The purple storm tore through the plain.
The arcs of dissonance left behind by Nar'so still lingered in the air—unstable curves, impossible trajectories, as if space itself had forgotten how to obey its own laws. Where they passed, Nyama did not scatter. It vanished.
Diala slid across the ground, one knee hitting hard, her breath knocked from her chest. Her spear vibrated violently, saturated by an impact she had failed to fully deflect. Behind her, the golden gazelle reformed slowly, denser than before, less fluid, its light struggling to stabilize.
She lifted her head.
Nar'so had not moved.
He stood there, slightly tilted, as if observing an equation still unfinished. Around him, the Shadows had changed. They were sharper now. More precise. Their regeneration was not faster—it was colder, cleaner, stripped of hesitation.
"Interesting…" Nar'so said.
His voice was neither loud nor deep. It was flat. Stable. As if it did not need emphasis to exist.
Diala pushed herself up, planting the tip of her spear into the ground for support.
"You erased my men," she said. "That wasn't an attack. That was a demonstration."
Nar'so inclined his head.
"Correction. I showed you what happens when harmony meets something that no longer seeks to be repaired."
He raised his hand slightly.
The ground vibrated a fraction of a second later—too late to anticipate. Diala leapt sideways, rolling between two purple arcs that folded into each other behind her in absolute silence.
No explosion.
No shock.
Just… absence.
Where the arcs crossed, the ground was no longer cracked.
It was missing.
"He doesn't destroy," Diala realized as she rose. "He removes."
She sent her gazelle forward.
The totem spirit surged ahead, slicing through the air in a perfect curve and striking Nar'so square in the chest.
This time, the impact landed.
Nar'so stepped back half a pace.
His torso split slightly, revealing an unstable network of purple lines beneath the surface. The dark Nyama pulsed, uneven.
A murmur rippled across the battlefield.
On the Terrace of Roots, Sirani clenched her teeth.
"She hit him."
Around her, her squad held JARA at the brink. The lines of the Root Network vibrated so violently they burned beneath the skin. Every pulse sent toward the front was immediately contested by Nar'so's dissonance.
"Ten more beats," Sirani ordered. "Not one less."
At the command post, Kani Sira's falcons split abruptly, their visions fragmenting as they tried to track the multiple purple arcs.
"I can't stabilize his image," she said. "He's not… coherent. Even from above."
Nana nodded.
"Because he doesn't want to be."
On the battlefield, Nar'so examined the裂 along his chest.
He placed two fingers against it.
The line closed slowly—but not completely.
"You forced the dissonance," he said. "Interesting. Few humans can touch me without being erased."
Diala inhaled deeply.
"You talk a lot for someone who claims to have accepted rupture."
A brief silence.
Then Nar'so smiled.
Not a human smile.
An adjustment.
"Harmony likes to speak. It justifies. It explains. Dissonance observes. But sometimes… it comments."
He stepped forward.
This time, Diala did not retreat.
She changed angle.
Instead of charging head-on, she pivoted, slipping beneath a purple arc, exploiting the instant when the dissonance had to fold back into itself. Her spear struck again—lower, sharper.
Nar'so raised his arm too late.
The blade cut into his side.
Purple spilled out, thicker now, almost liquid.
Nar'so grimaced.
A real sign of pain.
Inside the Grand Tree Hall, Sambaké clenched his fist.
"She's wounding him."
Famory remained still, eyes unblinking.
"Yes. And she's learning."
Diala staggered back two steps, breathing hard. Her arm trembled. Each contact with the dark Nyama left a strange sensation—not a burn, but a hollowing in the flow of her own energy.
"This isn't power," she understood. "It's a decision."
Nar'so slowly lifted his head.
"You finally understand. Dark Nyama is not an added force. It is the refusal to fix what is broken."
He extended his hand.
The purple storm changed.
The arcs stopped flying at random. They began to rotate, to spiral around him, forming a moving structure—almost elegant.
"You seek harmony," Nar'so said calmly. "I accepted dissonance."
He vanished.
Not speed.
Erasure.
Diala felt the impact before she saw the movement. She raised her spear on instinct, blocking an arc that appeared from the side. The blow slammed her into the ground.
Blood ran down her arm.
She grimaced—but stood up immediately.
"DONSO!" she shouted without turning. "Hold your positions! Don't look at him—feel him!"
The Donso obeyed. Not all. Not perfectly. But enough to avoid collapse.
Nar'so reappeared behind her.
This time, the strike landed.
A purple wave hit her head-on, hurling her against a rock. The golden gazelle shattered for an instant before reforming, weaker.
Nar'so observed.
"You're still standing. Interesting."
Diala spat blood and smiled despite herself.
"I'm Captain of Do. You'll need more than that."
A tense silence followed.
On the Terrace of Roots, Sirani felt her legs almost give out.
"JARA won't hold much longer…" someone whispered.
Sirani closed her eyes for a single beat.
"Then we hold until it breaks."
On the battlefield, Nar'so inclined his head.
"Very well. Let us continue."
The purple storm swelled again.
And this time, Diala did not retreat.
The duel had truly begun.
The storm suddenly contracted.
The arcs stopped circling and converged toward Diala, drawn to her like shards of glass pulled into a central void. The ground lifted in places—not as debris, but as absent zones, as if parts of the plain had been erased before they could even break.
Diala breathed in deeply.
She felt her Nyama hesitate.
Not weaken.
Hesitate.
"So this is what it feels like…" she thought. "When the world refuses to answer."
Nar'so advanced slowly, unhurried. With each step, the arcs realigned, correcting their paths, adapting to Diala's movements as if learning in real time.
"You keep imposing your rhythm," he said calmly. "Even wounded. Even cornered."
Diala bared her teeth.
"Because if I stop… my people die."
She threw her spear.
Not to kill.
To test.
The blade tore through the air and struck Nar'so's shoulder. This time, the impact was deeper. Purple burst outward in an unstable spray, throwing Nar'so back two steps.
He dropped to one knee.
A breath swept across the front.
On the Terrace of Roots, a Donso whispered, "He fell…"
Sirani shook her head. "No. Look."
Nar'so placed a hand on the ground.
Purple spread beneath his fingers like living ink, redrawing his posture, reinforcing his balance. He rose slowly—but something had changed.
His breathing was no longer perfectly steady.
A fracture lingered at his shoulder.
"Interesting…" he said. "You force harmony to survive in a space that rejects it."
Diala reclaimed her spear, point low.
"And you," she replied, "spend a lot of effort for someone who claims not to repair anything."
Nar'so stared at her.
For a moment.
Then, without warning, he vanished again.
Diala turned too late.
A wave struck her side, shattering her guard and sending her rolling several meters. She stopped on one knee, gasping, her left arm numb.
Her gazelle flickered.
The totem did not collapse—but its light dimmed, as if struggling to remain present.
"Captain!" Arbi shouted from afar.
"Hold the line!" she answered without looking back.
Nar'so reappeared in front of her.
Closer this time.
Too close.
He raised his hand.
But Diala struck first.
She drove her spear into the ground and used the recoil to launch herself forward, body to body, ignoring the pain. Her palm slammed into Nar'so's chest.
The impact was brutal.
Purple exploded outward.
Nar'so was hurled back, crashing into a rock that fractured under the blow.
He lay still for one second.
Then another.
Inside the Grand Tree Hall, Kani Sira held her breath.
"He's… destabilized. His flow isn't continuous anymore."
Famory allowed himself a brief smile.
"She's forcing him to exist in a fight he wanted to keep abstract."
Nar'so rose slowly.
This time, without speaking.
His purple aura tightened around him—less expansive, denser—abandoning spatial domination to reinforce his own body.
"You're adapting your tempo," he finally said. "That's dangerous."
Diala spat blood, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Welcome to Do."
They faced each other.
Two philosophies.
Two refusals.
On the Terrace of Roots, Sirani felt JARA tremble violently.
"A few more beats…" she whispered. "After that, we won't be able to hold."
On the plain, the wind shifted.
The purple storm and the golden gazelle stood facing one another.
Neither stepped back.
Not yet.