Two against one. Yet even so, victory's scales trembled in precarious balance. Tyler led the charge, while Carl held his mount back, creating a deadly triangle of steel and strategy. This arrangement gave each man room to strike, while allowing their battle-weary horses precious moments to catch their breath.

Their attacks wove together in lethal harmony. Tyler, forced to wield his blade left-handed, fought against muscle memory that yearned for his familiar right-handed grip. Carl, meanwhile, executed precise thrusts with his longsword, carefully timing each strike to avoid endangering his friend.

Sweat drenched Stellan's form, droplets clinging to his eyelashes, yet he dared not spare a moment to wipe them away. His entire being focused on reading the deadly dance of his opponents. He flowed like water - ducking beneath Carl's thrust, deflecting Tyler's slash, then launching a sudden counter at Carl. As his target recoiled, Stellan's arm whipped around to parry Tyler's opportunistic strike. The cloaked rider shifted seamlessly between two-handed sword work and his trademark blade-and-cloak style, offense and defense becoming one fluid motion. As the duel stretched on, the two knights' breathing grew increasingly labored, yet Stellan remained unnaturally composed. Despite the sweat that soaked him, he radiated only joy, showing no hint of fatigue. To watching eyes, it seemed as if his heart barely beat at all.

His strength appeared limitless, like some bottomless well of power.

How can he not tire? Tyler's lungs burned for air. Dozens of exchanges with two armored knights, yet Stellan hadn't drawn a single heavy breath. Sharp pain lanced through Tyler's right hand with each unconscious attempt to grasp his sword two-handed. Around them, the sounds of battle - shouts, screams, the terrible thud of bodies hitting earth - served as a constant reminder of time's merciless march. The blood loss grows worse... Dizziness reached for him with grey fingers, leaving only one choice: risk everything on one desperate gambit.

Tyler's blood-slicked right hand moved painfully across his shield, searching until his fingers found the ancient scar carved by steel. "Carl!" he called out. "Like ten years ago—understand!?"

Carl understood all too well. Those life-or-death moments were carved into his mind deeper than any physical scar. A decade past, they had been mere boys of thirteen or fourteen, Tyler's exceptional swordsmanship already marking him for knighthood. That fateful day found them sparring in the Wynlers' palace yard, as they had countless times before. Sir Stuart, their sword master, had dozed on the stone steps, offering occasional drowsy guidance. A stable boy's corpse landed at their feet, shattering their peaceful training session. The palace, once serene, erupted like a startled child - screams, prayers, and death cries echoing through its halls. Reality dawned quickly: Godma's forces had breached the palace walls, and their fathers had fallen defending the city. Stuart tossed them steel swords, urging them to flee, but three Godman soldiers had already entered the yard. Combat was inevitable. Their master had hoped to hold all three, buying the young lords time to escape. He engaged two of the soldiers, his blade a blur of steel. The third - a leering, toothless drunkard - advanced on the boys. He saw only Carl; Tyler had melted into the shadows by the steps. The brute approached slowly, savoring Carl's trembling retreat, his mocking laughter echoing off stone walls. When Carl's back met cold stone, he knew death approached. He could only watch, helpless, as the soldier raised his war axe to split him in two. Then Tyler rewrote fate. He burst from shadow, his family-crested oak shield catching the killing blow. Splinters rained like autumn leaves. Tyler's shout awakened something in Carl - like a mechanism suddenly triggered - and his sword found the enemy's face. The drunk couldn't defend, his axe trapped in broken wood, as steel pierced his left eye.

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Their first taste of killing.

What followed they preferred to forget. They ran through corridors past corpses wearing familiar faces. Together they cut down several foes before parting at the main hall: Tyler to join the palace guards, Carl to race toward his estate where flames already danced.

Carl raised his sword now, positioning himself for Tyler's gambit.

I must make him see an opening. Tyler swung wildly, his blade far from Stellan's reach. The exaggerated motion nearly unseated him. Seeing Tyler's apparent vulnerability, the cloaked rider raised his sword high, ready to deliver the killing stroke.

Life and death balanced on a knife's edge. Tyler wrenched his shield forward, gripping it reversed to meet the blow. Steel met ancient scar, the shield's metal core barely preventing it from splitting. Splinters showered Tyler's form, but he felt nothing through the consuming agony of his injured right hand absorbing Stellan's inhuman strength. Through gritted teeth, fighting the weakness of blood loss, he shouted, "Carl!! Now!!"

Carl launched himself upward, both hands gripping his sword as he drove it at Stellan's exposed throat. With the cloaked rider's blade trapped in the shield's metal core - just as that drunken soldier's axe had been trapped a decade ago - Carl's strike carried speed and power to match his first kill. Surely no cloak could save Stellan this time.

He was half right. The green cloak made no move to block his attack - because Stellan didn't need it. Instead, a dagger materialized in his hand, turning Carl's death blow aside.

The weapon was unlike any dagger they'd seen - short-hilted, leather-wrapped, with a spearpoint pommel and a blade as thin and jagged as captured lightning.

"Curious about this?" Stellan's arrogance had transformed into something darker, crueler. "My uncle's gift. He told me, 'This blade was made for torturing humans. It lets you savor every drop of their lifeblood.'" His lips twisted into a savage smile. "Such a shame. You almost had me."

Now, only frustration and despair filled Carl and Tyler's eyes as they faced the true nature of their foe.