided to grant it…"
The wind answered before any other sound had time to exist.
Not as a gust — as direction.
Across the entire field, there was too much movement for so little sound.
Iaso's eyes never left the distant silhouette.
"That…" he began, and stopped.
Lys stood motionless beside him, fist clenched.
Both stared at the same point where the wind organized itself around a form too large to be ignored.
Then Iaso looked away.
Neriah had risen again.
Not in haste.
With decision.
Water still ran down her garments, her hair clinging to her skin, but the field around her seemed… attentive.
Iaso swallowed.
"So we're not stopping, are we?"
Neriah took a deep breath before answering.
Not to buy time.
To align something inside herself.
"No," she said, simply.
She turned her face, looking first at Iaso, then at Lys.
Her eyes weren't seeking courage in them.
They were offering it.
"They kept coming," she finished. "So we will keep fighting."
The wind passed through the torn standards.
No thunder.
No empty promises.
"We will not fall today," Neriah said. "Not while there are still enemies to stop."
Lys nodded once.
Iaso tightened his fist.
The plain remained silent.
Ghatotkacha was approaching.
The wall reacted before the impact.
The stone beneath Éon's feet adjusted its level for a weight that was no longer there.
Lili's strike crossed the space where he should have been.
And found emptiness.
Éon did not retreat. Did not advance. The space was simply exchanged — no step, no impulse.
The blade appeared at the flank, low, precise, cutting from the inside out — a short arc too brief to be seen before it existed.
The wall groaned with delay.
Lili turned in the same instant.
Not to flee.
To enter.
The cut didn't push her away. It served only as incomplete data — and she advanced.
The Reversum still vibrated in the air when the first impact came without a blade.
Her palm struck Éon's chest, knocking his axis loose.
The knee followed immediately, without warning, without recoil — pure displacement of mass.
Éon switched again.
The world failed to follow him.
The wall tried — it adjusted the stone, corrected the level — but Lili was already moving before the correction finished.
She wasn't reacting to the switch. She occupied the space that came after it.
Short punch. Closed elbow. Constant pressure.
Each reappearance of Éon was received as invitation.
The blade rose to create distance.
She didn't allow it.
Lili's hand diverted his wrist, two fingers again — pulling the blade inward and breaking the axis of the strike.
The elbow came next.
Short. Rising.
The impact didn't land clean — it grazed the chin — but it was enough to throw Éon's head back and displace his base.
The body wouldn't have space to absorb the next.
That was when he felt the wall at his back.
Not the stone.
The decision.
He switched — short, almost instinctive — reappearing behind her, outside the axis of the blow, the blade already descending in a straight line, compressed into the minimum space.
Lili was already in motion.
The cut tore through the space where she had been an instant before.
She turned inside the line of the blade — not to flee, but to enter.
The counter came in the same flow.
Her punch landed short, closed, straight into Éon's abdomen, without recoil.
The impact was blunt.
Air expelled. Rhythm broken.
His body was thrown backward before the mind could reach the mistake.
The wall trembled.
Not from force.
From repetition.
It was as if the top could no longer decide where the fight was happening.
The Reversum created openings.
Lili annulled them with her own body.
No weapon. No pause. No allowing space to become neutral again.
Éon forced the world to follow him.
Not to escape.
To decide.
The world yielded with delay.
The wall tried to keep up — corrected the stone, adjusted the level, redistributed the weight—but, for the first time, the response came without conviction.
Éon appeared already inside the space.
Not in an arc.
Not as a test.
A short, rising strike, compressed into the minimum interval between two instants — aiming for the line of the neck.
The blade passed.
This time, it passed.
The edge cut close along Lili's face, tearing fabric, superficial skin, presence—a line too clean to be ignored.
The impact echoed through the wall as late confirmation.
Éon felt it.
Not as victory.
As fit.
The strike had been correct.
Precise.
Inevitable.
For an instant—just one—the world seemed to agree.
Then something… did not respond.
There was no blood.
There was no immediate reaction.
The blade left the space beside her face without resistance—too much resistance would have made sense. That didn't.
Lili brought her hand to the side of her neck.
Not to stop it.
To check.
The cut had removed only the top layer—skin, trace, appearance.
The rain touched the mark.
And hesitated.
The surface around the wound did not close.
Did not open.
It remained… undecided.
As if the world were still choosing which version of that form should exist.
The air around her lost density for half a second.
Enough for Éon to feel a cold that didn't come from the rain.
Something there didn't have the right depth.
Didn't have weight.
Didn't have an age compatible with the body it occupied.
Lili raised her eyes.
Met his.
For the first time since the confrontation began, there was no calculation in that exchange.
There was assessment.
Not his.
Hers.
The smile appeared slowly.
Not provocation.
Recognition.
"Interesting…" she murmured, more to herself than to him.
The wind around the wall lost direction.
The stone beneath Éon's feet adjusted its level too late.
The rain fell between them—not as scenery.
As interference.
And, for the first time since the confrontation began, the wall did not know how to anticipate the next strike.