Chapter 118: ASHES AND IRON.
The circle had closed.
The world beyond was nothing but a blur of screaming men and clashing steel, but Ryon no longer saw them. The roar of the southern ranks, the thunder of the northern drums, the endless gnash of battle—they had receded like waves pulling back from shore. What remained was silence and fire, a furnace of air and blood.
The circle was carved not by hands, but by violence. Soldiers—north and south alike—had drawn back, forming an unspoken boundary. None dared cross it. Here, two men fought, and all knew that the war in the gorge would be decided by which of them still stood when the circle closed at last.
Ryon’s body was already a ruin. His ribs grated with each breath, sharp and jagged as shattered stone. Blood seeped freely from his side, dripping in a steady rhythm onto the churned mud. His blade trembled faintly in his grip, his strength stripped raw, but his eyes—storm-lit, unyielding—held fast.
Across from him, the northern commander was little better. His face was a landscape of old scars, his cheek torn fresh from the last exchange. His armor was battered, his flesh marked with deep lines of red, but his stance remained iron. His sword gleamed through the haze, steady, relentless, as if hungering for the final cut.
The commander’s lips pulled back in a sneer, teeth stained crimson. His voice rumbled through the silence like a judgment:
"All things break, southerner. Steel. Flesh. Oaths. Men."
The system stirred inside Ryon’s skull, a whisper cold and merciless, sliding like a blade between his thoughts.
"All vessels shatter. Which one will splinter first?"
Ryon spat blood into the dirt, forcing his body upright. His knuckles whitened on the hilt until the leather dug trenches into his skin. His voice came ragged, but it cut the silence clean in two.
"You first."
The commander lunged.
The circle ignited.
Steel clashed with a sound like a god’s hammer striking stone. Sparks burst outward, lighting the gloom like fireflies born of fury. The commander’s strikes fell heavy, deliberate, each one forged not to wound but to annihilate. Ryon met them with parries, each block rattling down his arms, his bones singing with pain.
The mud churned beneath their boots as they drove one another back and forth across the circle. Each breath was fire. Each heartbeat a drum. The commander’s blade scraped across Ryon’s forearm, peeling flesh, but Ryon twisted with the pain, slamming his elbow into the scarred man’s throat. The commander reeled, coughing, but his counter came fast—a slash across Ryon’s cheek that sprayed blood into the circle’s dirt.
They staggered, both bleeding, both gasping, neither falling.
The armies surged at the edges of the silence. Southern throats roared Ryon’s name, desperate, furious. Northern ranks slammed spear to shield, chanting the commander’s title with pounding rhythm. The gorge itself seemed to pulse with the sound, the earth trembling beneath the weight of faith and fury poured into two men.
The commander’s eyes blazed brighter, and his blade came faster, harder, striking with the rhythm of war drums. Ryon’s shoulders screamed as his parries faltered under the weight. His chest heaved, ribs grinding, vision swimming. His sword grew heavier with each moment, dragging at him like a chain.
The system whispered, cruel and calm:
"You are the weaker vessel. You will splinter."
Ryon snarled through blood and broken teeth, forcing his voice past the tremor in his lungs.
"Not me."
The commander raised his sword high, both hands clenched white on the hilt, every muscle surging. The strike came down in a killing arc, meant to split Ryon crown to heel.
Ryon caught it.
The impact rang like a cathedral bell struck by thunder. Sparks cascaded over their faces, burning streaks into the night air. Their blades locked, iron grinding against iron, shoulders pressing, foreheads nearly touching. The commander’s breath was hot and foul, his whisper a guttural command.
"Break."
Blood streamed into Ryon’s eye from the cut across his brow. His arms buckled, knees quivered. The pressure was unbearable, weight driving him into the mud. The edge of the commander’s blade bit into his skin, shallow but searing, a promise of what would come when his strength finally gave out.
The system murmured, slow and inevitable:
"You cannot hold. You are not forged strong enough. The vessel fractures."
Something snapped inside Ryon—not bone, not sinew, but deeper. He roared, a sound torn from marrow, a defiance against gods and steel alike. His body screamed, but he twisted, every sinew stretching past its limits.
The lock broke.
Ryon’s blade surged upward, cutting beneath the commander’s guard. The tip pierced between ribs, sliding deep into the heart’s cage.
The commander’s eyes widened. For an instant, the fire inside them flared brighter, wild and unyielding—then dimmed. His sword slipped from numb fingers, clattering into the mud. His mouth opened, a wet gurgle spilling blood.
"You..." The word cracked, broken and fading. "...wrong... vessel."
Ryon twisted the blade. The commander convulsed, body jerking, then collapsed with a hollow thud, his blood soaking into the circle’s dirt.
Silence fell.
The armies on the edge froze, the gorge holding its breath.
Then—chaos.
The northern ranks wailed, grief and disbelief thunderous in its echo. The southern lines erupted, their voices a storm of triumph and fury, a victory wrestled from the jaws of despair.
But Ryon heard none of it.
His chest heaved, breath ragged. His sword trembled in his grip, dripping red that mingled with the mud. The world swayed around him, shadows bending and light dimming.
The system’s voice slid into the ringing silence, silk over steel:
"Balance restored. Vessel shattered. But weight remains. Blood weighs. Yours weighs heavy."
Ryon staggered. His vision blurred, the edges of the world growing darker. He could see—just barely—southern soldiers pressing forward, surging with momentum. Northerners stumbling, faltering, their line breaking. Victory loomed, sharp and brutal.
But his limbs no longer obeyed.
His knees gave. His sword slipped, sinking into the mud with a soft sound too small for what it carried. He fell beside it, the world tilting.
The last thing he saw was the commander’s lifeless eyes, wide and staring blankly into the darkened sky.
And then—the dark took him.