Kavlina sits on her bed, restless and unable to sleep. The gears in her prosthetic arm shifts and clicks in sync with the steady rhythm of her heartbeat. She doesn’t have a job lined up on her schedule, but she’s fully dressed in her tight-fitting black suit and cloak, leaving only her mask by her side. Even her blade is inserted into place, her fingers caressing the flat surface in boredom and habit.

She’s thinking of that day again. The day when Tevlaia was stabbed cleanly through the stomach, his cold blade trickled with her blood. She has vowed to kill him, but what of that vow? Tarak is dead, Tevlaia is dead, and all she has to show are the countless corpses of pawns in a show of supposed justice. Until he’s dead, she should not allow herself rest.

Her mind swirls and shifts, unable to settle into silence, her foot tapping the ground as if to move at a moment’s notice. Her senses are stubbornly sharp, with even the usual flow of saliva pricking her tongue. Where she can usually force herself to fall asleep after a certain period of time, her entire body is on edge, refusing to relax even under the comfortable coolness of the night.

She can hear the shuffling of people outside, clamoring and shouting, their words all combined into a mess of sounds, growing louder with each passing moment. Strange considering it’s in the middle of the night, even for the usually rowdy slums. She can hear irregular footsteps, a rough voice protesting, doors slamming… and among it all, a blade screeching as it drags against the ground.

She instinctively slips out of the door, climbing atop the roof made of rusted metal. From that relative vantage spot, she sees an increasing amount of people being pushed about, dispersing and forming mobs and crowds, only to be dispersed once more. A panicking mother dragging her bloodied child by the arm, an unfortunate man tripping over himself before being swiftly trampled by others behind him, another man flailing about as his clothes are caught on fire, presumably from a flame lamp nearby… These people, displaced by the war, are once again driven out of the dumps they temporarily call home. And Kavlina still cannot see the source of such chaos.

A band of ten or so muscular men appear, brandishing knives, old pistols, sticks, and other tools Kavlina can only address as pathetic. She assumes they are a part of one of the many gangs in the area, and being territorial as they are, it’s only natural (although a bit ironic) that they step out like police aiming to restore order.

One of them shouts, raising his pistol and aiming it, albeit poorly, at some figures a good distance before him. Kavlina can only see shadows, but they seem oddly familiar…

A shot echoes through the narrow alleyways of the slums, its ring immediately jolting Kavlina into realization. She has heard of these crisp sounds before, so deafening on a battlefield four years ago and in frantic, irregular intervals a few days ago when she had killed Los. The man, so loud and brave earlier, now crumples to the ground, smoke billowing from his head with blood following rapidly behind.

A shot from a standard issue New Rule infantry rifle.

All is silent for a moment, the men stunned as they look at the fresh corpse in front of them. Then, a thundering, uniform sound, made with the clicking of many boots as they step onto the ground. And another. And another. In steady rhythm the boots advance, and eventually, Kavlina sees the first row of New Rule soldiers, dressed in heavy armor as they advance in a shield wall. The second row follows closely behind, alternating between rifle-bearing and shield-bearing infantry. Then a third. A fourth. They march in unison, completely unfazed as they approach the men frozen in shock.

Without warning, a soldier fires a second shot, killing another man. The gangsters finally flee, only to find their only escape route blocked by another shield wall. The soldiers’ faces hide behind the emotionless visors of their helmets, a mass of blank, robotic figures as they systematically push in. Eventually, the remaining eight men, along with a small crowd of unfortunate individuals, are hemmed into an intersection.

Kavlina turns away, darting towards another roof. There is simply no saving that group with so many heavily armored soldiers. Soldiers appearing in the slums as individuals are a common sight, but such a large unit, perhaps numbering a company in size, are likely here for a concrete mission. It won’t be a surprise if they have finally discovered her whereabouts, dispatched to dispose of her. After all, she has killed a good number of officers already, and it’s only natural for any military to investigate the deaths of its commanders.

But it is quite stupid to appear in a large, loud group when supposedly attacking stealthily in the middle of the night, isn’t it?

She lands, her feet making a soft click as they contact the roof tiles. Yet what she sees on the intersection below is a similar sight, the malnourished, weak denizens of the slums completely surrounded by heavily armored soldiers, terrified yet making nothing more than whimpers. She jumps to yet another roof and is received with yet another scene. Another, and still the same.

Four intersections near her dwelling are infested with those troops numbering around one hundred, trapping a total of around forty people. People who she doesn’t know, people whose deaths will mean little to her. It will be easy to escape, her agility far superior to those soldiers encumbered in armor.

And yet, for some reason, she subconsciously urges herself to stay, as if it is her duty to protect the denizens below… or some reason unknown.

Somehow, that thought reminds her of someone pleasant she once knew.

A gunshot rings across the now-empty streets. Her eyes quickly find the source of the sound: a soldier with his rifle aimed at the ground, smoke wafting out from the muzzle. Different from the rest of the group, the soldier is dressed in the usual standard issue armor of the New Rule, the helmet lightly decorated with marks and strokes that, combined together, resembles a “K”.

And behind that soldier is a tall, imposing figure, dressed completely in a suit of white armor, holding a sword all too familiar for Kavlina. The sword once tainted with the blood of Tevlaia, of Tarak, and many more. The sword that so nearly ended Kavlina’s own life. The sword wielded by the one person she has sworn to kill for nearly five years.

The Anapadeia.

After so long, Avalel has shown himself before Kavlina once again, even if he is still hiding behind that blank helmet of his as he had back then at the battle of Thille. The purity, smoothness of his armor, washed and erased of any crime he has committed, the traces of his murders and betrayals nowhere to be seen. A disgusting depiction of brilliance, a dazzling display of shamelessness… and nothing of the corruption that the armor houses within.

How often has she dreamed of tearing that facade apart, to tear him into shreds, leaving his dismembered corpse to rot in an empty field, forever forgotten and consumed by the heartless earth. How often has she imagined driving her blade through his torso, delivering the exact retribution he had once impaled upon Tarak and Tevlaia. Yet reality has denied her the opportunity until this very day.

He is the undisputed President of the New Rule, praised by the masses and leader of millions. She is the Black Maiden, shrouded in mystery as she lurks alone in the slums. He displays himself in a suit of white armor, revealing his majesty and power for all to see. She dresses herself in cheap black clothing, appearing only to deliver death before she hides herself again. He brings forth light and order. She brings darkness and chaos.

And yet one is consumed with hypocrisy and guilt, the other merely acting to her raw vengeance and will.

Years later, she stares at that helmeted face again, and unlike the previous encounter, he has entered her familiar territory.

“We are here for the Black Maiden,” Avalel announces, his voice projected through his helmet into almost a roar.

Slowly, he steps through the ranks of his soldiers, entering the space in the middle before he approaches a particularly terrified and confused man. A light tap, directing the unfortunate victim’s eyes towards his shoulder, and hovering above it, the Anapadeia itself.

“If any of you here know the Black Maiden’s exact whereabouts, perhaps you may lend us a hand? If not, then maybe I’ll simply take a hand. Or an arm, for good measure.”

This is strange. There is no cold bloodlust in his voice, and despite the sword being in a dangerous position, it seems to be used more as a bluff than a threat. It’s almost as if he’s avoiding killing any more people, completely unnatural in Kavlina’s perception of the corrupted Avalel.

“The Black Maiden… who?” the man asks, letting the words trail out of his mouth. Kavlina cannot blame him, for many of the slums’ denizens do not even know of her existence, nevermind such a name invented by the soldiers of the Confederation and the New Rule.

Alas, that is not an acceptable answer.

Pausing for a moment, Avalel lowers the Anapadeia, moving it away from the man with much effort. “I… do not blame you for this answer.” Every word is articulated with audible pain. “After all… I am only here to defeat the Black Maiden. By myself. No one here should die but her by my own blade. At least… that is what I want. Not what it wants.”

Before Kavlina can even make sense of Avalel’s baffling speech, another gunshot is fired. The man before Avalel falls backwards, dropping to the floor with a dull thud.

“I do not want to kill all of you with my blade,” Avalel says with a tinge of regret. “However, as long as there is a way to force her out without bloodying my hands, then I give my troops the authorization needed to do so.”

What even is this logic? The twisted mind of one bathed in war, washing his hands as if he is completely innocent to every death not caused by his own hand. Fitting for the cold-blooded murderer who pierced his blade cleanly through Tarak’s stomach years ago.

Why am I still just standing here?

Her mind blurs as her body suddenly springs into action. Energy rushes to her limbs as she leaps off the roof, the blood dancing inside her veins as if they are on fire. A thin layer of energy coats and reinforces her blade, now crackling as the wires inside go into overload.

For a moment, she sees Avalel turn his head, raising the Anapadeia to parry, the gem shining with fury…

The two blades clash, sending splinters of energy in all directions. Before she even lands, Kavlina swings her knife, aiming at the opening created from her first strike. Avalel instinctively steps back, his armor barely grazing against the knife’s short, sharpened blade. With her initial attacks thwarted, Kavlina also darts back, creating ample distance between the two of them.

Standing behind her are the frightened denizens of the slums, some seeing her dark silhouette for the first time. The Black Maiden, allegedly responsible for the assassinations of many officers and the bringer of chaos, now stand like a protective shield in front of literal strangers.

Just as Avalel claims to do for the people of the New Rule.

What a touch of irony.

“The target has arrived,” Avalel says. “Escort the innocents out.”

A squad of soldiers suddenly rush in between Kavlina and the group of people, gradually pushing them out, while a second squad points their heavy shields at Kavlina, reinforcing the shield wall. Soon, only Avalel and Kavlina remain inside the wall, the ring of shields forming a shape not unlike the fighting arenas of old, the emotionless soldiers taking the place of spectators.

“So you’re the Black Maiden,” Avalel articulates slowly, as if to announce the entry of the next challenger. “Let me ask you: how many officers have you killed?”

Kavlina remains silent. She has no need to answer as a subordinate will to their master. And even if she did, she has already lost count.

“I assume your final aim is to kill the respective leaders of the Confederation and the New Rule, correct? For once I or Nasition dies, our respective factions will likely collapse into chaos.”

I am only here for your head. But will he even remember her cause? For one who has likely killed thousands of innocents, why will he remember one friend felled by his own blade?

“I assume I won’t be receiving any answer. Ah well, I’ll simply tell you why I’m here instead.” He takes a step forward before assuming an offensive stance, his sword pointed directly at Kavlina. “I am the savior, the protector of my people, including my military’s precious officers. It is only natural for me to engage you in a proper duel, to defeat you in the witness of my soldiers and avenge those fallen by your hand.” His words are said with confidence, yet Kavlina can feel a tinge of unease within his strong tone, of hesitation under his powerful visage.

She scoffs. Somehow, over the past few years, Avalel’s cold confidence has diminished, lacking even the barest of killing intent, unlike her memory of him from the Battle of Thille.

While his murderous nature has seemingly decreased, Kavlina’s hatred has only developed along with her martial skill.

She suddenly dashes forward, her blade lunging forward in a daring attack. As expected, he switches to a defensive stance, parrying her move with an efficient, controlled swing. Even so, a tiny opening is created. Her right arm suddenly approaches him, the knife slipping through the gap in his guard.

A mere knife cannot do anything to metal armor. Yet in every suit of armor, there is always at least one slit exposing the fabric underneath. Energy-absorbing material, although almost completely resistant to energy blasts, is weak to melee thrusts or slices. For Kavlina who has honed her skills on extremely close combat, seeing such an opening is almost amateurish in her eyes.

A slash from the Anapadeia. Kavlina immediately jumps back, her blade just deflecting Avalel’s counterattack as her knife grazes his elbow. A bit too close for comfort. Regaining her footing, she swings her blade at the Anapadeia before Avalel can switch stances, knocking him temporarily off balance.

Another opening. This is almost too predictable. Locking blades against the Anapadeia with her blade, pinning it aside, she lunges forward, her knife poised for a gap in Avalel’s neck armor. Tiny, but if she can just wedge the knife’s precise blade through, then it’ll be over. A layer of energy concentrates around the small weapon, strengthening the steel to its absolute maximum. Barely any time into the duel, and she’ll have achieved her goal.

It’s just too easy…

And then she finds her knife stabbed into Avalel’s left palm, lodged inside and stuck to the hand. Some of the observing soldiers flinch. Blood trickles out of the wound, yet the knife refuses to budge. It’s stuck.

“Heh.” She can barely make out a pained chuckle from her enemy. A twist, further complicating the wound, yet able to wring the weapon away from Kavlina’s grasp. And in that moment of distraction, she releases her pin on the Anapadeia.

A slash. She reflexively brings her blade back to block, deflecting the Anapadeia’s ferocious, energy-infused blow. Even still, she is knocked back, away from melee distance. A distance where neither should be able to touch each other—

Eight blades suddenly materialize behind Avalel’s back, and with a simple flick of his hand, all eight race towards her position with frightening speed. She dashes to the side, narrowly avoiding the attack. The ground cracks as the blades stab into its surface, yet it cannot contain them. Again, again, again, the blades strike Kavlina’s current position without dulling or exhaustion. She cannot even close the distance, and gradually, she can hear her own rapid, desperate breaths.

A blade strikes her left side. She leaps aside, only to parry a second blade lunging at her new position. And a third follows, barely grazing her leg, tearing the skin tight fabric. Her own blade is chipped, unable to retaliate with full force and ferocity. Of course, if she’s given even a moment of rest, she can channel her energy to regenerate and repair the sheet of metal. But she doesn’t even have that.

Even after four years, she cannot win against this monstrosity.

A blade grazes her prosthetic arm, hitting it just enough to render the lower limb, including the blade, immobile. The next moment, Avalel appears before her, the Anapadeia poised for her neck. His hand is bleeding still, Kavlina’s knife stiffly lodged inside. The bloodlust, absent earlier, now surrounds him, silently screeching into Kavlina’s core.

Her instincts are screaming defeat.

And yet in all that, he’s willingly closed the distance. The openings are all in plain sight. She is unarmed and burdened with the weight of her dead arm, but if that can be somehow removed… She forcefully swings her prosthetic arm upwards, reinforcing it with her strengthening magic.

The Anapadeia pierces the prosthetic arm, yet all its thrusting force is stopped, the tip of the blade hovering just in front of her neck. The elbow joints creak from the intense force as Avalel presses the blade closer.

“Heh,” Kavlina smiles from behind her mask.

She pulls herself to the right. The wires and joints finally tear and snap, the metal of the forearm stubbornly clinging onto the Anapadeia, weighing it down. A burst of energy, and the arm is purged, freeing the sword from its burden.

But that’s all she needs to buy time.

She grabs onto her knife, yanking it out of Avalel’s palm. Blood gushes out from the now open wound, the pain shooting across the body. The eight blades, so lethal earlier, suddenly disappear into dust.

Avalel screams.

The soldiers are visibly shaken, some even raising their rifles in caution. But Kavlina can care less about those pawns.

She rams Avalel’s shoulder with her ruined arm, the exposed metal and wires colliding like a hammer. Despite being shielded with his armor, the force is enough to stun his arm… and the nerves are shocked enough for the hand to drop the sword.

The Anapadeia falls to the ground with a clang, much to the horror of its wielder.

Kavlina thrusts her knife at Avalel’s heart, guarded by his armor. The weak blade should not be able to even make a dent, and if Avalel decides to simply ignore the strike, he won’t be harmed at all.

Instead, in a panic, he blocks with both of his arms, deflecting the attack… and opening up his sides. Even better than Kavlina initially intended with that diversion of a stab.

She ducks and darts to her left, immediately slamming her broken prosthetic arm again at Avalel’s shoulder. The second impact batters the shoulder further, causing the entire arm to go numb. Before he can even react, she swiftly dashes behind him, launching a low kick to the back of his knees.

He may be a monster with the Anapadeia, but without it, he cannot compare against Kavlina’s agility and skill. The bloodlust is gone, leaving only a desperate young man before a woman aching for revenge.

She rams the pommel of her knife against his helmet. There is no semblance of organized resistance as he staggers forward, almost falling to the ground… only to be immediately brought back up with a quick curved punch to the side of his head.

A punch, a kick, a slash… It’s ugly. She knows it. It’s not even a duel at this point. Avalel, the proud savior and President of the New Rule, invincible in battle, now cannot even retaliate against a single assassin relying only on speed. Her knife cannot even damage the armor, but with rapid, shallow cuts to the narrow gaps between the metal, Avalel is bleeding away. Slowly. Steadily. Growing weaker by the moment. Meanwhile, the wires and metal sheets in Kavlina’s prosthetic arm are gradually regenerating, stretching and bending like elastic.

She cannot kill him in a single blow. But that’s probably for the better.

She is Avalel’s retribution, judgement befalling the guilty. Even when protected by his armor, his body is now broken and bruised. There is nothing able to completely pardon him from judgement. Behind her mask, Kavlina’s face grows ever more furious, her attacks increasing in intensity.

It’s what he deserves, if not even more. All the crimes he has committed, and even this cannot repay them in full.

She strikes the pommel of her knife onto his visor for the third or fourth time, finally breaking it. The shards scatter across the ground and Avalel’s now-exposed side of his face as he falls to the ground. She finally is able to see his eye, surrounded by bruises and light cuts: a surface of complete darkness save for a crimson pupil, with a striking tattoo of the same color running down from the organ to the jaw. It should be intimidating, terrifying even, but instead, all she sees is defeat. With a fire to stay alive, but defeated all the same.

And he’s afraid.

She raises her knife, the tip aimed at Avalel’s eye. It will be over soon. One stab to the head. That’s it. Once he dies, it will all be over.

She suddenly jolts in pain. Her hand is cleanly shot through, a gaping hole in the smoldering wound. She turns. The same soldier in front of Avalel earlier looks at her, his rifle poised at her head, faint smoke drifting out from the barrel.

As if on cue, the other soldiers with shields charge in, rapidly shrinking the encirclement. So much for a duel. When their master is nearly defeated, they forfeit all previous promises and attack her as if this is a normal battle. She cannot defeat all of them with what little strength she has left.

So she runs.

Her mind furiously protests, but her legs, acting purely on instinct, will not respond. Avalel is defeated. He will be killed by her own hand. Then why, why is she running? Even as her hand starts to bleed and nausea sets in, she doesn’t know why. So close, but…

The soldiers rapidly form a ring around Avalel, refusing to pursue the victor of the duel. Those pawns, those minions, refusing to let their supreme leader be killed before their very eyes. A duel to the death, yet haphazardly ended when the host is near defeat.

She cannot even finish him off. Her entire goal, slipping away from her grasp. A flurry of panicked rifle shots, sending her deeper into the darkness as she looks away from the burnt flesh of her hand, her magic concentrated to slowly regenerate the lost tissue. She has lost her knife, much of her prosthetic arm, and possibly even the shelter she has made her home as her location is revealed. And for what? A battered Avalel? An Avalel who is still very much alive without even a single lethal injury? All that just for her target to escape with his entourage?

She glances back as her legs take her further and further away. The entire group of soldiers has surrounded Avalel, retreating with great haste as they depart the dueling grounds. The Anapadeia, gone. Her lost prosthetic forearm, likely collected. Her knife, trampled under their boots and forgotten.

The New Rule has temporarily lost their esteemed, idolized leader. Kavlina has failed to exact her revenge. And with this result, she will not even be able to assassinate officers as she has done, at least for the time being.

No one is able to claim victory.

She dashes back into her room like an injured predator fleeing back to its den. As soon as the door is locked, she can no longer keep herself standing. Exhaustion and nausea finally overwhelms her, her injured body collapsing onto the ground. As the metal wires regrow and reform from her stub, the live tissue regenerates to plug the gap, she doesn’t even have the excess energy to crawl. Her vision fades, her pain dies away, and the last things she hears for the night are the receding footsteps of the soldiers and the rapid beating of her own heartbeat.

She has failed. Even after all that, she has failed.

A short distance away, a brutally battered Avalel also slips into the unconscious, his hand just touching the Anapadeia, faithfully carried by Klarsten by his side.