Two men stood facing each other in the middle of a vast courtyard surrounded by high stone walls — walls so old and cold they seemed to breathe silence. The faint wind that swept through the cracks carried a whisper, like the voice of ghosts echoing through forgotten halls. Dust hung in the air, mingling with the metallic scent of old iron. The stillness was so heavy that even the sound of their breathing felt loud, oppressive.
Under the dim, colorless light of a starless sky, the two locked eyes. Their gazes were like two flames burning in the dark — fierce, focused, and unyielding. They didn't speak. Words were unnecessary. The air between them trembled with hatred, tension, and the unspoken promise of violence.
The man with long white hair that reached his shoulders stood motionless, his cloak swaying faintly in the cold wind. His name was Sentrie. His face was calm, his expression unchanging. His eyes were sharp and hard, like tempered steel forged through countless battles. He stood like a man who had seen death many times — and had long since stopped fearing it.
Opposite him stood the other man — his hair blazing orange like fire in the night. He was the leader of the group, a man whose presence radiated aggression. His face was twisted in fury, his muscles tense, veins bulging along his neck and temples. The flame in his eyes burned with hatred so raw that it could have scorched the ground between them.
He clenched his jaw, the sound of his grinding teeth barely audible over the silence. Then, his voice burst forth, breaking the still air like thunder.
"Go to hell!"
The shout thundered through the courtyard, echoing off the stone walls. The fury in his voice carried weight — the kind that could shake even the most stoic hearts.
Without hesitation, the orange-haired man lunged forward. His movement was sharp, fluid, almost animalistic — like a predator striking its prey. His muscles coiled and released in perfect unison, his left hand clenching into a tight fist as he drove it forward with deadly precision.
The wind screamed as his punch tore through the air — a violent whoosh that sliced the silence apart.
Sentrie's cloak flapped from the sudden burst of motion, catching the wind like the wing of a raven. His body remained perfectly centered, unmoved, as though the chaos around him could not touch him. His eyes followed the incoming strike, cold and analytical, reflecting no emotion — not fear, not anger, not even disdain.
He didn't dodge. He didn't retreat.
At the very instant the orange-haired man's fist was about to make contact, Sentrie moved.
It happened too fast for the eye to follow. His arms rose in a swift, controlled motion, catching the oncoming blow with both forearms. The impact rang out — a heavy thud, like stone colliding with iron.
The shock rippled through both their bodies, vibrating up to their shoulders. But Sentrie did not falter. Using that very force, he twisted his wrist and redirected the momentum, channeling it into a precise counterstrike.
With a short, controlled motion, his other hand lashed out — striking the orange-haired man's left arm directly.
A sharp crack echoed through the courtyard, the sound of bone meeting force.
"Ouch!"
The cry burst from the man's throat, raw and pained. His face contorted as he staggered backward, his body twisting to the right in reflex. The pain spread like fire through his arm, numbing his fingers, stealing the strength from his grip.
He wavered, his balance breaking — like a tree bending too far in the wind.
And just as his body tilted dangerously, Sentrie moved again. His motion was silent, almost graceful, like a dancer trained in the rhythm of death. He shifted his weight and raised his left leg, the motion swift and controlled.
Then — he struck.
His foot snapped out in a tight arc, connecting cleanly with his opponent's foot. The contact was light but deliberate, enough to destroy the man's footing completely. The orange-haired man's body jerked, the loss of balance sending him stumbling further.
Sentrie's every movement carried precision — not power for the sake of destruction, but efficiency born of experience. There was no wasted motion, no unnecessary anger, no triumph in his expression. His breathing remained calm, his eyes sharp and emotionless.
The orange-haired man's breath came in ragged gasps, loud and uneven. The sound of his boots scraping against the stone ground mixed with the faint echoes of their movements. The courtyard fell silent again, as though time itself had paused to watch.
The dim torchlight flickered in the distance, casting long, distorted shadows across the ground. The shadows of the two men stretched and twisted — one standing tall and steady, the other trembling, on the verge of collapse.
The cold wind blew once more, carrying the faint scent of blood and dust. It brushed against the edge of Sentrie's cloak, making it sway gently, whispering like the low hum of an unseen force.
For a moment, neither of them moved. The tension was a living thing now — heavy, suffocating, pressing down on everything around them. Even the flames of the torches seemed to still, flickering slower, as though holding their breath.
In that silence, Sentrie's eyes gleamed faintly, like steel catching moonlight. He stood calm, unmoving, his aura quiet yet overwhelming. Across from him, the orange-haired man's body trembled, his arm hanging loosely by his side.
The fight was not yet over — but in that instant, the outcome was already clear.
The echo of the last strike still lingered in the cold air, fading slowly into silence — a silence so deep that it seemed to swallow sound itself.
And in that breathless stillness, the shadows of both men remained — one strong and unshaken, the other swaying like a flame about to go out.
The wind carried no mercy. The world stood still.
The battle had only just begun.
A thunderous impact broke through the still air —
the orange-haired man's face slammed violently into the cold, hard ground. The sound echoed across the empty stone courtyard, sharp and heavy, like a hammer striking bone. Dust and grit billowed around him, coating his skin and the strands of his disheveled orange hair. His cheek scraped against the rough stone, leaving a red mark that quickly turned darker with blood.
He groaned and pressed both palms flat on the ground, trying to push himself up. The stone beneath him was freezing, biting at his hands. His breaths came fast and ragged, each one trembling with fury and humiliation. A pulse throbbed visibly at his temple. His pride—his rage—burned hotter than the pain.
"You don't know who you're messing with!"
His voice tore through the air like the roar of a beast. The words carried both anger and wounded pride, echoing around the desolate place.
Blood dripped from his lip as he bit down hard, drawing more crimson from the corner of his mouth. His hand darted to his right hip, fingers closing around cold metal. In one swift motion, a flash of silver appeared—the gleam of a knife catching the last rays of dying sunlight.
The world seemed to still for an instant. Then came movement.
The orange-haired man surged forward, his boots striking the stone with a harsh rhythm. The air around him trembled with the force of his motion. His eyes burned with pure intent—murderous, unrestrained. He lunged at Sentrie like a wild predator that had nothing left to lose.
The blade shot toward Sentrie's chest, swift and merciless. The wind whistled sharply as the knife sliced through the air, the sound almost like a whisper of death.
But Sentrie did not panic. His movements were precise, calm, almost graceful.
He tilted his body just slightly to the left, enough to let the knife pass by without touching him. The cold air brushed against his chest where the blade missed. In that same instant, Sentrie's left elbow came up sharply, driving straight into the orange-haired man's face.
The impact landed with a dull, solid crack! that sent vibrations through the air.
The man's head snapped to the side, blood bursting from his nose and lips. The metallic tang filled the air, heavy and suffocating.
But—
Even in pain, the orange-haired man refused to give up.
Through the haze of dizziness, he saw a brief opening—a split second where Sentrie's guard was low.
He tried to stab again, aiming for Sentrie's arm this time. The knife gleamed as it thrust forward, desperate and deadly.
Sentrie reacted instantly. He pulled back just in time, the blade grazing past his sleeve and slicing a shallow line across his arm. Blood welled up from the wound, but he didn't even flinch. His eyes stayed locked on his opponent—sharp, unyielding, and ice-cold.
He took one measured step back, assessing. Watching. Waiting.
The orange-haired man stood opposite him, panting hard, blood dripping from his nose. He lifted a trembling hand and wiped it away, smearing the red across his cheek. His breathing was harsh, but his grin—twisted and wild—never faded.
The air between them grew heavy, thick with tension. Neither moved.
Even the faintest sounds—the wind, the rustle of dust—seemed to vanish.
And then—
A single sound shattered that silence.
BANG!
The gunshot cracked through the air like lightning. Its echo rang across the stone walls, bouncing from one surface to another.
Sentrie heard the bullet before he saw it—the shrill, slicing sound of air being torn apart. His senses screamed a warning, but his body could not move in time.
The bullet struck him square in the center of his torso.
"Ugh—"
The force drove him back a step. Blood burst from the wound, splattering the ground in dark, uneven drops. It hit the stone with soft, rhythmic taps. His cloak fluttered slightly with the impact, then stilled.
Pain radiated through him like fire. Yet his expression did not change.
His eyes remained calm—cold as ever.
Slowly, he turned toward the direction of the shot.
About two meters away stood a young black-haired man, his hands trembling as he held the smoking gun. The faint light glinted off the barrel, still hot from the shot. His expression was one of disbelief—he hadn't expected Sentrie to still be standing.
For a moment, time froze.
The world seemed to hold its breath. Even the wind dared not move.
Sentrie's eyes lifted slightly, locking onto the man's face. There was nothing human in that gaze anymore—no anger, no pain. Only a chilling void, as if he had already stepped beyond the boundary between life and death.
Then—he moved.
The sound of his footsteps cut through the silence, sharp and measured.
He pushed forward—each stride stronger than the last, faster than the eye could follow.
The black-haired man gasped. His eyes widened as the shadow of Sentrie closed in.
Before he could even raise his weapon again, Sentrie was upon him.
His arms wrapped around the man's neck in a single, fluid motion.
The gun clattered to the ground.
The man struggled—his fingers clawing at Sentrie's arms, gasping for air that would not come. His boots scraped desperately against the stone floor.
Sentrie's grip tightened. The muscles in his arms tensed like coiled steel.
A faint cracking sound echoed—a subtle, dreadful snap—as the man's breath caught in his throat.
The courtyard fell silent again.
Sentrie stood there, unmoving. His own blood still dripped steadily from the hole in his torso, each drop landing on the ground with a soft, dreadful rhythm. The air smelled of iron, gunpowder, and dust.
The flickering torchlight from afar cast long shadows across the floor.
Two silhouettes stretched together—one standing tall, one trembling and still.
The shadows merged, frozen in a haunting image that would remain long after the sound had faded.
No words.
No cries.
Only the sound of slow, heavy breathing… and the faint drip of blood meeting stone.
And then—even that faded away.
Silence consumed everything once more.