The chamber was dead silent, the shuffling of the combatants’ heavy boots underpinned by running water. Now that the duel had started, every observer—even Dent, who I’d half-expected to resort to crass jeering—stood motionless and quiet, the occasional grind of metal and shifting of weight the only indicator they were alive.

Stonewall gave off the feel of a rattlesnake. He had half-a-head of height on Nick and extended reach to match. As Nick circled, he positioned himself at the outer limits of the tank’s range, simple, practiced footwork keeping him there.

It felt rote. Methodical. Like the motions of a chess master who had played this opening thousands of times and performed the routine with otherworldly patience.

It worried me enough that I wondered if I’d made a mistake, not negotiating for a duel by proxy and attempting to take Nick’s place. While my friend’s abilities were better suited for this in theory and he had a respectable number of monsters under his belt, he’d sat out the Transposition. Other than the brief, violent encounter at the end of the trial, he lacked the exposure to User on User combat, which in my experience, was a different animal entirely.

A bead of sweat dripped down Nick’s forehead. His mouth turned downward. In a flash of motion, he rushed forward, catching the edge of Stonewall’s shield on his own and flinging it to the side, driving the point of his glowing blade at the armpit gap in Stonewall’s breastplate.

There was a split second of metal grinding on metal echoing across the grounds. Maybe it was wishful thinking, or the ferocity of the blow, but for a moment I thought Nick had ended it in one strike. Then Stonewall pivoted. Shield still out of position, he flicked his sword under and up, knocking Nick’s blade away with a dexterous maneuver more appropriate to an Olympic fencer than a Knight.

Even off-balance, the counter delivered enough force that Nick stumbled backward, barely holding onto his blade until he found his footing and brought his shield up. His eyebrows furrowed.

Stonewall’s echoing voice was unbothered, detached. “If you survive this, a word to the wise. Informing your opponent that you are self-taught cedes an unnecessary advantage.”

Nick smirked, though his eyes were still cold. “That would have bought me—what—thirty seconds of caution before you figured it out? Plus, I guess I wanted to get to know you better.”

Does he think he’s a fucking shounen character?

That seemed to catch Stonewall’s attention. The Knight’s helmet tilted to the side. “To what purpose?”

I had no idea what they’d talked about, but against all odds, Nick had managed to get inside Stonewall’s head. Now all he had to do was leave the question unanswered, let it needle at his opponent. Against someone as disciplined as Stonewall appeared to be, it probably wouldn’t add up to much, but it was still something.

“Dunno,” Nick said, and I fought the urge to facepalm. “You seem like an interesting guy. If that was gonna be our only chance to talk, guess I wanted to pick your brain a little.”

Stonewall nodded. “There is value in knowing one’s opponent. But familiarity is nothing in the face of true power.”

He raised his leg and kicked Nick’s shield.

Nick saw it coming and braced.

It didn’t matter. That simple motion resounded like a hammer on steel, imparting enough force to send Nick flying backpedaling across the ring where he slammed into several Knights, bouncing off and landing painfully on his side with a mighty clang. The ring of shadows that surrounded us appeared to bend inward, tendrils of oily smoke reaching toward Nick’s armor. Kettle—the first Knight to reach him—bent down, apparently intending to grab him beneath the arms and hoist him up, but seemed to struggle as the tendrils drew closer.

Not trying to keep the action moving. Sandbagging. Intentionally exposing him to whatever that shit is on the perimeter.

Careful not to make visible motion, I broke through Kettle’s mind, amplifying already present feelings of disgust and self-loathing.

Kettle pulled back as if he’d been burned. Two Knights took his place, lifting Nick to his feet and shoving him forcefully back to the center.

Pot and Kettle were part of Stonewall’s retinue. Of course they had more of a personal stake in his victory. It didn’t bode well, but it wasn’t dire. A few feet to my left, Pot was obviously monitoring me, which meant I only really needed to watch Kettle. The shadow cyclone was more of a problem. As Nick shakily rose to his feet, I reached inside my inventory and gripped <Blade of Woe’s> handle tightly. Hundreds of tiny red weak points glowed from within the indecipherable mass. Which meant, at the very least, we could kill them.

Meanwhile, Nick turned his head to the side and spit. “That… all you got?”

I fought another urge to facepalm. Why was he making this harder for himself?

Naturally, Stonewall took this as a signal to go on the offensive. He pressed forward, never fully lowering his guard, systematically battering Nick’s shield with powerful strikes that reverberated through the shield and my friend’s body. Instead of retreating, or changing tact, Nick barely moved, electing to block every blow, even those he could have easily sidestepped.

Doubt clouded my mind. Unless I was missing something, Nick was performing worse than he had before. In the trial, his versatility and improvisation were enough to make me revisit my decision to go it alone. Now, this was the first time he’d held a shield. Reactive, panicky, and entirely on the defensive. Where was the warrior who bulldozed through a swamp full of monsters?

Had I read it wrong? Had everything that had happened broken him, traumatized him to the point he’d entirely regressed?

Stonewall slammed a vicious overhead, aiming for the shield itself. A terrible metallic pop resounded. Nick screamed, falling backward, a straight-line dent bisecting his shield, centered exactly on where his arm was strapped in on the other side.

Enough.

I brushed Dent’s mind, preparing to give the man an order that would break the rules of engagement. It was possible it wouldn’t trigger the magical contract in my inventory, if I was the one telling him to do so, or even register that I’d been the one to break it. But when I’d written out most of the consequences for our side on the triplicate, I’d pressed lightly. Meaning the ink hadn’t carried through to the contract paper and we’d face no repercussions whatsoever beyond what the ripple itself could dole out.

“Matt. This thing with Jinny.”

I shook my head. “It’s gonna get out one way or another.”

“Sure.” He bit his lip. “But if it doesn’t, promise you’re not going to help it along?”

I gritted my teeth, withdrawing from Dent. Throughout our entire friendship, I’d never been fully honest with Nick. Not until today. And when I’d told him it was important that we were different, that we held different beliefs and different rules, I meant it.

Idealists are frustrating. Infuriating as they are inflexible. They hold impossibly naïve positions, and equivocate, and split hairs, and get lost in pointless hypotheticals—often as the world burns down around them. And much as they’d like to believe otherwise, they’re anything but perfect. If anything, they’re more susceptible to despair and discouragement than the rest of us.

It’s that detachment from reality that makes people like me necessary in a crisis. The pragmatists, the mathematical monsters, the coldhearted bastards who believe good ends justify almost any means. The necessary evils. But if you take that as a license to smother the people who resist, who dare to hope, who wholeheartedly uphold the conviction that we don’t have to become monsters to destroy monsters, and genuinely, perhaps even stupidly, believe that things can be better?

When the crisis is over and the smoke fades, evil is all you’re left with.

Necessary and otherwise.

And if I interfered now and denied his wishes, the bond of trust we’d started to build would be null and forfeit. Even if he never knew it. I’d just be using him as another tool to meet my own ends.

Stonewall, tired of the drawn-out duel, attempted to end it. He drew his arm back and swung the blade at Nick’s neck, perfectly on target. Nick raised his shield too late, and the force of the coup de grâce landed entirely on the top of his shield, driving it into his forehead.

Nick somehow managed to roll away from the follow-up, awkwardly shoving himself up to his feet and teetering backward, barely regaining his balance. It was almost convincing.

Until his eyes flicked to the shadows at his side.

My jaw dropped.

Playing into Stonewall’s expectations of an untrained fighter. Faking it. But only to an extent. He still took one hell of a beating. Why?

All at once, it clicked. He’d done something similar before when we were fighting the swarms during the trial,

“Enough,” Stonewall said. He pointed his sword at Nick, still swaying on his feet. “The outcome is obvious. Yield and submit to judgment.”

“No point in surrendering a duel to the death,” Nick huffed, wiping blood from the corner of his mouth.

Stonewall studied him silently. “You are no Knight of the Round. Let alone worthy of Afallach’s inheritance.”

“So… you keep… telling me.”

“That being said. You fought against a superior opponent with bravery, honor, and integrity. And while you might not be one of us, you share, at the very least, a piece of our essence. It would bring no pleasure to slay you.” Stonewall looked up, observing the hall. “The terms are simple. One of us must die. But this place will not last forever.” He indicated the swirling shadows. “It is already coming undone, though it will be some time before we greet our final rest. Remain here with us and greet the void. That is the only courtesy I can grant you.”

“Sure. I get a nice quiet end, while Andre the Giant over there gets to finger paint with my friend’s aqueous fluid.” Nick glared at Dent with open contempt.

Stonewall did a long-suffering slow turn, holding a long look with his second that implied this was the first he’d heard of it, then announced, “Fulfilling such a brutish and dishonorable agreement won’t be necessary in any circumstance. Will it, Sir Kay?”

Dent looked down and away in an odd, sheepish manner that clashed with his considerable height. “Just having some fun, Gawain. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

“I’m sure.” Stonewall turned back to Nick. “And there you have it. Now. What is your answer?”

Nick seemed to recognize he was being offered genuine kindness. He nodded and took a moment to regain his breath. Then spoke. “Thanks. But… this is the first time in a long time I’ve felt like myself again. Even if it hurts, and it’s hard. I’m only here because people put their trust in me. Believed in the person they thought I was,” he glanced at me. “Fought like hell to save me from myself.” His eyes grew distant. “Loved me. Despite my flaws.”

Jinny’s shadow, the darkness that had clung to him ever since we’d reunited, ebbed away. A tear traced down his cheek.

“I don’t know if they’re right. Or hell, if I even deserve a fraction of it.” He looked up at Gawain. “But I owe it to them to try.”

“You… wish to continue the duel?” Gawain asked, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing.

The golden aura receded, coalescing into his shield, concentrating into a single white orb that was so bright it lit the entire room. I smiled despite the gravity of the situation. As always, I’d underestimated him. He’d worked within the rules of the duel and pushed a passive ability to the absolute limit. Every impact he’d weathered, hit he’d blocked, and lick he’d taken had been absorbed by the same ability he’d used in the trial—to tank the axe hit from the giant swarm and redirect the force back on the wielder. It was different now, an evolution or significantly advanced form of the original ability, and considering how it spread over his entire armor, it probably wasn’t limited to one blow.

Nick wiped the trickle of blood from the side of his mouth.

“I didn’t hear no bell.”