Cling—

  Clang—

  Clash—

  Steel howls through the air. Sparks burst from each impact, scattering like fireflies in a dust storm. Two figures flicker across the marble floor in a blur—blades colliding, fire blasting through the fog—until a sudden gust snuffs the chaos.

  Then—silence.

  Dust hovers in the aftermath, curling like smoke across blood-slick stone. For a heartbeat, the throne room holds its breath. Sunlight strains through the stained glass dome above, casting fractured beams over the wreckage below.

  Out of the fog, they emerge.

  On one side: a young man, white-haired, chest heaving, sweat trailing down his pale skin in rivulets. His sword hangs in a firm grip, its edge trembling—but his gaze doesn’t waver. Amber-red eyes burn, locked forward.

  Opposite him: a masked figure, statuesque, draped in long flowing robes and ethereal garments. His blade rests by his side, unmoved. A phantom of control. His presence exudes an unnatural calmness, as if physics itself was bent to accommodate him.

  Bodies lie scattered around them—knights, mages, even clerics—torn apart like paper dolls. The scent of blood stains the air, heavy and metallic, and the ground littered with debris.

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  Still, neither side moves.

  Frozen in place, they stand locked in intense silence.

  Then, the silence breaks.

  The masked figure utters the first words. His voice is deep, composed, and calculated—like a machine, devoid of emotion.

  “Interesting. To think that a corrupted soul could ascend this high, and still exist in this realm for so long. You’ve lasted far longer than projected.”

  The young man stays silent.

  His sword stays raised, steady and unwavering, aimed directly at him. His amber-red eyes stay locked, unblinking—tracking every movement for the slightest opening.

  The masked figure approaches slowly. Each step taps the marble, echoing through the stillness.

  “Let me ask you,” he continues, “how much did you have to suffer and sacrifice, in order to get this far? How much of yourself, did you have to overwrite?”

  Still, the young man doesn’t speak.

  He lowers into a guarded stance, shifting his right foot back, moving the guard of his sword closer to his face, as he angles his body. The tip of the blade aiming sharply at his opponent—ready to strike.

  The masked figure stops a few meters in front of him.

  “You're afraid,” he says flatly. “You mask it well. But I can sense the fear in your eyes, the slight shaking of your body. I sense it all.”

  The young man’s grip tightens. Closing his eyes, his body loosens, but still guarded, as he takes a deep breath. Then looks back up.

  Then, he finally breaks his silence.

  “Are you always this chatty?” he smiles, voice laced with venom. “Or is this just part of your so-called update log?”

  The masked figure’s presence grows heavier.

  A dark aura surrounds his entire being, enveloping the room in a thick miasma.

  He lifts his sword up, crackling bolts of electricity coils around his blade as he points back at him.

  “Your fear contradicts your bravery. It is illogical. You are a virus—a glitch in the system. You must be purged.”

  [New Objective: Defeat The Administrator.]