The chamber stilled, save for the crackle of torches and the rustling of parchment. Sir Lionel de Montbar stood before the war table, a map of the tourney spread before him like a battle standard. Only four banners yet flew in the grand tourney for the Relics of the Fallen: The Devil’s Dreamers, The Tsar’s Tormentors, The Valor Vanguard, and The Royal Alliance. Blood had run like a river through the earlier rounds, over thrice the number of warriors now laid low, broken and cast aside.
His gauntlet traced the parchment slowly. The path to glory lay clear—defeat the Vanguard in their next clash, then conquer whosoever emerged from the opposite bracket. A simple plan, in theory. But war was ne’er so obliging.
Sir Lionel de Montbar: "Where is my fool of a partner? Where hides Lord Lim?"
The English knight paced 'round the chamber like a lion in a cage, his eyes flickering between painted likenesses of their foes. Each portrait bore scrutiny beneath firelight, though none vexed him so much as his own partner.
Tae-Hyun Lim—unpredictable, volatile, and loyal to naught save vengeance. He had shown no fealty to the banner under which they fought, nor even to the Federation that housed them. Nay, his allegiance lay only with ghosts: the shade of a murdered father, and a kingdom in ruin. There was no honour in his cause—only blood, old and fresh. Sir Lionel waved a hand toward the corridor, summoning a servant.
Sir Lionel de Montbar: "Summon Master Lim. We must speak, lest we fall to ruin by silence."
The aide bowed—grudgingly—and shuffled away, muttering curses about madmen and their impossible quests.
Alone once more, Lionel turned back to the table. His gaze fell upon Maki Nishimura—a lone warrior, proud and noble. A veteran of the War of Federations. A formidable duellist. Yet now, she stood without a companion. Was she to be forced into forfeiture? Or did she harbor some cunning stratagem, some secret blade hidden in her cloak?
No matter. Even alone, Nishimura would not fall easily. To treat her lightly would be to court death.
The knight's thoughts drifted—to the eve of the war, to the rallying words he had spoken beneath stormy banners and iron skies. He had warned of the corruption festering within the Federation. A poison blacker than pitch, coursing through its veins, leaving wounds that refused to close. He had named its leaders: a starving corpse of a king, barely in command of his own undead hunger… a savage beast who bore the face of a penguin… and a false god who wielded lightning as if born from Olympus itself.
His previous words stirred the hearts of few. Most turned away, afraid or already decayed from within. A purge was needed. Not of fire and blade—but of honour, of cleansing the soul of this war-born mire. Let the strong be tempered by fire, and let the weak break beneath it.
The aide returned, breathless and alone.
Aide: “Master Lim is undergoing examination, my lord. He bids thee meet him in the infirmary.”
Lionel soon stood at the threshold of the alchemist’s chamber, where the healers of this era practiced their craft. Strange devices hummed and blinked with sorcerous light. Through them, the knight watched as Tae-Hyun Lim was examined—his wounds from the brutal clash with Takuma Sato and Lightning Man still fresh and bleeding.
Lim’s rage was a palpable storm. His homeland sundered. His bloodline was slaughtered. And now, his brother lay in a death-dance with fate, wounded near unto death. Takuma Sato’s reckless fury had brought this suffering to bear.
The healers spoke of more than wounds—they spoke of revenge. Of rematches. Sato himself bore broken ribs from their last encounter. An opening, perhaps. A weakness. Exploiting it directly would defy chivalry… but a stray blow? A perfectly timed strike?
Sir Lionel said naught. For the moment, he simply watched. Observed the fury that burned in Tae-Hyun Lim’s heart. It was the rage of a man with nothing left but his sword.
And in silence, the knight pondered. Could honour and vengeance march side by side? Or would one consume the other before the final bell tolled?
Tae-Hyun Lim’s kin now danced upon death’s threshold. The flame within him, once flickering with controlled wrath, now raged like a wildfire, blind and consuming. Vengeance had become his sole creed—no thought spared for mercy, no space left for honour. His every breath fanned the embers of retribution, his soul sharpened into a blade thirsting for blood.
Sir Lionel saw it clearly: the corruption was not merely in the Federation’s bones, but in the very air they breathed. Their last battle had left more than scars; it had opened wounds that festered with rot. The pestilence of injustice leaked from every pore of this vile arena, a sickness spreading without resistance.
Takuma Sato had not simply bested his opponents—he had cast them into oblivion. He fought like a butcher, not a knight. Both Moon and Valora Salinas, once warriors of great renown, now both lay discarded, a casualty of Sato and Lim’s ruthless war. Salinas could recover, Moon might perish before the dawn. Sato’s hands bore not the honour of a warrior but the stain of a hangman. His victories bred not glory, but anguish. And from that anguish, more hatred bloomed, a vile crop of suffering destined to yield only further devastation.
The moment drew nigh. The roar of the crowd rose like thunder outside, a baying horde demanding blood. Sir Lionel de Montbar, bearing the weight of a thousand years of honour and the silence of a thousand dead warriors, made his way toward his partner.
The match lay moments away.
Lim didn’t look up.
Lim: "Do you believe in ghosts, Lionel?"
Lionel thought for a moment, he has seen ghosts, but he mustn’t let his partner’s mind wander back home and distract him when victory was so near.
Lionel de Montbar: "I have seen many things that defy logic. I know not what realm they come from. To be honest, I know not if I originated from this realm."
Lim: "Moon is dying… and I see him every time I close my eyes. Not the way he was. The way he looked when they rolled him into surgery—chest collapsed, lips turning blue. It felt like the American military had come back for us."
Montbar said nothing. Lim pressed his palms together, knuckles white from pressure.
Lim: "They talk about honor. They talk about redemption. But what I see… what I hear when it’s quiet… is fire. Screams. And the sound of nuclear bombs disintegrating our future like it’s already been decided."
He looked up now, face caught half in shadow, half in the arena’s backlight. His eyes weren’t wild. They were carved from obsidian—still, sharp, unreadable.
Lim: "I don't fight to make the crowd cheer. I don't fight to uphold tradition. I fight because my country is gone, and the only family I have left is bleeding. Because Sato left Moon in a pool of his own blood. Because I’ve spent my whole life being told who I am by the outside world. American scum. Korean tyrant’s bastard son. Spoiled prince. All of it."
He stood slowly, adjusting his wrists.
Lim: "Tonight... I write the truth in broken bone and ruptured tendon. I am not my father’s name. I am not your king’s puppet. I am not a cautionary tale."
He turned to Montbar, stepping into the faint glow of the floodlights. There was no rage in his voice anymore. Just clarity. Cold and clean.
Lim: "Maki and Sato will walk into that ring thinking they’re martyrs. Beloved by fans. Protected by fate. But fate doesn’t fight the match. I do. And there is no redemption waiting for them. There is no forgiveness. Only consequence."
Montbar gave a solemn nod, eyes glimmering beneath the hood.
Montbar: "Then let us enter the arena as lions, not pawns. One seeks glory. The other seeks reckoning. But both must wield the sword."
Lim stepped forward, out of the shadow.
Lim: "I don’t need the sword. I am the fire."
The air itself trembled—not with anticipation, but with the brittle tension of two souls bound together not by trust, but by necessity. One, a knight from a forgotten age. The other, a prince of ashes, hollowed by loss and set aflame by wrath.
Their foes awaited.
And so did fate.