Within the dark tunnel, Liselotte’s fire bunnies glowed brightly, and the battle went on. Shadows danced across the ancient stone walls as Geschicht and Lucienne clashed, their movements a blur of steel and fire.

Lucienne had been relentless, dodging every strike with unnatural speed, her montante carving through the air like a reaper’s scythe. But amidst the flurry of slashes, Geschicht saw an opening—one Liselotte had created. The fire bunnies swarmed around Lucienne, their embers flickering in unpredictable patterns, forcing her to adjust her footing.

In that moment, Geschicht surged forward. His fist connected with Lucienne’s face—a solid, resounding impact. For the first time, she staggered.

Lucienne staggered back, her sharp green eyes widening as her fingertips grazed the smudged ruin of her once-pristine makeup. The moment she felt the uneven texture—marred, imperfect, stolen—her breath hitched. A tremor ran through her frame, her grip tightening on her montante as a shadow flickered across her face.

“Imbecile…!” Her voice quivered between a whisper and a snarl, venom laced in every syllable. “You ruined my face—my image!” She wiped at the soot-streaked cheek, but no amount of effort could erase the damage. No, it was deeper than that. It was a theft of her perfection, her rightful beauty, her undeniable superiority.

Her thoughts twisted, spiraling. She saw reflections in the dim firelight—distorted, mocking, unworthy. Their faces blurred into a single shape: a girl who had taken everything from her. The flickering light played tricks on her mind, molding Liselotte’s features into something familiar yet infuriatingly out of reach.

Lucienne’s grip tightened, envy seething beneath her skin. No, it wasn’t just this girl—it was what she represented. A life Lucienne should have had. A place that should have been hers.

Her lips curled, but her smile held no warmth. Only a fragile, fractured pride clinging desperately to itself. "You think yourself above me?" she whispered, voice trembling with something raw. "You, with your tricks, your pathetic creatures, your stolen light?"

Liselotte frowned, shifting uncomfortably. She had no idea what Lucienne was talking about. This wasn’t a battle she understood.

“…It’s not stolen,” Liselotte said softly, clutching her small bundle close. The flickering glow of her fire bunnies reflected in her gentle eyes. “I don’t know what you mean, but I don’t want to fight you like this.”

"Shut up!" Lucienne's shriek echoed through the tunnel, a jagged crack in the darkness. "I am above you! I always have been! And I will cut you down if I have to—until there’s nothing left to cast a shadow over me!"

Her montante whistled through the air, cutting straight toward Liselotte.

Lucienne’s montante came down with terrifying force. It wasn’t a warrior’s strike, clean and measured—it was pure, unrelenting fury, sharpened into steel. Geschicht barely raised his sword in time, the impact sending a violent tremor through his arms. His feet slid back against the stone floor, and a sharp ringing filled his ears.

Too slow. Too unrefined. Too inexperienced.

Lucienne’s lips curled. “Pathetic.”

She twisted her blade and forced him back, her strikes relentless. Every swing was a test of Geschicht’s balance, every clash a battle against her overwhelming power. She wasn’t just fighting—she was breaking him down, piece by piece, tearing apart any semblance of technique he tried to maintain.

But before Lucienne could press her advantage, a cluster of fire bunnies leapt between them, their molten bodies igniting the space with flickering embers. They swarmed toward her, their tiny forms glowing like miniature stars, forcing her to sidestep.

"You're in my way!" Lucienne snarled, slashing through several of them. The fire bunnies burst into sparks, their warmth licking at her blade.

"Then stop attacking my friend," Liselotte countered, her voice firm despite the tension in her shoulders. More fire bunnies emerged from her bundle, forming a protective ring around her and Geschicht.

Lucienne’s eyes—sharp and green like fractured emeralds—twitched. That voice. That tone. It felt too much like someone—like the ghost of someone she swore had stolen everything from her.

"You don't know, do you?" Lucienne breathed, stepping forward, ignoring the heat of the flames brushing against her arms. "You pretend like you’re clueless, like you don’t understand the weight of what you have. But it’s always people like you—smiling, naive, lucky beyond measure—that stand above us!"

Liselotte hesitated, gripping her bundle tighter. "I don't—"

"I could have been like you!" Lucienne’s voice cracked, and she lunged.

Her blade cut through the firelight, heading straight for Liselotte. Before it could connect—

Clang!

Geschicht intercepted the strike, his sword locking against Lucienne’s with a sharp, jarring screech of metal. He pushed forward, sweat forming on his brow. His grip was strong, but his form was unsteady.

Lucienne noticed immediately.

She adjusted her stance, forcing him off balance, her footwork swift and calculated. The moment Geschicht faltered, she twisted and slammed her pommel into his ribs. He gasped, his sword nearly slipping from his grasp.

“Geschicht!” Liselotte’s fire bunnies surged forward in response, weaving between him and Lucienne. Their flames mimicked the flow of a masterful swordsman’s movements—guiding Geschicht’s blade, counterbalancing his weaknesses.

Lucienne scoffed. "So you're relying on others to make up for your failure?"

Geschicht steadied himself, his breath ragged. "Call it whatever you want," he muttered, adjusting his grip. He wasn’t going to be outmatched so easily.

Lucienne’s expression darkened. "Then die a failure."

She vanished.

In a blink, she was above him, descending with an overhead slash, her body twisting midair. Geschicht raised his sword just in time to meet her, but the impact was so strong it nearly sent him to his knees. His arms burned from the force, but he held firm.

Lucienne’s grin stretched wider. “Let’s see how long you last.”

She rained down blows, each one precise and punishing. Geschicht tried to hold his ground, but his lack of technique showed—his parries sloppy, his reactions a half-second too late. Lucienne was faster, stronger, and she knew it.

Then, Liselotte whispered something under her breath.

Her fire bunnies moved.

They darted in and out of Geschicht’s vision, weaving around his arms, his sword—teaching him. His blade followed their movements, parrying where they guided, slashing where they urged.

Lucienne’s eyes narrowed.

Geschicht’s footwork smoothed. His grip adjusted. The openings she had seen before? Gone.

Liselotte clenched her fists, focusing. “Keep moving, Geschicht,” she whispered, her voice barely above the crackling of flames. "You're not fighting alone."

Lucienne clicked her tongue.

She kicked off the ground, disappearing again—this time reappearing behind Liselotte.

Geschicht barely had time to react. “Liselotte—!”

Lucienne’s blade came down—

And a pillar of fire erupted between them.

Lucienne stumbled back, shielding her eyes. Liselotte’s fire bunnies burned brighter than ever, forming a defensive barrier that even Lucienne hesitated to cross.

“You talk like you’ve lost something,” Liselotte said softly, stepping forward. “Like you think I stole something from you. But I don’t even know who you are.”

Lucienne’s fingers trembled against her sword hilt. “You don’t get to say that.”

“…Maybe not,” Liselotte admitted, “but I do know one thing.”

Lucienne tensed.

“You don’t have to be alone either.”

Lucienne froze.

The words struck something deep within her. A memory she didn’t want. A reality she refused to face.

Her breath hitched. For the first time, uncertainty flickered across her sharp green eyes.

And that hesitation—was all Geschicht needed.

He stepped forward, blade in motion, aiming for Lucienne’s exposed side.

Lucienne's instincts kicked in.

Clang!

She twisted her sword at the last second, parrying Geschicht’s strike with a sharp deflection. Sparks flared between them as she slid back, adjusting her stance. Geschicht, emboldened by Liselotte’s fire bunnies, pressed forward, his blade following the guidance of the flickering flames.

Lucienne met each swing with mechanical precision, her movements still sharper, still faster—but something was off. The way the boy fought, the way his blade weaved through the air—it wasn’t skill. It was unnatural. The fire bunnies were making up for his lack of training, and for the first time in a long while, she wasn’t in control of the fight.

Her lips curled into a bitter sneer. “You don’t even know what you’re doing, do you?” She deflected another blow, shifting her weight. The fire was teaching him—compensating for his weakness. “You’re nothing without the others.”

“And you’re nothing without your anger,” Liselotte interjected, stepping between them.

Lucienne's breath hitched.

Liselotte’s fire bunnies circled them, their warmth dancing across the cold tunnel walls. Their light reflected in Lucienne’s sharp green eyes, illuminating the deep-set fury within them.

Liselotte’s voice was soft, yet unwavering. “You don’t have to fight us. You don’t have to fight at all.”

Lucienne clicked her tongue. “I don’t need your pity.”

“I’m not pitying you.” Liselotte shook her head. “I just… I don’t understand. You act like I stole something from you. Like you’re fighting to take it back. But I don’t even know what it is.”

Lucienne’s grip tightened on her sword. “Of course, you don’t.”

Geschicht took a step forward, his sword still at the ready, but Liselotte lifted a hand to stop him. She took another slow breath, watching the way Lucienne’s fingers twitched, the way her stance faltered—not with exhaustion, but with hesitation.

Lucienne exhaled sharply, as if forcing the words out.

“I could have joined the Ident Order.”

The admission hung in the air, sharp and unexpected.

Liselotte and Geschicht both hesitated, but Lucienne wasn’t looking at them anymore. Her gaze was distant, like she was seeing something neither of them could.

“…But I didn’t,” she muttered, gripping her sword tighter. “Because I knew what it meant. It meant giving up control. It meant playing by their rules.” Her voice twisted into a growl. “It meant becoming like you.”

Liselotte frowned. “Like me?”

Lucienne’s eyes snapped back to her, blazing with resentment. “Perfect. Untouched. Blessed with everything.”

The next moment, she was lunging again.

Geschicht barely raised his sword in time, the impact rattling his bones. The fire bunnies reacted instantly, guiding his blade into a counterstrike—but Lucienne anticipated it. She sidestepped, slashing low. Geschicht barely twisted away in time, the tip of her montante grazing his coat.

“Why do you get to be the one standing there?” Lucienne spat, dodging another fiery rabbit lunging toward her. “Why do people like you get to be protected?”

Liselotte took a step closer, ignoring the fire bunnies shifting around her like protective spirits. “Lucienne, I don’t know what happened to you, but I—”

“Don’t act like you care!” Lucienne’s voice cracked as she swung again, her blade clashing with Geschicht’s.

The force sent him skidding backwards, but he didn’t fall. The fire bunnies caught him.

Lucienne glared at him, breathless. “You don’t deserve this. You don’t deserve to win.”

Geschicht steadied himself, lifting his sword again. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t understand her grudge, her pain. But he wasn’t going to back down.

Liselotte, however, did understand one thing.

“You’re afraid,” she said.

Lucienne froze.

Liselotte met her sharp green eyes, unwavering. “You’re afraid that if you stop fighting, you’ll have nothing left.”

The words dug deep. Too deep.

Lucienne's fingers twitched. Her heart pounded.

And for just a moment—the firelight flickered in her shaking pupils.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Lucienne’s breath hitched. She grit her teeth, forcing herself to move, to push past the feeling clawing up her throat.

“I don’t need your nonsense.”

She lunged.

Geschicht raised his sword, but Lucienne was faster. She twisted mid-air, angling her montante in a downward arc meant to cleave straight through him—

FWOOOM!

Fire flared in her path.

A wall of flames, conjured by Liselotte’s fire bunnies, forced her to halt mid-strike. She barely twisted away in time, her coat singing at the edges as she landed on the stone floor, her boots skidding against the dust.

Liselotte watched her, her expression soft, but firm. “You’re still fighting like you have something to prove.”

Lucienne exhaled sharply, adjusting her grip. “And what? You fight because you think you’re better than me?”

Liselotte shook her head. “I don’t think I’m better than you.”

“Liar.” Lucienne spat the word like venom. That kind, pitying look—the way her voice dripped with sympathy, like she thought she could fix her. As if she could understand.

Liselotte took a step forward, unfazed by the burning resentment in Lucienne’s eyes. “I fight because I want to protect the people around me.” She gestured toward Geschicht, who steadied himself beside her. “Because they matter to me.”

Lucienne scoffed. “And I don’t matter, huh?”

Liselotte hesitated for half a second, then shook her head again. “That’s not what I meant. You matter too.”

Liselotte continued, her voice gentle but unwavering. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I know you’re hurting.”

Lucienne’s fingers trembled against the hilt of her sword.

She would not let those words get to her. With a growl, she charged again.

Geschicht’s sword shot up in response, guided by the fire bunnies—but Lucienne adapted. She shifted her stance, sidestepping the flames, her sword flashing in retaliation.

Steel clashed against steel.

Sparks flew.

Liselotte moved alongside them, sending her fire bunnies to shield Geschicht when he faltered. Lucienne weaved through the attacks with terrifying agility, but the fire was getting harder to dodge.

She grit her teeth.

Liselotte wasn’t fighting to win.

She was fighting to understand.

Lucienne hated it. She hated all of it.

“Why?” she snarled, slashing furiously. “Why are you even talking to me like this?”

Liselotte sent another fire bunny flying toward her. Lucienne dodged, but her movements were slowing.

“Because you don’t deserve to be alone,” Liselotte said simply.

Lucienne’s breath caught.

For a single second, her sword wavered.

Geschicht struck.

Not a lethal blow—but a clean hit. His blade, wrapped in fiery light, clashed against her own and sent her skidding back. She barely caught herself on one knee, panting, gripping her sword with shaking fingers.

“Damn it.”

She was losing.

Not because they were stronger. But because Liselotte’s words were sinking in.

Because, for the first time in years, Lucienne didn’t know if she wanted to keep fighting.

Lucienne clenched her jaw, her breathing ragged as her grip trembled against the hilt of her sword.

Then—

BOOM!

A wall exploded beside her. Dust and shattered stone burst into the air, and before she could even react—

A fist shot through the rubble, stopping just inches from her face.

Veynor emerged from the wreckage, stepping forward with slow, deliberate steps, his hand still raised in the air, as if he had planned this entrance for maximum effect. His sharp green eyes gleamed with something dark—not concern, not anger, but amusement.

His lips curled into a smirk.

“What?” he said, tilting his head. “You’re going to give up now? Because of a few words?”

Lucienne’s breath hitched.

The way he said it. Like he was mocking her.

Like he knew exactly how deep Liselotte’s words had cut.

He clicked his tongue. “Tch. And here I thought you had more fight in you. Didn’t you say you wanted to reclaim what was stolen from you? To prove you belong at the top?”

Lucienne’s grip tightened.

Veynor chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, I see. So all it took was a couple of soft little speeches from a bleeding heart, and suddenly, you’re doubting yourself?” His voice dripped with condescension, but there was something else lurking underneath—something venomous, something calculated.

Lucienne stiffened.

“Shut up,” she spat, rising to her feet.

Veynor grinned. “That’s more like it.”

On the other side of the battlefield—

"Those damn Proximal Phalax are too annoying to deal with."

A voice—calm, yet laced with irritation—echoed from behind Liselotte and Geschicht.

Uwe stepped out from the shadows, dusting off his coat like he had just finished a mildly inconvenient chore. His mismatched eyes—one red, one blue—flicked toward the two of them, assessing, calculating.

“Glad to see you two are doing fine,” he said, his tone casual. Too casual. He leaned slightly toward Geschicht. “And don’t worry about Harriet. He’s holding his ground just fine against a Proximal Phalax.”

Geschicht’s eyes widened. “How do you know?”

Uwe merely smiled, tilting his head.

“I have my ways.”

Geschicht frowned.

Liselotte, still tense from Lucienne’s presence, turned toward him. “And what about you?” she asked. “Are you fine?”

Uwe blinked.

Then, he laughed. A short, sharp chuckle.

“I think you should be more concerned about yourselves,” he said, jerking his head toward Lucienne and Veynor. And with that, he cracked his knuckles, his mismatched eyes gleaming.

Uwe’s mismatched eyes gleamed in the dim light of the fire bunnies, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

"You bastards are trying to get your hands on a piece of [The Great Artist's Corpse], aren’t you?"

His words dripped with accusation, filled with something deeper than mere anger—disgust, loathing.

Veynor, standing tall despite the dust and debris around him, merely chuckled. He rolled his shoulders, flexing his fingers as if shaking off the tension.

"Looks like punching you through layers of tunnels wasn't the smartest move on my part." His voice carried its usual smugness, but there was an edge to it now.

Uwe's expression darkened. His fists clenched. The audacity. The sheer arrogance.

“Sacrificing people for an object of power…” Uwe exhaled sharply, his tone laced with fury. “Damned Clock Hand.”

And then—he moved.

Faster than a blink.

A blur of motion.

Before Veynor could react, a fist crashed into his face.

The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the stone beneath them. The force behind Uwe’s punch didn’t just knock Veynor down—it drove him to the ground.

Crack!

The floor splintered under the sheer power of the blow. Cracks spiderwebbed outward in all directions. The entire tunnel shuddered from the force.

And just as the ground gave way beneath them, Uwe smirked.

His body hovered for a fraction of a second, weightless in the collapse.

He turned his head, locking eyes with Liselotte one last time.

"Continue your business, little Lise," he called out over the roar of crumbling stone. His voice was steady, and confident. "You got this."

And then—

They fell.

The moment gravity took hold, their fists met in midair.

Boom!

A shockwave rippled through the air as they traded blows, their bodies twisting and contorting mid-fall. The collapsing debris around them became part of the battlefield—chunks of stone and dust whirled around them as they struck, dodged, and countered each other.

Uwe threw a devastating right hook—Veynor barely tilted his head in time, letting the fist skim past his jaw. In retaliation, he twisted his body and delivered a spinning kick toward Uwe’s ribs.

Crack!

The impact sent Uwe hurtling toward a falling boulder, but he twisted midair, kicking off the rock and launching himself straight back at Veynor. His red and blue eyes flashed, focused.

Veynor sneered. "You are impressive, but you can’t beat me in free fall."

"You talk too damn much." Uwe shot back.

Another exchange—fist meeting fist, knuckles colliding with bone.

For every hit Uwe landed, Veynor retaliated with precision. The difference was, that Uwe fought with raw instinct, pure experience. Veynor analyzed, and calculated.

As they fell deeper into the ruins, the glow of Liselotte’s fire bunnies above them faded, replaced by the eerie, cold blue light of something unknown below.

The ground was rushing up fast.

But neither stopped.

The moment they hit the ground, the entire chamber shook with impact—cracks splintered across the stone floor, dust exploded outward, and debris rained down from above.

Yet, neither of them took any damage.

Uwe stood up, rolling his shoulders as if he had just stepped off a ledge rather than plummeted through countless layers of rock. His red and blue eyes gleamed in the dim light. "Hmph. That's all you got?"

Veynor straightened his back, brushing dust off his clothes with an eerie calmness. "Of course not." His voice carried its usual smooth arrogance, but there was a glint of something else in his gaze—calculation, an assessment of Uwe’s worth.

Uwe cracked his knuckles. "Figured as much. Someone like you? You don’t throw your real hand right away. You’re always holding something back—just like you hoard everything else, huh?"

Veynor’s smirk twitched, but he didn’t deny it. Instead, he took a slow step forward. "Everything has value, Uwe. And I don’t waste assets." His eyes gleamed as he added, "Including strength."

Uwe’s fist clenched at that. "You really think everything is something you can collect? Count? Store away like gold in a vault?" His voice was low, dangerous.

Veynor tilted his head, considering. "What else would it be?"

Uwe didn’t respond with words. He launched forward—fast.

Veynor anticipated it, his own body shifting into motion. Their fists collided once more, and the underground rumbled with the sheer force of their clash.

Uwe’s fists burned with sheer force. Veynor met him with equal intensity, his movements refined and efficient, each counterstrike calculated.

Neither held back.

Veynor twisted his body at the last second, dodging a devastating punch aimed straight for his ribs. In the same motion, he swung his leg upward, aiming for Uwe’s chin.

Uwe barely managed to tilt his head back, missing the kick by inches.

But Veynor was relentless—he followed up with a sharp palm strike, trying to drive it into Uwe’s chest.

Uwe caught it. His fingers closed around Veynor’s wrist like an iron vice, his grip tightening. "Too slow."

Veynor’s smirk didn’t fade. "Is that so?"

Suddenly, his other fist shot forward, landing a crushing blow right against Uwe’s side. The force sent a ripple through Uwe’s body, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he twisted Veynor’s arm, attempting to flip him over his shoulder.

Veynor let it happen.

But instead of hitting the ground, he used the momentum, flipping midair and landing on his feet effortlessly.

"Not bad," Veynor admitted, rolling his shoulder. "But brute force alone won’t be enough."

Uwe smirked, wiping the side of his mouth. "Maybe not. But I like to hit first and think later."

The two of them rushed at each other again—fists clashing, dodging, countering. The underground chamber was nothing but a blur of movement and destruction.

Uwe sent a punch straight at Veynor’s face.

Veynor ducked.

He retaliated with a sharp elbow strike to Uwe’s stomach.

Uwe absorbed the blow, gritting his teeth, then grabbed Veynor’s collar and lifted him off the ground before slamming him into the stone floor with enough force to create a crater.

The entire cavern shook.

Veynor coughed, dust filling the air around him. But he laughed. "Impressive. But…"

He suddenly grabbed Uwe’s arm, unnaturally twisting his body. With a sickening crack, he maneuvered himself free and immediately drove his knee into Uwe’s ribs.

Uwe stumbled back—just a step.

Veynor’s eyes gleamed. "Tell me something, Uwe. Why do you fight so hard? What do you even believe in?"

As the dust settled from their latest clash, Uwe rolled his shoulders, his red and blue eyes locking onto Veynor with unwavering conviction. He exhaled sharply, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips.

"You don't get it, do you?" Uwe said, cracking his knuckles. "I believe in my leader. Jelle’s not just some captain barking orders—she’s someone worth following. Someone who actually sees people."

Veynor scoffed, brushing rubble off his coat. "You put too much stock in your so-called leader. Leaders, followers… all just assets. You should know that by now."

Uwe’s jaw clenched. "Yeah? Well, I wasn’t always someone who belonged anywhere. You know how I ended up with Jelle?" He let out a chuckle, shaking his head. "I was causing a ruckus in front of the Jester Association. Thought I had a knack for it, figured if I exposed enough secrets, they’d take me in. I was shouting everything I knew—who was cheating on who, who was planning to backstab their boss, all the dirt I had."

Veynor smirked. "And let me guess, they didn’t appreciate the competition?"

"Not one damn bit." Uwe laughed dryly. "They were about to tear me apart—some of them for fun, some because I was bad for business. And honestly? I didn’t care. I was ready to take the beating. But then she showed up."

His expression softened, the usual mischief in his eyes replaced with something steadier. "Jelle just walked into that mess like she already owned the place. Didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. She took one look at me—some dumb kid who thought running his mouth would get him somewhere—and she said, ‘You talk too much. But at least you don’t lie.’"

Veynor tilted his head. "And that meant something to you?"

Uwe's grin widened. "Damn right it did. She didn’t scold me. Didn’t pity me. She just got it. She saw something in me when nobody else did. And she made me want to be better. That’s why I follow her. Not because she’s strong, not because she’s in charge—but because she doesn’t just lead. She believes in the people she takes in. And that’s more than you or your damned Clock Hand will ever understand."

The moment Uwe finished speaking, Veynor lunged forward, his fist slicing through the air like a hammer seeking to shatter stone. Uwe barely ducked in time, feeling the rush of displaced air graze his hair. He countered with a sharp jab to Veynor’s ribs, but the man barely flinched. Instead, he grinned.

"You look just like a valuable asset like me," Veynor sneered, stepping forward with relentless force. "And yet you stay damned. You should have continued to be a dog like before."

Uwe scoffed, dodging another strike. "A dog, huh? That what you think I was?"

Veynor feinted left before swinging his fist straight at Uwe’s gut. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the cavern, stone cracking beneath their feet. Uwe barely managed to roll with the force, skidding back but staying on his feet.

"You were a stray," Veynor continued, his voice steady, analytical. "Starving, desperate, sniffing around for scraps of recognition. The Jester Association rejected you, so you wagged your tail for the next person who threw you a bone. And now you bark on command for your precious Jelle." His deep-set hazel eyes gleamed with amusement. "You think she saved you? No, she tamed you."

Uwe wiped his mouth, a flicker of blood staining the back of his glove. He let out a short, bitter laugh. "You’re really full of it, huh? You think just because you own things, you understand them?" His fists tightened. "Jelle didn’t tame me. She gave me a choice. And I made one."

Veynor’s expression twitched, just for a moment, before his smirk returned. "A choice?" He chuckled. "Oh, Uwe. There’s no such thing. You’re either the one in control, or you’re being used. And right now, you’re just another piece on Jelle’s board. Another asset she can spend however she likes."

Uwe’s teeth clenched and lunged. His fist connected with Veynor’s face with a sickening crack, sending him stumbling back. But before Veynor could recover, Uwe was already on him. A flurry of punches rained down, each one carrying the weight of years spent clawing his way out of the hole he’d once been in.

"You don’t get it," Uwe spat, his breath heavy with exertion. "You think everything’s about control, about hoarding power like some paranoid rat. But you’re alone, Veynor. Always will be. You treat people like things, and that’s why no one’s ever gonna choose you."

Veynor’s hazel eyes darkened, something unreadable flickering in them—anger, or perhaps something deeper, something he refused to name. Then, with a sharp twist of his body, he wrenched himself free from Uwe’s grip and delivered a brutal uppercut to his ribs, sending him flying backwards.

Uwe crashed into the stone wall, cracks spiderwebbing around him. He coughed, but still, he grinned.

"Hit a nerve, didn’t I?"

Veynor took a slow, measured breath. His voice was quiet now, but lethal. "You’re a fool, Uwe. One day, you’ll see what happens when you put your trust in people. And when that day comes…" He cracked his knuckles. "I’ll be there. Watching."

Uwe wiped his mouth again, this time laughing outright. "Yeah? Well, if that day ever comes—" He shifted his stance, preparing for another round. "—then I’ll just have to punch my way out of it, same as always."

And with that, the fight continued, fists clashing like thunder in the cavernous depths.