Nayt stood back, intending to continue his plan of slowing down the pace of their duel and forcing Ferrero into a more difficult guessing game. 'Sword fighting is a matter of statistics – not legendary techniques,' he confidently thought. 'If I can force the Puppet into repeated exchanges where his odds are poor, then in the end, I'll win. I still know not what his sorcery is that allows him to wound me, but it won't matter if–'

Ferrero leaped forward at him.

'You're the one attacking?' Nayt pondered. That didn't make sense. The only way Ferrero had kept up despite his lacking speed was with counterattacks. Initiating a frontal assault was tantamount to suicide!

Which was exactly what the Duelist had wanted him to think.

'You think you have an overwhelming advantage,' Ferrero thought. 'Because of that, you'll instinctively go for the kill again. A Countersixte-Parry and riposte, aimed right at my chest. It'll give me the chance to disengage and win the exchange.'

When they fought next, everything played out precisely as he'd thought it would.

Even moreso than seeing a weaker swordsman prevail, it was the sheer accuracy of Ferrero's prediction that unnerved Ciro. How could the forsaken Puppet be so preternaturally skillful?

"That makes us even, we are tied once more!" the Duelist declared.

And more importantly...how was he able to bypass their Talents' difference in Rank? That question burned Ciro more than anything else, yet it barely seemed to register in the Elf's mind.

"A tie? You cannot be serious." Nayt retorted. "You've barely been hanging on. I am clearly your better in every way."

The elf's voice was deadpan, but not in a manner of dismissal. No – this was a purposeful, targeted slight.

This was trash talk.

'Don't you dare, Puppet,' Ciro seethed. 'It took years to mold Nayt's heart into an empty tool, slaying and killing however I pleased! Don't you dare corrupt him further!'

"Yet still, I hang; this lifeless Puppet lives!" Ferrero shouted, defiance in his voice and confidence in his smirk. "Kill me and prove me wrong, if you so dare!"

In actuality, he agreed with the Hangman's take on their duel. Nayt was physically superior. Any prolonged exchange – where they spent time feeling each other out and acquiring information about the other's intentions – would eventually end in his favor. But by quickly forcing them into repeated clashes, that advantage was lessened.

Just as Nayt had constructed his strategy to pave his path toward victory, so had Ferrero.

'Let me think.' The Duelist considered his possibilities. 'How often does my opponent have the advantage?'

In his first assessment, he decided on a baseline. The two swordsmen were relatively close in skill and physical ability. Immediately going in for the kill would have odds of...about 5 out of 10 for either of them.

No. That wasn't quite right.

Truthfully, Ferrero had a higher opinion of himself than that.

'If it comes down to a matter of out-predicting him in the critical moment, I'm confident that I'd win 7-times-out–of-10.'

'The longer an exchange lasts, the more the gap in our physicality widens. At that point, after about ten seconds of testing our ground, I can only win about 5-times-out-of-10.

'Worse still...if he can drag an exchange out to twenty seconds or longer, then my chances of winning plummet to merely 1-time-out-of-ten.'

It wasn't an exact science, but it was close enough. There were other factors to consider as well – wounds, exhaustion, and the fact that the Hangman was more likely to land a fatal blow if he won an exchange, whereas Ferrero would probably only land a small cut.

Nevertheless, it made the Puppet's next move quite simple.

He moved his grip on his blade up so that his hand was nearly touching the guard, as far away from the pommel as possible. This lessened his reach, yet also granted the blade a wider range of movement in a close-quarters combat.

'So that's your plan,' Nayt thought, as he witnessed Ferrero advance towards him with explosive speed. 'You're going to force me into 'large' decisions so that I can't force you into numerous 'small' decisions. And by engaging me at close range, where I barely have time to prepare my next move...you're hoping that my decision-making faculties will be diminished.'

His eyes glistened with excitement. 'Very well, Puppet! I accept your challenge!'

And so they went. The two men continued this uneven, unfair gamble, with their very lives resting at the tip of each other's blades. Again and again they clashed, exchanging attacks, blood, and pride.

Their unrelenting skirmish continued until a most curious occurrence. Both had landed superficial wounds upon each other at the same time...yet Ferrero's injury bled far more profusely.

"Why is your shoulder so wounded?" Nayt asked, narrowing his eyes. "It doesn't make sense. I've seen your body resist fiercer wounds than that, Duelist."

Ciro's eyes widened. After minutes of searching through the Puppet's mind, he had finally seized upon the answer he'd been looking for. His mouth fell open, and it took the Emperor of the World a moment of stuttering before he was able to voice his findings.

Knowing how this powerless Puppet could duel one of the mightiest Hangmen did not ease his mind in the slightest.

For the first time in his life, the same man who had killed his own brother for the sake of learning more about the Painted World, and then laughed at his decaying nightmare of a reality...felt horrified by the truth.

"Nayt!" the Emperor shouted. "That Puppet – that insane Puppet isn't using his Talent when he attacks!"

Ciro failed to keep a note of furious bafflement from sneaking into his voice. This wasn't just absurd; it was an affront to the natural order of the universe. "He only activates his Talent to add momentum to his movements! Whenever he lands his actual attacks, he stops using it entirely!"

The elven Hangman's mind raced through several thoughts in succession. 'That explains the odd interactions between our Talents.' Dueling was a useful Talent, but it had obvious limitations. Raising one's physical abilities in single combat was worth little if the user still couldn't overcome a difference in Rank.

Ferrero's solution had been to use his Talent as much as possible, then deliver the final blow as a completely normal person, without any magical abilities involved. Rather than a Clash of Talents, their exchanges became clashes of pure physicality.

'Talents fall to raw violence,' Adam the Painter had often said.

It was a simple, elegant solution...yet there was a reason why no others had ever attempted it.

Using his Talent only at the most critical times meant he was relying on his swordsmanship and nothing else. During that single moment, Ferrero didn't possess the enhanced strength, speed, and durability that came with his Dueling Talent.

Any injury he received – even a minor one – could be utterly lethal.

'The man is clearly mad...fortunately,' Ciro thought, grinning with relief. 'I was concerned that he harbored a secret Puppet weapon, but this is nothing to worry over. They can hardly reproduce his particular brand of lunacy. Moreover, with Nayt's newfound knowledge, he should overwhelm the Puppet in short order.'

That wasn't all. Before even Nayt himself noticed, Ciro witnessed a change take place inside of his mind. The sheer respect he felt for the duelist had now evolved to the point where he no longer cared whether his opponent was human, elf, puppet or monster – Ferrero was alive.

Which meant the elf's Talent of Hanging was working again.

During their last exchange, the heat of battle had caused Nayt's flames to unconsciously jump forth and touch the Puppet's arms. They were larger and more uncontrolled than the stealthy flame from before, yet this too was a blessing of the Goddess of Luck.

'Changing what you consider to be 'alive' is impressive,' Ciro thought, grinning. 'Even I would have trouble doing something like that so quickly. Your flames of death might be weaker now than usual, but if they are already this large, then it should be more than enough to kill this damned Puppet!'

However...

Nayt was displeased.

His gaze was cast downward, and his fists shook with anger. "Dances such as ours were not meant to end like this, Puppet." The elf's voice was filled with melancholy and regret. "But...this is the end. You've proven your worth – and thus, as a Hangman, I must bring you death."

The Talent-conjured flames on Ferrero's arm shrunk. When they vanished, his life would vanish with them. Bit by bit, they grew smaller, nearly dissipating...

Until suddenly, a strange liquid touched them. The substance had shot out from within his sword hilt. Nayt's flames immediately ignited, burning wilder than ever before on the Puppet's arm.

It took a moment for the Hangman to understand what that liquid was. When he did, the realization came as perhaps the greatest shock of the day yet.

"Oil," Nayt muttered in disbelief. "You...you had oil prepared to keep my flames alight."

The elf's dumbstruck eyes were drawn to the roaring flames. "But if you're turning off your Talent when attacking, that – that has hurt an unbelievable amount!"

"Aye, it did, and it does, and it will still." Ferrero laughed through the pain nonetheless. "Yet losing this duel would feel far worse still."

Nayt regarded the Puppet with a silent, open-mouthed stare. He did not speak for some time.

Then, slowly, he managed a weak, "You're insane."

"Guilty of that, and only that, no more."

Nayt felt both admiration and guilt at once. Admiration, because of the lengths the Puppet had gone to in order to defeat him.

Guilt, because of the lengths Nayt hadn't gone to in order to defeat the Emperor.

"STOP!" Ciro shouted. "FOCUS ON THE FIGHT – DON'T GET HUNG UP ON OLD MEMORIES! REMEMBER WHAT ACTUALLY MATTERS NOW!"

It was too late. Even in the heat of the battle, as Ferrero lunged at him with a body wreathed in fire...Nayt's mind wandered to his second duel with the Emperor.

'I was his Hangman, but not his dog,' the Elf thought, with an air of bitter nostalgia. 'I challenged him to a duel in order to stop the massacre of Greenisle. He swore to never harm my kind again, if only I bested him.'

Nayt bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. 'And I lost.'

It was his eternal shame, his greatest sin, and his reason for still living. Thousands of lives could have been saved – if only he had won that singular duel.

'And...I lost.'

Despite his training, despite once yearning for the title of strongest...Nayt's Talent was ranked lower than the Emperor's. That cruel, unnatural difference had sealed the result of their match before it ever began.

Even the hope of simple revenge was beyond him. How was he to harm someone with a Talent of the 1st Rank? Only two people in the world had a Talent of that Rank. The Puppet Grandmaster, and the Emperor himself.

Nayt hadn't expected to live after his failed challenge. Either Ciro would kill him for his insubordination, or the elf would kill himself out of shame.

He couldn't have anticipated that the tyrant would make an offer.

"Few are blessed with the Talent of Hanging," the Emperor had told him back then. "It'd be a waste to lose you. Why not work for me?"

"I'd rather die."

"Of course," Ciro acknowledged. "But wouldn't you rather kill me instead? If you keep working for me, I'll pay you the Orbs to increase your Rank. And when you have grown strong enough...I'll grant you another duel."

It was a ridiculous proposal that could only have come from the world's most arrogant man. Ciro believed he could offer his life as bait to retain the loyalty of the third-strongest in the Empire. He believed it would take many decades of service before the issue ever manifested itself – and thought himself capable of crushing Nayt even if the elf increased his Rank to the 1st.

Worst of all? He was likely correct.

But Nayt had felt like there was no choice. He accepted it all, committed the worst of crimes, one after the other. Under the Emperor's command, he razed cities to the ground in his name, killed innocents, and damned his own soul for the coin the Kinslayer gave him.

Time and time again, he challenged Ciro for a rematch.

'And I always lost.'

Each loss made him feel more desperate, more certain that he must continue on this bloodstained path he had carved for himself. What other way was there to justify the innocent blood on his hands? If he continued, then one day...one day...he would be strong enough to kill the Emperor.

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On that day, it would all have been worth it.

His despair became his justification, his mantra. Ciro could not be allowed to live – and this was the only way to kill him. While Nayt would protect anyone he hadn't been ordered to kill, when tasked by the Emperor, he didn't hesitate to trade lives for money. He would do anything he could to earn those bloodstained Orbs.

This was how the Hangman had lived until now.

Nayt marched on as the living ghost of that young, naive swordsman who had dreamed of being the strongest. He slept little and enjoyed life less. Often he tried to get in the way of the Emperor's plans, but to his dismay it had become almost a game to Ciro. Even so, the elf marched on still, justifying every disgraceful murder as necessary.

It was the only way to stop Ciro from committing even more atrocities. Nayt had no choice. He needed to stain his canvas with sin after sin in order to avenge the elves he had failed, and to safeguard the few he could yet save. If he wanted to surpass their difference in Rank, so vast that it was like leaping over a canyon, then there was no other choice, had never been a choice.

How else was he supposed to approach the level of monsters like the Emperor and the Dark Captain?

And yet...

And yet before him now stood Ferrero Acerro, the Puppet Duelist.

He was unlike the divine fighters he opposed on the battlefield. In truth, he was closer to the citizens he protected.

His Talent was not among those rare few blessed by the First Painter, such as Lordship, Painting, or Hanging. Even his Rank was disgustingly low – some of the richer citizens of Penumbria, who at that very moment were cowering from the invasion, may have had a higher Rank than the Puppet.

Yet his knees would only bend for a lunge.

Both men had the same dream, one of them was blessed with far more talent than the other, and yet...

It was the common man unblessed by fate who had refused to accept that something was impossible.

'Have...have I been taking the easy way out?' Nayt's eyes went wide, his heart racing. 'Was it my weakness that prevented me from killing the Emperor, and not the world itself? Did I really have other choices? If so...then I was just too weak to...'

Confusion, guilt, depression, adrenaline, despair – his emotions became a maelstrom that nearly swallowed him whole.

And the Puppet Duelist took advantage of that hesitation, delivering a flurry of cuts to the Elven Hangman.

"KILL HIM NOW!" the Emperor shouted at Nayt in fury.

"KILL HIM NOW!" the Ravens shouted at Ferrero in unison.

The echoing screams from the birds, the harrowing orders from the Kinslayer, the chaotic sound of the giantslaying arrows felling Stained Beasts as they crawled up onto the city, his mounting regrets of the massacres he partook in...everything combined into an overwhelming, crushing sensation that slowed Nayt's movements more and more.

'Should I let him kill me?' Nayt eyed the Puppet longingly. 'A part of me wants you to win, you know? To prove me wrong. I think it would be a more satisfying death than I deserve. And the moment you start wishing for your opponent's victory is the moment you no longer deserve to hold a sword. I should...just let him...win...'

The elf lowered both his sword and his gaze to the ground.

It was better this way.

As an incoming thrust came for his heart, the Hangman found no reason to parry. He fully accepted his death. Nayt closed his eyes, heaved a heavy sigh, and waited.

He waited for a long time – for a blow that never came.

"FERRERO! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU FUCKING DOING?" The Ravens screamed in unison, all of their eerie implication replaced by absolute burning anger. "THERE'S A WAR GOING ON! PEOPLE MIGHT DIE! STOP PROLONGING THIS!"

At the same time, the Emperor screamed, "NAYT! GET YOUR SWORD BACK UP NOW! THE PUPPET ISN'T ATTACKING FOR SOME REASON! KILL HIM, THEN KILL TENVER!"

When the Hangman opened his eyes, he was met with the sight of the tired, bleeding Puppet, his sword also lowered – but his gaze meeting Nayt's high and proud. Like him, he saw the limitations of his love for the blade. Like him, his people had been slaughtered by the Emperor. Like him, he was being swallowed up by a chaotic battlefield.

Yet unlike him, he looked happy.

"You are the finest swordsman I have met," said the Puppet. "The world, your past, your duties – burn them all." Ferrero curled his lips, and his grin was like a smoldering ember, radiating warmth and intensity. "Show me thy best, O Blade of Greenisle."

Selfishness had kept Nayt alive for many years. He'd wanted revenge, he'd wanted to help the surviving elves, and not once did he refuse his heart's call. But now that he wanted death...that selfishness showed its first crack.

No. That would be a disservice to the Duelist standing before him.

Moreso than his mountain of regrets, speaking far louder than the Emperor's orders or the chaotic battlefield, was Ferrero's scorching gaze that melted away the elf's frozen emotions. Something deep inside of him – a slumbering beast that had been stirring throughout their match – roared loudly.

And for the first time since the massacre of Greenisle, Nayt the Elven Swordsman flashed a genuine smile.

"Let's have a fun match," he challenged, meeting the Puppet's grin.

"KILL HIM–"

"WHAT ARE YOU EVEN DOING–"

The two swordsmen ignored the frantic calls from birds and emperors. At that moment, nothing else in the world mattered for them. They forgot who they chose to fight for, what they chose to protect, who they chose to kill, and even why they'd chosen to hold a weapon in the first place.

For the next two minutes, the Hangman vanished, replaced by that wide-eyed swordsman who'd once dreamed of the top. For those two minutes, the Puppet matched his energy – and gave even more. Both men displayed every trick of swordsmanship they could think of, thinking little of consequences or reasons.

'I had almost forgotten,' Nayt thought with a smile, 'how much I love fencing.'

'Never forget again,' Ferrero's blade answered, his thoughts burning in his sword. 'It's what makes you who you are, isn't it?'

'I swear it. I never will.'

The Emperor's screaming came to a halt as he realized, frighteningly, that the two were having a conversation without words or magic. Through smirks and a shared passion, these two near-strangers understood each other at a level Ciro frankly could not comprehend.

'This...is quite worrying,' he thought. Looking beyond this duel, even beyond the war itself, Ciro's first real concern manifested. It was something much farther ahead. Not today, mayhaps not tomorrow – yet visible on the horizon.

The Duelist's steel had sparked an ember into a dying fire, setting the Hangman's heart ablaze once more. Ciro had believed Nayt's passion to be dead and buried, but now...without a doubt, however small, the malevolent energy known as pride was declaring its presence again.

With every fiery exchange, with every drop of blood he shed, Nayt was reforging himself into the man who had once challenged the Emperor of the World. A legendary swordsman stirred inside his heart, the ice encasing it cracking further and further.

And standing across from him was the one responsible for melting that icy fortress. If the two continued to duel for much longer–

Suddenly, both swordsmen lowered their swords, a bittersweet expression on their faces.

"Ah," Nayt said, smiling in spite of himself. "Seems like we have to stop here."

"Indeed," said Ferrero, now speaking far less theatrically. "It's a pity."

It was so abrupt that despite being able to read their minds, Ciro still found himself bellowing out, "WHY DID YOU STOP?! NAYT!"

Almost unexpectedly, the Raven no longer shared his objections. Instead, the murder of crows and unkindness of ravens synchronized into a large, resigned sigh. "It would have been better if you'd killed him," said the biggest of the birds. "Yet this outcome is acceptable. You did well, Ferrero."

Nayt held his sword sheath up against the empty air...and had it violently torn away from his hand, as if repelled by an intangible force. "It seems that your Realm Walls are back up," he remarked. "You kept me from entering Penumbria's territory."

"That I did," the Duelist acknowledged. The flames on his shoulders slowly dissipated within the safety of the Realm. He was not this Realm's creator, but he knew of the Laws used to create it. "But it's a pity we couldn't finish our duel. Someday...?"

"I swear it," said the Hangman. "With the Elven Gods as my witness. I swear it on my life – we will have our rematch."

The two held their gaze, hands half-extended in a handshake that Penumbria's invisible Realm Walls would never allow. Both men were wounded, one of them still burned heavily on one shoulder, and yet neither of them seemed unhappy.

"How?" Ciro demanded. "HOW? The Little Painter is still fighting the Gryphon, and his Canvas is stained besides! He shouldn't be capable of using Realm Reconstruction again, much less from such a great distance – not when he hasn't mastered the Lord Talent!"

Faster than Tenver's arrows, the Emperor used the Lord Realm to shift his point of view to Adam. Though the image was faint, he confirmed that the Pretender was still engaged in battle with the Gryphon.

"The – the Butcher then? Vasco? Is he the cause?" Ciro cursed, trying to feel the Realms around his continent. "But that would have left Gama without a Realm of its own!"

A quick check showed this to be untrue. Gama still had its Realm, and Vasco was similarly engaged in his own fierce battle, currently locking swords with Valente.

'Who then? His elven wench of a daughter? No, she shouldn't inherit the Talent until his death...and even then she wouldn't have the skill to use Realm Reconstruction at this distance. Who–'

A monstrous arrow, nearly as tall as the Emperor, himself came a breath away from killing him. It was only with a last-minute application of Gravity that he managed to evade the projectile, and even that did not prevent the ensuing cloud of dust and mud from dirtying his spotless white cape.

He glared in anger at Penumbria's tallest tower. 'This Realm has new rules,' Tenver thought, knowing his uncle would read his mind. 'Nothing may enter, but anything can leave – my arrows included. Should you stay here, then I will kill you, dear uncle. So if you value your life...'

The Puppet Prince paused, then laughed, his voice so loud and maniacal that the Emperor could hear its faint echo from afar.

'GET OUT OF OUR CITY!'

Before the Emperor could think of a reply, Nayt walked back towards him, stretching his arms above his head. When he was done, he placed a consolatory hand on Ciro's shoulder.

"Well, you heard your nephew – we really should get out of here," the Hangman muttered, just as lazily as ever...but now with a faint ghost of a smile on his face. "With the Realm reconstructed, your monsters can't get through to Penumbria. And if you destroy the Realm, it would be grounds for the entire Empire to rebel."

He couldn't quite suppress a satisfied glint from sparking in his eyes. "With your infinite wisdom, surely you can see that we've lost this battle, Your Divine Highness."

"But who?!" Ciro protested angrily. "Who Reconstructed the Realm? It's not Adam, it's not Vasco, it's not Tenver, and it's certainly not the Puppets – WHO?"

The elf shrugged. "Either way, we have a long walk ahead of us." He gestured at the shattered carriage. "Tenver fucked up our transportation."

Nayt paused for a moment. Without changing his expression or tone, he added, "I'm not carrying you back to the capital."

"WHO?" The Emperor demanded again. "WHO RECONS–"

Another giant arrow nearly hit him, this time collapsing the ground behind them, sending both Hangman and Emperor flying.

Nayt stood up, covered in dirt yet seemingly unbothered. "Sir. If you don't mind, we should leave."

"Damn them all!" Ciro cursed. He shot the city one final look. "Fine. Let's leave. This all ends once the Painter is dead, anyhow."

The largest raven flew directly at the Emperor, stopping its flight inches from his face. "Are you certain of that?" Its beady-eyed gaze looked somehow taunting. "It seems, your Oh-So-Divine-Highness, that you have learned nothing."

Ciro had to restrain himself from crushing the bird into atoms. "And why, pray tell, do you think that?"

The ravens and crows let loose synchronized, uproarious laughter, the sound echoing like an orchestra of mockery. "Because you still underestimate my Lord Adam's plans."