The silver Knight

A man, designated as number 16, stood in the narrow, icy pathway, his gaze fixed on the window. The view beyond revealed a stark expanse of pale sky and snow-laden peaks. He was at the topmost level of the fighting maze, where the air was thin and sharp, biting at his lungs with every breath. The cold was relentless, clinging to the jagged rocky walls that surrounded him, their surfaces glazed with frost.

He breathed heavily, each exhale clouding the air in front of him. The suffocation was not just physical; it pressed down on him, a weight he couldn't shake. Uncertain and restless, the lean man shifted his gaze from the window to the darkened path ahead. He hesitated, then stepped forward, his boots crunching softly against the frozen ground.

Ahead of him, the path spiraled down in a circular descent, a series of roughly fifty steps carved into the cold stone. At the very center, where the steps coiled to their lowest point, a figure stood shrouded in shadow. From the man's body, a strange purplish mist began to rise, curling upward in thick, ghostly tendrils. The vapor followed the curve of the steps, spreading as it climbed, wrapping itself around the entire spiral like an ominous veil.

The man at the top froze, his breath hitching. The sight sent a shiver through him, and his thoughts tumbled into doubt. Surely, his earlier prediction—his confident assumption—must be wrong. Surely, this couldn't be what he thought it was. Yet, the growing mist seemed to mock him, creeping closer, as if daring him to reconsider.

He began his descent, his movements deliberate and unhurried, though his heart quickened with every step. In the hollow of his palm, his veil stirred to life, shimmering faintly in the cold air. A smirk tugged at his lips as the veil coalesced into small, sharp-edged black cards, sleek and glinting like obsidian. He plucked one between his fingers, the gesture almost casual, and with a swift flick of his wrist, sent it hurtling through the air.

The card sliced through the dense, purplish mist, leaving a clean, sharp path in its wake. As it soared, the cloud seemed to recoil, breaking apart midair like brittle leaves crumbling under the weight of time. He paused, watching the effect, the last fragments of doubt fading from his mind.

So, it was Zane. Of course, it was always going to be Zane.

He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, each hand poised near the opposite ear, fingers curling as if drawing strength from the stillness. The air around him seemed to hold its breath. Slowly, deliberately, he summoned his veil again. From the shimmer of nothingness, two cards emerged—one bearing the proud, stern face of a king, the other the enigmatic gaze of a queen.

With a sudden, decisive motion, he uncrossed his arms, the X-shape unfurling like a blade being drawn. The cards shot forward as his hands moved apart, their edges sharp enough to cleave through the encroaching darkness. The oppressive gloom that surrounded him fell away, sliced cleanly as if it had never been. The space around him brightened, not with light, but with a clarity born of his defiance.

The cards soared through the air toward Zane, but something faltered. The queen card dissolved mid-flight, disintegrating into a flurry of faint, dark sparks. The king card, though it held its course, lost its strength and came to rest, hovering weakly in front of Zane's neck, its edges trembling as if suspended by a fragile thread. It began to tilt, poised to fall.

The man's eyes narrowed. He couldn't waste this fleeting opportunity. With a sharp intake of breath, he summoned more cards, conjuring them in rapid succession until nearly every finger held a blade-thin edge. He threw them with precision and fury, launching the assault.

The cards wove together in flight, forming the shape of a bird—a jagged, deadly silhouette cutting through the oppressive darkness. Its beak gleamed like a dagger, razor-sharp and unerring, plunging toward Zane with the merciless inevitability of a predator closing in on its prey.

The man's laughter echoed hollowly in the stone chamber as he adjusted the oval spectacles perched precariously on his sweating nose. His confidence filled the air like an oppressive fog, thick and suffocating. But then, mid-laugh, his expression froze, his mouth flattening into a thin, bloodless line.

The bird's beak, once a symbol of sharp finality, began to split down the middle. The cause—a single card, the king he had thrown moments earlier, now bearing a grotesque skull in place of its regal figure. With a quiet, deliberate motion, it sliced cleanly through the bird's form, severing it into two perfect halves.

As the bird dissolved into fragments, the scattered cards withered like dying embers, drawn into the darkness as if devoured by it. The man's knees buckled beneath him, the weight of dread and failure pulling him down. He tumbled clumsily on the stone steps, each movement swallowed by the encroaching shadows.

What followed was silence—heavy, impenetrable. From that moment, no one could say what became of him.

Meanwhile, deep within the heart of the temple maze, a thunderous explosion shattered the tranquil daylight. The force of the blast sent a plume of thick, ashen smoke spiraling upward, its dark tendrils curling against the bright sky like an ominous stain. From the heart of the eruption, a figure was flung outward, his body hurtling through the air, silhouetted against the glaring sun. He fell with a heavy thud, limbs sprawled lifelessly as the haze of destruction rolled outwards. It was a grim scene, made all the more jarring by the stark clarity of daylight.

Somewhere else, on a steep, winding slope, two figures stood, one looking down upon the other. Raze descended with the force of a storm, his eyes gleaming a fierce red, his hands glowing a fiery orange. Number 894 was sent skidding backward once again, his body trembling, tears welling up in his eyes, a silent testament to the pain he endured. Giro stood frozen, unable to grasp the full weight of what was happening. Could one of them really be eliminated?

Raze and Giro had made a pact when they first crossed paths here—an unspoken agreement that, despite their friendship, they would give everything in the fight. But now, as the fight raged on, Giro found himself unable to bring himself to strike his friend, even as Raze pummeled him relentlessly. Raze landed blow after blow, ten hits in all, each one a challenge meant to provoke Giro, to force him to push beyond his hesitation. But Giro couldn't. No matter how hard Raze tried, he couldn't make his friend give it his all.

"Grrr... oii, I don't want to do this, damn it!" Giro muttered under his breath, his body aching from the blows Raze had dealt him. "Whatever, I'll give it my all!" And with that, he surged forward, running up the slope, pushing through the sharp sting of pain that racked his muscles, both from the physical assault and the weight of the mental battle he waged with himself.

Raze, with a speed that seemed almost unnatural, shot toward him once more, his fist aimed squarely at Giro's face. It was a blow that would have shattered his nose, a strike that promised nothing less than pain. But Giro didn't flinch. In a fluid motion, he bent backward, his body forming a perfect arc, a taut "C" shape that allowed Raze's punch to sail just inches away from his nose.

Giro's eyes tracked Raze's movements—first the punch, then the arm, and then Raze's entire form as it swept past him, too fast to catch. Finally, the feet—feet that would've crushed him, but now were within his reach.

Without thinking, Giro seized Raze's leg, using his own momentum to pull him upward, forcing the larger fighter into the air. His veil, slow at first, began to spread around him like a dark mist, an echo of Zane's power, expanding, suffusing the air with a quiet, overwhelming presence. With a single, fluid motion, he hurled Raze back, sending him crashing into the very path from which he had come.

"Heyy!" Raze shouted as he was sent tumbling backward, his body hurtling through the air. Giro, not wasting a second, followed him, his own veil unfurling around him like a thick mist, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. He soared through the air, propelled by the power of his veil, his focus unwavering as he kept his gaze fixed on Raze.

Raze crashed at the top of the slope, the earth beneath him shaking with the impact. But Giro was already there, standing in front of him, his form rising from the shadows like a figure born from the depths of the earth itself.

For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to still. Raze stood looking down at Giro, the slope beneath him tilting him in a position of dominance. But then, in the blink of an eye, the ground shifted—tumbling beneath their feet in a way that felt almost deliberate, as if the very earth itself was part of their struggle.

In the next instant, the roles reversed. Giro was no longer looking up at Raze. Now, he stood tall, looking down, his feet steady on the shifting ground. Raze, fighting to maintain his balance, had no choice but to plant his feet firmly, his body straining against the incline, desperate not to slip.