The katana lowered slowly.
Not in surrender.
In control.
Rain slid down his face, unnoticed.
The cut was still there.
It didn't bleed.
It didn't close.
The body simply refused to acknowledge that it had been wounded.
The skin around it did not react as it should — it didn't swell, didn't throb, didn't recognize its own rupture.
It was as if the wound had not happened in that body.
"Who are you… really?" he asked.
The question carried no accusation. No fascination.
It carried need.
She remained still for a moment.
Not like someone about to reveal something. Like someone deciding whether it was still worth sustaining a form.
Then, with the same calm as someone removing an old glove, she brought her hand to the torn point.
And pulled.
The skin came away whole.
No blood.
No pain.
It gave way like a forgotten veil, unraveling in the rain before touching the ground.
What remained was not a revelation. It was a corrected presence.
The skin was too pale, too smooth — not alive, not dead. The eyes, black and deep, did not reflect light. They absorbed it.
The long, dark hair fell heavy over her shoulders, as if night had chosen a body.
The rain touched that skin… and lost its cadence.
She kept her gaze on Éon.
There was no triumph. No announcement.
Only acceptance.
The silence stretched, thick, as if the field were waiting for permission to continue existing.
Then she spoke.
"In some worlds, they gave me names too old to be repeated."
"In others, I was simply the first to say no."
She took a slow step.
Not to approach — to claim the space.
"There were times when I needed to be a warning."
"In others, a convenient mistake."
Thunder came from below.
Not from the sky.
"They also called me things that justify pyres and exiles," she continued, without emotion. "Child-devourer. Witch. Abomination."
She tilted her head slightly.
"Names change when history needs a monster."
The wind organized itself around the wall.
"Zeus. Odin. Thrones," she said at last. "Attempts."
A minimal pause.
"Recent attempts."
The weight of the statement reached the wall before the sound.
"You are still learning how to name that which observes."
Silence fell.
Not like relief. Like consequence.
Like suspension.
The wind passed between them, arranging itself around the wall as if it had received late instructions.
It did not blow.
It aligned.
Lili hesitated.
Not from doubt.
From perception.
Something ran along the wall — a thin, distant vibration that did not come from the stone beneath their feet, but from the air beyond it.
The smile that appeared was light.
Almost indulgent.
Lili exhaled slowly.
"It seems our time is over, Éon."
She inclined her head, like someone taking leave of an interrupted dance.
"I would love to continue this dance with you," she said, with an almost intimate softness. "But something has arisen that requires my attention."
The gesture came after.
Simple.
Her hand rose to chest height, two fingers extended — not in threat, not in visible command.
Like someone who had already decided the conversation was over.
The air answered before the stone.
Below the wall, something burst.
A short sound.
Wet.
Irregular.
Then another.
And another.
"Crack."
"Thump."
"Crack."
Éon heard it before he understood.
Screams rose without form, overlapping, broken — some too sharp, others cut off midway.
Something fell heavily against the ground, again and again.
The sound spread across the plain like rain in reverse.
Instinct overcame understanding.
He switched — instinct over thought.
Space gave way — short, precise — and Éon appeared behind Lili, the blade already in motion, descending in a direct line to a vital point, as if the strike could deny what his ears were capturing.
The katana passed through her body.
Without resistance.
Without reaction.
Lili did not turn.
The smile came before the voice.
"We will see each other again."
The voice came calm, close, as if she were still whole.
"But when that happens…" she continued, "… we will dance on a larger stage."
The body began to fail afterward.
Not like a wound.
Like a decision.
Her form lost contour, fragmenting into hundreds of dark points that opened in the air like wings.
Black butterflies.
Not made of shadow.
Made of absence.
They spread through the rain, rising, drifting away, dissolving into the wind that now seemed to know exactly where to go.
Éon remained still.
The blade lowered on its own.
Sound returned at full force.
Screams.
Retching.
Something being expelled onto the stone behind him.
He took a step to the edge of the wall.
Looked down.
Drakkoul bodies covered the plain.
No heads.
Human soldiers fell to their knees.
One vomited without managing to look away.
Another cried in silence, trembling hands pressed against his helmet.
Some simply stared, motionless, as if the world had moved on without them.
The rain kept falling.
And Éon understood that the battle had not been won.
It had been interrupted.
Kaelir was the first to lift his gaze to the top of the wall.
Éon was still there.
Motionless. Too small against the gray sky.The blade hanging at his side as if it had forgotten its weight.
Kaelir blinked.
And Éon was no longer there.
No sound.No trace. No visible disturbance in the rain.
Only absence.
Kaelir exhaled slowly.
"So that…" he said, his voice too low to be relief, "was the reach of our enemy's power."
Skýra did not answer immediately.
She was watching the plain.
The bodies. The kneeling men.Those who could not move. Those who still looked as if they expected something to make sense again.
"If that was it…" she said at last, "…I don't know whether we should be grateful… or afraid."
Before Kaelir could respond, Rynne stepped forward.
Her gaze was not on the bodies. Nor on the wall.
It was beyond.
"Save the admiration for later," she said, dry. "Now."
Both turned to her.
Rynne already had her hand on her weapon.
"Because someone is still standing."
Kaelir followed the direction of her gaze.
Amid the plain covered in headless bodies, a single figure remained upright.
Ghatotkacha.
The massive body, disproportionate to the others — a living mass of muscle covered in skin black as basalt soaked by rain.
The red eyes burned beneath the storm.
There was no fury in them.
Only permanence.
"Only him…" Skýra murmured.
Rynne did not blink.
"It's not chance."
Kaelir gripped his daggers.
Analysis came before reaction.
"So she didn't exterminate the field," he said. "She selected."
Skýra tightened her grip on the sword hilt.
"Or she left someone behind to remind the rest what happens when she decides to intervene."
The rain continued to fall.
And in that moment it became clear to everyone there that this had not been victory… nor mercy.
It had been a message.