Gou is a dark elf in Warhammer

Faced with Darkus's question, the Sword Saint nodded slightly, his expression remaining calm, yet his eyes revealed an undeniable determination. Then, he slowly extended his gloved left hand, palm open, gesturing to Darkus. The movement was neither forceful nor hurried, but like a war drum being gently plucked, releasing a tense prelude.

The next second, the greatsword in his hand was thrown out!
The giant sword traced a highly dynamic parabola in the air, with the blade pointing downwards and the hilt upwards. The entire sword spun continuously during the throw, its cold light flashing, resembling a spinning meteor in the dim light of the exhibition hall.

What is this? A super six plus seven? A sword strike from a distance, a sword throwing technique?

Darkus frowned slightly, a series of thoughts flashing through his mind, but he quickly rejected these seemingly passionate but actually foolish ideas.

His left hand swiftly reached out and firmly grasped the hilt of the sword. That familiar and steady feel immediately traveled to his wrist. He effortlessly caught the greatsword, then smoothly twirled it a few times, guiding the sword's momentum under his control, combining power and skill in an instant.

Let him dual-wield? The Sword Saint will just catch him bare-handed?

He didn't question or hesitate; he simply rotated his wrist slightly and assumed a standard, almost textbook-perfect, two-handed greatsword stance, leaning forward with an imposing sword aura, like the calm before the storm—a berserk warrior about to leap into action.

Although he wasn't wearing a T1 or T-level set, nor did he have any equipment with purple light effects, he exuded a powerful aura at that moment.

He had fully understood the other party's meaning, so he responded by throwing the greatsword he had been holding in his right hand to the Sword Saint without hesitation.

The greatsword also traced an identical parabola in the air, blade pointing downwards and hilt upwards, spinning as it flew towards its opponent. The movements were mirror images, as if the twins of fate had already woven this rhythm of interchange.

The swordsman gently reached out and firmly grasped the hilt of the sword, without any unnecessary movements or hesitation, as if he had been waiting for this moment for a long time.

He glanced down at the sword in his hand, then raised his head, gripped the hilt with both hands, and pointed the blade straight to the sky, his posture solemn and dignified.

He lifted the hem of his robe, neatly tucking it into his belt, and then took three steps back—one to solidify his position, one to assume a stance, and one to open up space.

Stand still, holding the sword with both hands.

His expression was no longer calm, but rather revealed a will stirred from the depths of his memory, carrying a sense of ritualistic solemnity.

Then, he nodded heavily.

"very fair!"

Dakous said.

Each greatsword here is unique, tailor-made for its wielder—height, physique, habits, gait, and even the angle and rhythm of the sword dance are all taken into account.

No two swords are exactly alike; that is an ironclad rule.

But now, he has encountered an exception.

The two greatswords were exactly the same, and even the fabric patterns on the hilts, the embroidered patterns symbolizing the background of the swordsmen, were identical.

This is no coincidence.

This can only mean one possibility: the two swords belong to a pair of twins.

In elven society, twins are extremely rare, a product of fate's favor, which makes their bond far deeper than that of ordinary people. If one of them dies, the surviving one often falls into endless pain and mental anguish.

This also explains why the swordsman is sitting here instead of meditating outside the tower.

Only by his brother's side, beside this greatsword left behind, could the Sword Saint find a moment of peace.

The greatsword that was originally on his lap was proof that he was alive.

The giant sword on the wall was his brother's final echo.

Now, the Sword Saint's greatsword is in Darkus's hands, while his brother's sword is in the Sword Saint's hands.

Brothers united? Two becoming one?

This moment is not merely an exchange of swords, but a resonance of destiny, a transmission of will, and the reunion of twin flames, igniting the dormant blaze.

The bloodline remains unbroken, the will endures, and the legacy continues.

Darkus didn't think much of it. The Sword Saint was already prepared, while he wasn't quite ready yet. Just as he was getting ready, he suddenly sensed something approaching him at an incredibly fast speed—not running, not leaping, but flashing towards him like a streak of light.

Juggernaut?

no……

The Sword Saint remained standing in place, motionless, his aura as solid as a rock.

"There really should be candles here."

When the approaching figure blocked his way like a barrier, he subconsciously sighed.

The visitor was none other than Renn.

When Raine appeared, he already held the Blade of Reality in his hand, its tip pointing directly at the Sword Saint in the distance. His entire demeanor instantly shifted from concealment to the unsheathed blade, sharp and resolute.

In that instant, Darkus was afraid, not afraid that they would fight, but afraid that Renn would shout that next.

"My sword is never dull!"

The posture, the expression, the passion... it's so similar, so perfect.

"Step over me first..."

Before Renn could finish uttering half of his line, Darkus reached out his right hand and, through physical means, firmly placed it on Renn's shoulder and gave him a heavy squeeze.

"grown ups!"

Raine looked resolute, her eyes gleaming, and turned to look at him as if pleading or begging for his life.

Darkus didn't speak, but simply looked at Renn quietly, without anger or blame, only calm. He didn't need to express anything with words; his eyes said it all.

"grown ups!?"

This time, Ryan's tone was full of inquiry and questioning, with a hint of longing to be understood in his voice.

Darkus shook his head slightly and said nothing.

Raine glanced at the Sword Saint, who stood at a distance, sword still drawn and ready to fight, his lips tightening as he let out a heavy sigh. He didn't argue further, but simply stepped aside, clearing the way for Darkus.

“Next time, don’t use your abilities in places like this.” Darkus finally spoke slowly, his tone both reproachful and worried. “It’s dangerous. Aren’t you afraid of getting stuck in a wall or ending up in some strange place?”

As he spoke, he raised his left hand and made a few random gestures in the air, indicating the possibility of spatial distortion.

However, Ryan did not respond, but instead glared at him angrily, clearly displeased at being rejected.

Darkus knew that Renn was angry, angry that he had refused his request to fight, refused Renn's role as his swordsman, and refused the obligations and responsibilities that should be borne when his brother was not around.

“Darkius, you’re always like this.” He first mimicked Malekith’s tone, speaking self-deprecatingly, then switched to his own. “You are you, not your brother. And… the dueling law doesn’t apply here.” He paused, his tone softening. “At least… that’s how it is now. When in Rome, do as the Romans do, isn’t it?”

Renn paused for a moment, then nodded emphatically.

Seeing this, Darkus raised his hand to signal to the Sword Saint in the distance, and then began to untie the belt around his waist. The belt, which was covered with odds and ends and looked to be versatile but haphazard, was completely untied by him and handed to Renn.

However, when he arrived here, he was not ready. He began to take off his robe, not by unbuttoning it, but by pulling it off his head like a sweater.

After he finished undressing, he saw the Sword Saint's surprised expression, which made him laugh.

He knew why the Sword Saint was surprised; it was because he was dressed so strangely.

The outer garment is the same robe that represents tradition and identity, but once it's taken off, the clothes underneath seem to come from another world.

He wore a simple, lightweight white collarless cotton shirt.
He was wearing a very casual pair of baggy shorts that resembled beach shorts.

And on his feet were a pair of flip-flops.

"Are you surprised?"

As he asked with a smile, he left his flip-flops on the ground, took a step to the side, and pushed the flip-flops toward where Ryan was.

However, the smile that lasted for a moment was quickly taken away by the wind.

Darkus glanced down at his feet, took a deep breath, and then took a barefoot step. In that instant, the smile on his face vanished. Calm, composed, devoid of any superfluous emotion. He said nothing more, simply raising his left hand and spreading it out in front of his chest.

Renn understood and immediately stepped forward, solemnly putting the combat gloves on Renn's hands with careful and swift movements.

The moment the gloves were on, Darkus held the greatsword horizontally to his chest, his eyes blazing, fixed firmly on what lay ahead. He nodded heavily to the Sword Saint, his expression conveying an almost solemn sense of ritual.

The Sword Saint nodded in response. His movements were slow, yet as solid and steady as a mountain. It was an unwavering posture, a natural expression of experience, conviction, and skill.

The next moment, he took a step forward, his steps firm and resounding, holding his sword with both hands, the blade pointing directly at Darkus. His entire body leaned slightly forward, his aura steady, and a fierce and oppressive aura emanated from him—like a tiger crouching in the forest, like an eagle swooping in the sky, like the sea before a storm, silent yet brewing endless destruction.

In Ulthuan, whenever war breaks out, the Sword Saints of Hoth are always among the first to take up arms. For only on the battlefield can they unleash the deadly and pure art within them.

With astonishing agility and willpower, they wielded greatswords, which normally required strenuous two-handed swings, with the fluidity and dexterity of daggers. Amidst thousands of troops, they moved like shadows, shattering armor with the force of a steel cut and deflecting a hail of arrows with lightning speed. Their defense was flawless, almost impenetrable, and their reflexes were so swift that they could parry a barrage of arrows from all directions with their swords, like steel dancers fluttering wildly in the wind.

At this moment, even though there was only one sword saint here, the entire White Tower of Hoss trembled with his breath.

"what--!"

As he roared, Darkus moved!

The movement was as swift as lightning. Wielding the sword with both hands, he slashed diagonally upwards, a probing slash that tore through the air, accompanied by a sharp sword cry. However, his footwork did not follow; this was a probe without any advance.

However, the Sword Saint was prepared. He stepped back half a step with his left foot, his body arching like a reed in the wind, deftly dodging the slash.

Immediately afterwards, he blocked with his sword in a backhand stroke, and then swept out with a side sweep, the sword's momentum like thunder, sweeping straight at Dakous's side waist.

Darkus reacted extremely quickly, immediately sheathing his sword to block. The metal collided in the air with a crisp yet dull sound, sparks flying as the two powerful forces clashed head-on, causing both of them to take a half step back.

But this is just the beginning.

In the next few breaths, the two transformed into two giant dragons locked in battle amidst thunderclouds, clashing and colliding with each other in a flash.

They sometimes engaged in close combat, with sword hilts striking the shoulders and elbows in an attempt to disrupt the rhythm; at other times, they combined feints and real attacks, using one sword to feint and force the enemy to retreat, while the other sword suddenly darted out from the shift in the center of gravity, aiming straight for vital points.

Every strike was extremely dangerous, and every step was on the edge of the limits of strength and skill.

The air was filled with the booming sound of swords tearing through the wind, and the ground was covered with heavy yet agile footsteps.

This is a battle of skills, a honing of experience, and even more so, a contest of wills.

The Sword Saint's style is calm and experienced, like a long-flowing river, with continuous sword movements. Each move is as if it has been practiced countless times without error, making it a textbook example of perfection.

Darkus, on the other hand, is like a madman combining flames and waves, surging with anger and fearlessness, willing to exchange flaws for flaws, testing the Dao with his own body, and using the limit to fight the limit.

In one confrontation, both players opted to press forward.

The swordsman feinted a downward slash, then suddenly thrust it forward, aiming straight for Darkus's left chest.

Dakos had no time to dodge and could only parry, but in the instant of parrying, he took a step forward with his left foot, slashing down with his sword and using the power of his lower body to push the thrust away.

But it was at that moment that he realized something was wrong.

The swordsman's actions were a feint; his true target wasn't the chest, but rather...

"hiss--"

A sharp pain shot through his left thigh. The swordsman's greatsword did not strike, but instead slid diagonally across the outside of his thigh, leaving a deep gash that splattered blood.

Although the movement did not sever the muscle, it was deep enough and painful enough to momentarily slow his movements by half a beat.

Dakos forcibly suppressed the urge to gasp, lowered his right foot, regained his balance, and did not allow himself to reveal any weakness due to the pain.

"Beautiful," he murmured, a look on his face that was half wry smile and half admiration.

The Sword Saint did not press his advantage. He slowly retreated, still holding his sword in both hands, but no longer raising the blade high. Instead, he lowered the blade to his sides, steady as a bell, with a solemn expression, and nodded slightly to Dakota.

That's an acknowledgment of the opponent, a ritualistic gesture adhering to ancient customs.

Just as he completed his movements, a group of sword saints appeared one after another, rapidly approaching from afar, silently appearing behind him. Unlike the one before him, they were all clad in armor, the silver and dark blue plates reflecting a chilling light in the ambient light. They also wielded greatswords, their blades pointing uniformly diagonally at the ground, their steps light yet powerful.

The moment they took their positions, they uniformly raised their swords and assumed the starting stance of the Thirty Basic Sword Techniques—holding their swords with both hands, the blades pointing to the sky, their postures as straight as pine trees, their aura rising slowly from the horizon like a mountain range.

Silent, yet deeply moving.

After glancing at the sword saints, Darkus turned and looked at them again.

The Twilight sisters, shielded behind Cecil Hal, raised their bows, arrows nocked, their killing intent subtly revealed, as if they were waiting only for a signal to deliver a fatal blow.

Liv, Asanok, and the sorceresses who had accompanied them looked alarmed and angry. Some held a sword in one hand and a staff in the other, while others gripped their staffs tightly with energy surging in their palms. They were clearly ready to attack.

Springtwin's expression shifted from its usual comical and sarcastic tone to utter rage. His sharp-nailed fingers pointed in the direction of the sword saints, and his lips twitched, as if he were preparing to unleash a torrent of curses.

Asantir and Arelani, who accompanied them, appeared to have a more complicated situation. Their brows were furrowed, and their expressions were a mix of helplessness and struggle, caught in a dilemma of who to advise and who to stop.

Dakos looked at them and gently, softly, waved his hand, his gesture smooth and flowing, indicating that everything was fine and there was no need to worry.

At that moment, a smile that was somewhere between calm and confident appeared on his face. The smile was not ostentatious, but like a warm current flowing beneath a thin layer of snow, it contained profound meaning and carried an indescribable power.

Then, he turned back again and looked at the silent swordsman.

His left hand tightened around the hilt of the greatsword, his fingers contracting, his movements as steady as a mountain. He held the sword horizontally in front of his chest, his eyes calm as a still pool, his tone gentle yet unyielding.

"Come again."

For a moment, the air seemed to freeze again.

The Sword Saint did not respond with words, but simply lowered his head slightly, a strand of silver hair falling across his forehead swaying gently. He slowly took half a step back, resuming his starting stance, the movement executed in one fluid motion.

There were no shouts, no inflammatory declarations.

The next instant, the two took their first steps almost simultaneously.

This confrontation was faster, fiercer, and more...real than before.

That wasn't a drill, a test of etiquette, or a friendly exchange. It was a real confrontation, a duel where souls would burn on the edge of a blade.

Without probing or preparation, they launched an explosive attack, creating a real distance between themselves, and then erased that distance, entangled sword and man, will and iron, completely.

The sword flashed, its cold light radiating, the movements were as fierce as a storm, each move revealing its killing intent, as if the next strike could decide life or death.

They alternated between using half-sword techniques and shield-bombing techniques, switching between them as naturally and smoothly as breathing. While gripping the blade and using close-quarters combat moves, they also used the hilt, pommel, and even knees and elbows to break the enemy's footwork. Combined with advanced combat techniques such as stepping, dodging, and diagonal turns, they engaged in a close-quarters attack and defense without holding back.

Darkus repeatedly used a staggered stance to press down on the opponent's body, generating power from his lower body and sweeping his greatsword towards the Sword Saint's waist with movements that were neither a slash nor a flick, but each time the opponent neutralized the attack with precise parries.

The Sword Saint responded by flipping his wrist, pressing the entire sword down like a lever pivot, attempting to sever Darkus's shoulder and neck connection with a horizontal slash. His movements were characterized by a shrewdness and a calm, murderous intent.

In the course of more than ten moves, they seemed to be forging iron in a raging fire, each collision sparking and each brush with danger.

Their breaths mingled, their steps intertwined, their sweat and will were equally scorching and intense.

The air seemed to scorch as well, and the sword winds, like streaks of light tearing through space, swept past them. Every dodge was a hair's breadth away, and every hit was extremely dangerous.

Finally, in a brief moment of switching positions and disorientation, they achieved their goal.

Darkus suddenly lowered his center of gravity, lunging forward half a step like a shadow. He stepped diagonally with his right foot, twisting his body in the process, his whole figure like a flag fluttering in the wind, both soft and strong.

The sword slashed out diagonally, the sound of it cutting through the air like thunder!
He didn't attack the head or the chest, but the swordsman's left arm!

This was an extremely tricky backhand slash, the blade gliding across the sword saint's forearm, as if splitting a crack in the wind. Although the sword saint instantly withdrew his sword to protect himself, the blade still left a clear gash on the edge of his left arm. As the fabric tore, blood gushed from the tear, like a crimson flower blooming on his white robe.

The swordsman stopped in his tracks, neither pursuing nor showing anger.

He glanced down at his slashed left arm, a five-inch-long diagonal cut that, while not fatal, was extremely precise and had just pierced through his defenses.

When he looked up again, his eyes had changed, and a long-lost light rekindled in them.

That's a kind of...

It was not hostility, not anger, and certainly not humiliation.

That was passion, pure fighting spirit, the resonance of sword-wielding families, and the mutual recognition between skill and skill, will and will, and mind and mind.

The next second, he spoke, his voice deep and resonant, like the tolling of a heavy bell, echoing in the solemn and quiet sword hall.

“Come again!
No one spoke up, no one stopped them, and no one dared to interfere.

This is no longer a simple contest, but a clash of souls, a ritual, a trial in blood and fire.

Darkus's lips curled into a slight smile, not one of arrogance, but rather a wild, carefree joy—a tacit understanding between warriors, madmen. He slowly raised his greatsword, gripped it tightly, and gently lifted his hand, the blade pointing once more towards the sky.

This round was faster, more ruthless, and even extremely violent than the previous two. There was no build-up, no holding back, and no room for breathing or dodging.

It is a naked contest of skill, experience, and physical instinct; a symphony of life colliding with life, with steel and flesh.

The two giant swords clashed fiercely in mid-air once more, the sparks from the metal impact resembling bursts of starlight, as brilliant as shooting stars. The sound of the collision was deafening, like thunder striking the earth, the echoes reverberating throughout the dome and walls of the exhibition hall, lingering for a long time.

The Sword Saint suddenly lowered his body, took a half step to the side with his left foot, and his whole body was like an arrow compressed to the horizon. The entire greatsword swept out horizontally, with a whistling sound that tore through space, and its target was Darkus's waistline.

That strike—if it hits, it will be a fatal blow that breaks the body's center of gravity.

Darkus, however, was prepared. His movements were effortless; with a twist of his sidestep, he dodged close to the ground like a fish in water, his shoulder and back sliding in a graceful arc. Almost simultaneously, he flipped his wrist, flicking upwards with a backhand strike, forcing the Sword Saint to retract his sword and turn to defend with a fluid, powerful motion.

Immediately afterwards, the two were locked in close combat, the boundaries of swordsmanship disappeared, and they turned into a true close-quarters battle.

Elbow strikes, knee strikes, and hammer blows with sword hilts were delivered in turn, with no fancy moves in offense or defense, only lethality.

In a sudden attack, Darkus forced the Sword Saint into a corner of the exhibition hall with a thrust, the blade flashing like a cold star before his eyes, completely sealing him off.

However, the flaw also became apparent at that moment.

The Sword Saint's eyes narrowed, and he abruptly took half a step to the side, tapping his toes as his power instantly transformed into an explosive burst. His body slid out diagonally as if drifting, and in an instant, his greatsword drew a precise and elegant arc in the air, its angle fierce and tricky, before suddenly slashing out from below.

This strike was neither a traditional upward flick nor a horizontal sweep, but a reverse cut that transcended the inertial trajectory, aimed at tearing apart the opponent's lower body stability.

A cold glint flashed in Dakos's eyes as he quickly assessed the situation and attempted to parry with his sword, but time was running out; his body had not yet fully completed the withdrawal motion.

The next moment——

"laugh!!"

That was the sound of metal cutting into flesh, sharp and clear, like the night wind blowing through the treetops.

He was stabbed in the left thigh again.

This time it wasn't the old, unhealed wound, but another almost vertical horizontal slash that precisely tore open the center of the previous wound. Flesh ripped apart, fascia tore open, and the intersection of the wounds was like a cross brand nailed to his thigh.

Blood gushed out like a fountain, spreading rapidly along the curve of the thigh, meandering down the inner side to behind the knee, and then pooling into a dark red puddle at the ankle.

This injury is extremely deep.

If the previous wound was considered a "vertical cut," then this one is a "horizontal slash." The two together form a striking "cross," like a battle mark, or perhaps an indescribable ritual imprint from the way of the sword saint.

Despite the excruciating pain, Dakota did not kneel. He merely bent one knee slightly, shifting his center of gravity momentarily, but he did not lose his balance. The sword in his hand remained firmly held, without the slightest slip.

His knuckles were clenched so tightly they turned white, veins bulged, his breathing was slightly deep and rapid, and beads of sweat quickly gathered on his forehead, but his eyes remained calm as ever.

He glanced down at the wound on his thigh, then looked up at the Sword Saint standing opposite him.

Their eyes met again, a pure exchange where there was no anger or resentment in their gazes, only a deeper understanding and acceptance.

The swordsman flicked his sword with a swift and elegant motion, leaving a trail of blood that traced a semi-circle in the air before landing, as if it were the end of a single stroke.

He then drew his sword and bowed, his movements clean and swift, his posture calm and solemn.

Darkus grinned, a pained yet defiant smile playing on his lips. He slowly raised his hand, lifting the greatsword in his hand. Although his posture was slightly awkward, he still maintained his manners and grace, returning the salute.

This is the third match.

The third match has ended.

"Come again?"

As soon as the Sword Saint finished speaking, Darkus charged forward with lightning speed, as if he had been waiting for this moment.

His thigh was still bleeding, yet his steps were remarkably steady. He precisely incorporated that almost imperceptible limp into the rhythm of his attack, turning it into a deceptive and misleading flaw.

The two moved at almost the same moment, raising their greatswords simultaneously, like two blazing suns breaking through the sky.

They were only three steps apart, yet it felt as if they spanned the entire battlefield.

Each step was like a thunderbolt striking the earth, and the air vibrated incessantly as their sword intents clashed.

This confrontation.

There was no probing, no buildup; all the preparations had been laid in the previous three matches. Now, it was time for the decisive blow.

The Sword Saint struck first, slashing horizontally with lightning speed, his power immense and his angle fierce, attempting to force Darkus into a defensive posture with a powerful attack. His movements were swift and decisive, the sound of his sword cutting through the air like thunder, creating a sweeping pressure that seemed to crush everything in its path like a raging storm.

However, Dakota did not retreat. He did not choose to retreat or passively defend.

He crouched low, his steps light yet resolute. With a swift, precise thrust of his greatsword, he deflected the horizontal slash from the front with exquisite skill, deflecting the force with effortless grace and parrying with effortless dexterity. The greatsword seemed to possess a soul in his hands, not only blocking the fierce attack but also, after deflecting its force, slashing downwards with uncanny precision and a tricky angle.

He took a half-inch step forward, his right shoulder close, his body brushing past him like a sword blade.

The two brushed past each other like two intersecting shooting stars, their auras mingling and the wind from their swords exploding.

Immediately afterwards, a strange sound, like tearing fabric, came from the air.

"Pfft."

A sharp, horizontal slash suddenly appeared on the outside of the Sword Saint's left leg, clean and deep, about four feet long. Initially, the line of blood was extremely thin, almost imperceptible, but in the next instant, blood gushed out in streams, like water bursting from a dam, quickly soaking the hem of his white robe and staining it crimson.

He did not immediately back down, nor did he cry out or get angry.

He just stood there silently, looking down at the wound on his left leg.

Darkus did not press his advantage, nor did he take advantage of the situation to launch a surprise attack. He simply retreated three steps, stood still with his sword drawn, his posture slightly off-center, but his breathing was steady and his eyes remained bright and clear.

The injury on his thigh made him stand slightly to the side, but his figure remained upright and unyielding, like molten iron forged in flames, which, though polished and struck, did not bend or shatter.

The Sword Saint slowly raised his head and looked at him. There was no anger or defeat in his eyes, only a pure understanding and... profound agreement.

"Come again?"

The Sword Saint did not respond, but simply took a deep breath, gently stepped back with his right foot, and held the sword with both hands again.

That was the opening stance, the first of the thirty stances. The sword was pointed to the sky, the arms were raised high, and the torso was slightly straight, like a person praying in a ritual, or like an executioner about to cut down all evil. It was solemn and silent, yet full of oppression.

The fifth time has begun.

The two stepped forward simultaneously, the stone slabs beneath their feet making a heavy, rhythmic sound, like the beating of war drums, echoing under the dome of the entire exhibition hall, as if announcing something.

The two giant swords clashed again, like meteors hitting each other, sparks flying everywhere. Each collision of metal unleashed a breathtaking light, and each exchange was so fast that it was almost impossible for the naked eye to catch it, and so precise that it had been simulated countless times.

Their battle was no longer a simple attack and defense, but a game of strategy and instinct, a complex rhythm of offense and defense like a musical movement, a complex game of chess composed of flaws, rhythm, and prediction.

Darkus constantly exploited the rhythm and openings he had discovered in the first four matches, using side steps, sliding steps, diagonal cuts, and heavy pressure. Each move was so fast that it exceeded the limits of what the body could bear, yet he controlled it precisely with his will.

The Sword Saint responded in the most ancient, profound, and steady way. His swordsmanship contained no superfluous movements, no flashy trajectories, only instinct honed through countless trials. He moved like thunder, yet remained still as abyss; his entire swordsmanship seemed to have been condensed from a thousand years of tradition, each move as heavy as a mountain.

Then, change quietly occurred.

Darkus suddenly sidestepped and took a step closer, his steps slightly unsteady, while at the same time the greatsword suddenly spun upwards in a half-turn motion!

That strike was executed almost without any preparatory movement, as if the will preceded the action. It was as if it were already engraved in the soul, ready to be released with a mere thought.

The swordsman hastily dodged to the side, raising his sword to parry.

But we were a step too late.

The sword's edge flashed through the air like a streak of fire, magnified infinitely in the Sword Saint's vision, bypassed his defenses, and plunged into the gaping wound he couldn't close in time, stopping just an inch from his throat.

That inch of distance felt like a thousand mountains and rivers.

The air fell silent instantly, as if the entire exhibition hall had held its breath, and time had frozen in that instant.

The swordsman did not move; the blade at his throat still trembled slightly—the aftershock of extreme restraint, the final echo after a storm.

He slowly raised his head, looking directly into Darkus's eyes. His expression was calm and undisturbed, but deep in his eyes was an overflowing respect, relief, and satisfaction.

Then, he released his grip on the sword, his knuckles slowly relaxing, and lowered the greatsword with a solemn, ritualistic motion.

His figure stood in the pale golden light of the exhibition hall, draped in silence and radiance, appearing solemn and composed, like the end of some kind of inheritance, or like an old man handing the torch to the next swordsman.

Dakos stood there, his gaze still calm, yet a kind of indescribable emotion was revealed in his silence.

This is not a victory.

This is more like the end of a trial, the final chapter of a journey, a ritual of inheritance completed by will and soul.

After a long while, he exhaled softly, holding the greatsword horizontally in front of his chest. The blade trembled slightly, as if vibrating with his breath. He returned the salute with the sword, his movements solemn yet elegant, as if in response to all the exchanges just now, and as the highest respect for the opponent before him.

He then slowly retracted the greatsword, the blade sliding along his body before finally landing heavily on the ground with a deep, resonant sound that sent shivers down one's spine.

The Sword Saint took a step back silently, and once again bowed with the most formal etiquette, his back straight, his eyes lowered, his movements slow but extremely devout.

He showed no anger, no resentment, and not even the slightest hint of disappointment.

Yes, it is a sense of relief and respect that comes from the depths of one's soul.

At this moment, it wasn't just the clash between the two swordsmen that finally came to an end.

This moment is about the inheritance of skills, the clash of dignity, and the only consensus reached after two beliefs have clashed—he deserves to be recognized.

In the distance, the crowd neither applauded nor cheered.

The entire exhibition hall was unusually quiet, so quiet that you could hear the slight rustling of the wind through the robes, and you could feel the sound of blood flowing back in your veins being amplified.

It seemed that everyone was shocked by this contest, which was fought without armor, without anger, and only with swords and wills.

There is no magic, no divine favor, only the clanging of blades against blades, the scars and sweat that construct the reality.

The battle ended, and the curtain fell silently.

This was a silent yet intense competition, a duel where skill and willpower truly determined the winner.

What remains is not the outcome of the battle.

What remains is memory, understanding, and inheritance—something that grows in silence.

That kind of thing is invisible, yet it is the heaviest.

The sword saints sheathed their swords and took a half-step back in unison, their movements perfectly synchronized, as orderly as a forest. They remained silent, yet expressed their resolve in an even more solemn manner.

admit.

They acknowledged Darkus's existence through the act of wielding their swords.

That's a form of recognition.

It doesn't come from official positions, bloodlines, or titles, but from the world of swords, from swordsmanship and tradition—an ancient, solemn, and profound recognition akin to religion.

"If you need..." The Sword Saint's voice was not loud, but as steady as a rock.

He looked at the greatsword in Darkus's hand with an almost eager expression in his eyes.

Dakos shook his head and remained silent.

"What will the future look like?" the Sword Saint asked.

"It will be better than it is now, better than it was in the past!" Darkus's voice was not loud, but as firm as a vow. "I can assure you, in the name of the sword!"

The Sword Saint remained silent for a moment, then sighed deeply, bowed his head, and bowed again. This bow was not a formality, but a surrender, an acceptance, a quiet acceptance bordering on emotion.

Raine rushed over immediately, supporting Darkus's arm and carefully supporting his injured side.

“I’m fine,” Darkus said softly, patting Renn on the shoulder.

He looked down at the wound on his left thigh; the blood had soaked through his trousers, the color almost black, but it had not yet reached the bone marrow.

Then, he exerted force with his right hand and hurled the greatsword high into the air.

The sword traced a highly dynamic parabola in the air, spinning and soaring upwards, blade pointing downwards and hilt upwards, just as it had begun.

The swordsman steadily took the greatsword, nodded in response, then turned around, walked back to the wall, and hung his brother's sword back in its original place, his movements slow and restrained.

Then, he slowly sat down, placed his greatsword across his lap again, closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and returned to meditation.

The atmosphere eased slightly, and the sorceresses rushed over, surrounding Darkus.

At this moment, Ryan made a joking remark from the side.

"Walter should have been here, what a shame."

Those who knew what Ryan was trying to say couldn't help but chuckle, revealing expressions of either helplessness or amusement, and the atmosphere finally transitioned slowly from solemnity.

Darkus smiled, looked up at Liefer, then turned to look at the swordsman who was still sitting silently, his wounds untreated.

Liv nodded knowingly and turned to walk towards the Sword Saint.

At that moment, Darkus's gaze returned to Alisa beside him. He placed his hand on Alisa's shoulder, stopping her from bending down to check her wound.

When Alisa looked up and met his gaze, he asked softly.

"Why...is it..."

He stopped mid-sentence, swallowing the word "I" instead of saying it.

After a moment of silence, he changed his wording.

"Why...the Winter?" (End of Chapter)