Kwazhak’s sword was filled with golden light. Nobody could tell that it was a sword in his hands. It was a saber of light bestowed from the heavens, illuminating the day. Chasing Thiệu around the room, there was no opening. Homing sahar clusters followed him. He dodged as they kissed his body and flew past his cheek. With each slice, Kwazhak absorbed the saharic particles from the Hiryok.

Thiệu was laughing, mocking him. He ridiculed him, casting more waves of Hiryok. Kwazhak rushed in and chopped the approaching projectiles. The sword grew brighter. Just as a big one had been sent to him, Kwazhak soon diced it with immaculate precision.

It wasn’t enough. If only he had gone sooner, but waited two weeks after. Suruj’s request. If he had told L, then he wouldn’t allow Kwazhak to take this plea. This was Kwazhak’s personal accord.

He twirled around and unleashed two dazzling slashes. Thiệu sidestepped both of them.

“You’re going to swing that sword until you’re dead. Mahou Jyuuryok!”

The office rotated again, objects began falling the other way. Using the wall, Kwazhak got a hold of footing and jumped. He released some sahar stored, flying at him. He raised his sword above his head. A shining trail followed behind him as he neared Thiệu’s neck. Kwazhak brought the claymore down.

“Mahou Tate!”

A shield was generated to block the slash to his neck. Kwazhak’s sword was stuck in the shield, so close to Thiệu.

“Thou art not eluding me!” He focused all the sahar on his sword, and his grip loosened. Thiệu’s shield began to crack.

“Weak. Mahou Kamisori.”

A burst of particles came about, like a thin blade and passed through Kwazhak’s shoulder. His left arm flew off like butter.

Uncoagulated blackened blood drifted into the thick air. Jagged bone became exposed to the oxygen. Kwazhak felt a monstrous stinging prickle that prodded his left shoulder. He could still feel his arm connected to his body. Blistering spikes of pain. Kwazhak wanted to scream.

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Muscle convulsion. Flowing crimson.

“Gh…”

“This is the price to exchange for one fighter of your choice,” The CEO jeered, “Give up now or forever hold your peace.”

“Gh… Gah…”

“This may be impossible for you, but if you can do it,” Suruj proposed, looking away. “I want someone to switch with that girl.”

“Why is one asking me for a daunting request?...”

Suruj stared at him with unrelenting motivation. It was a face that reminded Kwazhak of the same face someone had made years before.

“I don’t want to see the person who helped me killed by our own hands.”

A last ditch effort. Kwazhak’s right hand tightened as he raised his sword again. Nearby saharic particles gathered where his left arm was, and took shape. A new artificial left hand formed and joined his right hand.

“Release it… ALL!”

He shouted at the top of his lungs. Kwazhak brought down the sword on Thiệu’s neck with all his might. The greatsword brightened, bursting with prismatic energy. Thiệu’s shield fissured, and shattered. Kwazhak’s heart went into overdrive. The particles circulated in his body. His heart rate skyrocketed. The blade went towards Thiệu’s jugular vein, with the intent to kill. The room dazzled with golden white. Life flashed before his eyes.

There were two outcomes. Kill him. Or earn a spot in the Dineh Kazaàd. Why not aim for both? He was so close, so close to achieving someone’s dreams. Of what would be fiction. Should the problem be solved with one death? Nevertheless, he had his own dream. His own purpose.

Kwazhak’s body dangled in the air as Thiệu held him airborne. The prosthetic arm faded away as the matter returned to the environment, opening up the wound. The blue robe was damaged, inelegant, and filled with cuts.

“You’re slow, indecisive, Z̆ongren. You now know the price of one of my fighters.”

His body collapsed to the floor with a thud, the right hand still holding on to his weapon. It was so difficult. Difficult to attempt something with one’s will. In the end, Thiệu Addja was a man of power. Kwazhak failed to fulfill both of their wishes. If it were his father, what would he do? Kwazhak had disgraced the Laoyuang name. The lineage of sword art passed down for generations, defeated by a single businessman. Kwazhak couldn’t help anyone, like L had stated in the past.

“I’m sorry… Suruj… Sorry… L…”

A lullaby of mother’s melody rang in his head. He wasn’t fighting as a noble of the Laoyuang House. He was a person who tried to conflict with several reasons to fight a petty war. A mere chargé d'affaires. All faded to black.

“Alam Shunkaidou.”