The silver Knight

"Is this a see-saw?" Giro muttered, his voice carrying a mix of frustration and determination. "Well, I've got no other choice!" Without hesitation, he hurled himself toward Raze, his fist poised for a decisive blow.

But Raze was ready. He caught Giro mid-air, locking him in an unyielding grip. Neither relented. They clashed like wild animals, grappling and thrashing as they tumbled down the slope together. Giro's fingers tangled in Raze's hair, yanking fiercely, while Raze's hands clamped down on Giro's cheeks, squeezing with raw, unthinking fury.

Their chaotic descent ended with a resounding crash against the stone wall. Dust and debris clouded the air as their bodies struck the surface, but Giro moved first. With a speed born of instinct, he regained his footing, his veil swirling ominously around him like a living shadow.

Raze barely had a chance to react before Giro's veil coiled itself around him, tightening with relentless force. The air grew heavy, stifling, as the veil closed in. Raze struggled, gasping for breath, but Giro's determination burned bright in his eyes—unyielding, implacable.

"I'll just knock you out, my friend!" Giro declared, his voice resolute as he tightened his focus.

Raze thrashed, his movements wild and desperate, as though bound by invisible strings. Giro's veil grew denser, its brilliance blinding, consuming the space around them. The struggle didn't last long. Raze's movements faltered, then stopped altogether. His body sagged, lifeless in the grip of unconsciousness.

Giro exhaled deeply, his shoulders slumping. He closed his eyes, brushing a hand across his face to clear his thoughts and steady his nerves. When he opened them again, his breath caught in his throat.

Where Raze had fallen moments ago now lay a completely different figure. The man was older, his appearance unsettlingly mundane. He had hair receding at the sides of his forehead, the first signs of baldness creeping in. His nose protruded sharply, giving his face an oddly angular look. He was dressed simply, in a white shirt tucked into neatly pressed black pants, his clean-shaven face adding to his strange, misplaced presence.

Giro blinked, his mind racing. How had this happened? The tall, unconscious man before him was no fighter, no warrior. He looked like he'd walked out of a business meeting and into a battlefield.

Giro took a step back, half-relieved and half-shocked. The realization hit him hard: this was no ordinary fight, and whatever was happening was far beyond his understanding.

"Why the tears, Pav? Looks like your opponent decided to clone himself just to mess with you!" came Raze's voice, light and mocking, from behind Giro.

Giro froze, the tension snapping him upright. He turned sharply, and there was Raze, standing casually with a hand resting on Giro's shoulder, a lopsided grin on his face.

"You little brat!" Giro barked, his voice echoing in the stillness. "For a moment, I was ready to eliminate you on the spot! What on earth are you doing here? And your fight—what happened to that?"

Raze tilted his head, the grin never faltering, his presence unsettlingly calm in the chaos around them. His eyes sparkled with amusement, as if the battlefield were nothing more than a stage for his antics.

"It was a piece of cake," Raze said with a casual shrug, his grin widening as the memory played out in his mind. He saw it again—the single, devastating punch that sent his opponent hurtling through the air, smashing through the temple wall and vanishing in a cloud of dust and debris. The smoke that had billowed skyward earlier, so ominous and dramatic, was his handiwork.

"And," he added, his tone teasing, his grin taking on a sharper edge, "if I'd been your real opponent, you'd have been done for. No question about it." His words hung in the air, laced with both mischief and certainty, as if daring Giro to argue otherwise.

"What was that?!" Giro snapped, grabbing a fistful of Raze's shirt, his face inches away, eyes blazing with frustration.

Raze, not one to back down, smirked and mirrored the gesture, seizing Giro's collar in return. For a moment, the two were locked in a tense standoff, their postures rigid and their grip firm. Then, as if fate itself had intervened to settle the dispute, they lost their footing.

The slope betrayed them, and they tumbled down together, a chaotic flurry of limbs and muffled curses. Their descent was unceremonious, a blur of dust and indignation, until they landed in a graceless heap—right on top of the unconscious businessman, who had only just been felled by Giro moments before.

"Guess this isn't the time for a fight," Giro muttered, brushing dust from his shirt and stepping back.

Raze tilted his head, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Oh, I see. You're afraid of me. Fair enough! We'll save it for later, then. But for now, let's focus on finishing this round!"

The tension between them dissipated, replaced by a shared determination. Both turned to face the looming wall before them, its surface rough and unyielding, their eyes scanning for a way forward. For a moment, neither spoke, their rivalry set aside as they silently prepared to confront whatever challenge lay ahead.

Deep within the maze, three figures faced one another in a grim tableau. The old man stood alongside Kaizen, their postures rigid and still as statues, eyes fixed on the figure before them. The air between them seemed to hum with the unspoken weight of their confrontation.

"I'll deal with him first," the old man said, his voice low and laced with defiance. He shifted his gaze to Kaizen, a wry smirk tugging at his weathered face. "And after that, it'll be your turn. Just don't get any ideas about stabbing me in the back while I'm busy with the one in front of us."

His tone was almost mocking, but his sharp eyes didn't stray from Kaizen, a flicker of mistrust dancing behind his words. Kaizen, silent as the shadows around him, looked at the short old man.

"I've no reason to strike you from behind, old man," Kaizen said, his voice steady but edged with urgency. His gaze flickered briefly to the opponent ahead before returning to the old man. "You're walking straight to your deathbed. Don't do it. Let me handle him instead."

There was no mockery in Kaizen's tone, only a quiet conviction. Yet his words hung in the air like a challenge, daring the old man to reconsider.

The old man raised his hands, and his veil unfurled around him—a swirling, opaque mist, shifting like storm clouds. It had the same eerie quality as the veils Kaizen had seen before, like those of Giro and Zane, but this one felt ancient, carrying the weight of forgotten knowledge.

"This veil," the old man began, his voice filled with a quiet pride, "is an ancient technique, one only known to my generation. It takes years of grueling training to master something like this. But as the years rolled on, it faded into obscurity, forgotten by the young. Your friend—what's his name? Giro? He wields something similar. I'd wager he trained under someone from my era."

He flexed his fists, and more of the mist spilled out, curling like smoke from a fire, filling the room until the air was thick with it. The old man stood tall, his pride radiating as tangibly as the veil itself.

Kaizen pushed his slightly waved curly hair back, his hand lingering as if the motion might steady his thoughts. He was taken aback, not by the old man's presence but by the sheer force of his veil, now spreading with an intensity Kaizen hadn't anticipated.

The old man moved without hesitation, launching himself forward with the speed of someone far younger. His target: the looming figure of Number 3.

"He might actually stand a chance," Kaizen muttered, though his tone betrayed uncertainty as his eyes tracked the old man's trajectory.

But the hope was short-lived. As the old man closed in, a deafening explosion shook the room. The ground beneath them fractured, shards of stone flying in all directions. When the dust began to settle, the old man lay sprawled across the floor, blood bubbling from his lips, his body battered and still.

The once-dense veil that had dominated the room dissipated like morning fog under the sun, retreating into nothingness.

Number 3 stepped forward, his blackened form glistening like oil under faint light. He stood over the fallen figure, silent and remorseless. Then, with a deliberate motion, he lashed out with a kick, sending the old man's body skidding sideways across the cracked floor. The sound echoed, sharp and final, as Kaizen stood frozen, watching the carnage unfold.

"You bastard!" Kaizen roared, his voice reverberating off the walls. Veins pulsed across his clenched fists, his fury radiating in waves. The room, meant to be cold and damp, was suffocatingly hot now—an oppressive heat emanating from Kaizen himself.

Number 3 stood still, the edges of his black hoodie stirring faintly in the heat. Beneath the hood, glimpses of black wraps shrouded his face, leaving only his mouth exposed—a silent, unyielding line. It was a sight meant to instill fear, to crush resistance. But Kaizen felt no fear. His rage consumed him entirely, dark shadows pooling over his eyes, hiding them from view.

With a guttural cry, Kaizen launched himself forward, his fist leading the charge, aimed directly at Number 3. The punch was swift, deadly—except it never landed.

Before Kaizen's blow could connect, his body was halted mid-air, and then, with a sickening force, he was driven into the ground. The floor beneath him splintered, cracks spidering out in all directions. Kaizen crumpled under the impact, his body battered, and for a moment, he was motionless.

The ground beneath him gave way entirely, collapsing into the icy floor below. Snow and frost covered this new level, a stark contrast to the chaos above. But the cold didn't last. The moment Kaizen hit the ground, the ice began to melt, steam rising around him as if the very air was rejecting his presence.

Kaizen groaned, staggering to his feet. His body bore the marks of his fall—scratches and bruises etched into his skin like a testament to the power he faced.

"His veil," Kaizen muttered, his voice strained as he fought to catch his breath. "Its pressure is on another level. I can't even get close to him." He stood there, battered but resolute, his fists still trembling with the echoes of his rage.