Ophelia finally joined Kenzo. She moved naturally to his side without a word or even a glance. None was needed. Their positioning came instinctively, almost mechanically, as though their bodies already knew exactly where they belonged in relation to one another. There was no uncertainty, no hesitation, not even that brief instant fighters usually needed to adjust. She was there, and that was enough.
Kenzo felt the difference immediately. The pressure shifted. Until now, the fight had rested almost entirely on him—on his ability to anticipate, to remain standing despite the exhaustion, to compensate for his limits with the clarity [Serpent] gave him. The moment Ophelia took her place beside him, that burden was divided. The weight had not disappeared, but it was no longer crushing a single point.
Sir James stood before them. He was upright, but there was nothing relaxed about him anymore. The webbed floor beneath their feet still bore the scars of the previous clashes, torn in places, blackened by impacts, and stained with dried blood. Every step produced a dull vibration, as though the chamber itself still remembered everything that had happened within it. The air was heavy with heat, dust, and that almost tangible tension that came before a fight from which no one could afford to retreat.
Ophelia drew a deep breath. Her breathing was still irregular, sometimes too fast, sometimes too slow, as though her body could no longer settle into a stable rhythm. Heat continued to burn beneath her skin, constant and oppressive, a permanent reminder of the state she was in. She had not recovered. Not completely. Her body had endured far more than it should have.
But she was here.
And she was still standing.
The fight resumed immediately.
Kenzo attacked first. His weapon swept through a wide, precise arc, his body following the motion despite the exhaustion dragging at him. Sir James was forced back one step, then another, raising his arms to block. Ophelia moved at the same instant, her daggers slipping into the openings Kenzo created almost as soon as they appeared. Their attacks flowed together without pause or hesitation. Sir James blocked, dodged, and retreated again.
He no longer had the luxury of calmly observing them. No time to play. Every second demanded an immediate response, every movement had to be precise or one of their attacks would break through.
Kenzo quickly realized something was wrong.
He was drawing far too heavily on [Serpent].
The sensation was unmistakable—the familiar pressure behind his temples, the constant strain that made it feel as though his mind were being stretched to its limit. Every prediction, every minute adjustment demanded more effort. Reading a movement before it fully began, correcting his own trajectory, interpreting an intention before it became an attack—all of it was growing more expensive by the second. His movements remained precise, but the cost was becoming impossible to ignore. This exhaustion did not come from his muscles. It was deeper and far more insidious, a mental fatigue accumulating layer by layer.
Kenzo clenched his teeth.
He had no choice.
Ophelia was doing something similar in her own way, and he noticed almost immediately. She was deliberately allowing certain attacks through. Weak strikes. Impacts she could easily have avoided if she wanted to. Instead, she took them intentionally, carefully judging the force, the angle, and where they would land.
Just enough to trigger her power.
With each minor wound, the heat surrounding her rose slightly. Not explosively, not all at once, but enough to strengthen her movements, sharpen her strikes, and make her faster and more dangerous. Her daggers followed that rhythm, carving increasingly precise paths through the air.
But Kenzo saw the cost as well.
Her breathing was growing heavier, more broken. At times, she seemed to gasp for air as though her lungs could no longer keep up with what she demanded from her body. The heat radiating from her had become unstable, pulsing in irregular waves—sometimes surging too strongly, sometimes weakening without warning. Her movements were still precise, but a new tension had appeared in her shoulders and posture, a subtle stiffness that would have been easy to miss.
She was forcing it.
Kenzo understood that both of them were walking along a dangerous edge, each in their own way.
And yet something else caught his attention.
Their synchronization.
It was almost perfect.
They did not speak. They did not look at one another. There were no signals, no agreed movements, no whispered commands. Yet everything they did fit together with unsettling fluidity. Whenever Kenzo attacked from the front, Ophelia circled without slowing. Whenever she struck low, he immediately covered the upper angle. When one of them retreated half a step, the other advanced to fill the opening.
They anticipated each other without thinking.
Kenzo was fully aware of it. He knew [Serpent] played a major part, allowing him to read intentions, anticipate trajectories before they fully formed, and perceive the rhythm of battle as a continuous pulse.
But it was not only [Serpent].
He had worked for this.
Kenzo knew some of Ophelia's movements. He had watched them through countless fights, remembered them, absorbed them almost unconsciously. The sword training she had given him still mattered even though he now wielded a different weapon. The fundamentals remained the same: footing, angles, distance, timing.
Even though the weapon in his hands was not truly a spear, much of what he had learned still applied. His body adapted, reshaping old instincts around something new.
Sir James retreated again.
His smile was gone.
He was no longer enjoying himself.
His movements remained precise and dangerous, but something had changed. He was no longer in complete control. His steps had become shorter. His evasions less expansive. Every retreat brought him closer to a limit he had never expected to reach.
He was being cornered.
Kenzo and Ophelia both knew it.
So they increased the pressure.
Sir James blocked one of Kenzo's attacks, the impact resonating through the chamber, then sharply deflected one of Ophelia's daggers. But he was forced back again, his heel landing on an already weakened section of the floor. He recovered immediately, refusing to show even the slightest weakness, but his expression had changed.
Cold.
Calculating.
There was no trace of amusement left.
He looked at Ophelia.
Then at Kenzo.
— « Why are you helping her when you and I are the same? »
The words hung heavily in the air, almost accusatory, as though he were trying to break something deeper than their guard.
The fight did not stop.
Kenzo never hesitated. He tightened his grip on the shaft of his weapon as another wave of exhaustion passed through him. [Serpent] continued pulling at his mind, eating away at what little clarity he had left with every passing second. He knew he could not maintain this pace forever.
Still, he held on.
Ophelia faltered slightly after an evasion that had been a little too short. The heat around her pulsed erratically, like a fire starved of air, threatening to consume her just as much as it strengthened her.
Yet they kept going.
Together.
Without a word.
The fight was nearing its end, but one thing had become undeniable.
They were no longer fighting as two separate people.
They were moving as one.