Ash paused when he stopped in front of Mongrel, who turned to face him.
The warrior known as Mongrel wore a dark cloak with plates of onyx metal, as if the armor had been carved directly from an ancient rock. Each plate seemed to absorb the light around it, creating shadows that moved slowly across the surface of the metal. On his face was a completely smooth black mask, featureless, with no slits for eyes or mouth—a perfectly polished surface that vaguely reflected the dim light of the Dream Scape.
Meanwhile, in his hands, he held a completely black odachi, a long, curved blade that seemed forged from the same darkness that enveloped his armor. Mongrel's stance was firm, imposing, as if he had been waiting for that moment for a long time.
Ash, without saying a word, simply issued the challenge.
There were no words of introduction, no gestures of courtesy, not even a nod of recognition. Only Ash's cold gaze through the void of his own mask and the slight movement of his hand as he pointed at his opponent. The gesture was subtle but unmistakable—a simple, direct summons.
"Olvido has challenged Mongrel," announced a voice, resonating from some invisible place above the combat arena. The sound spread like ripples in water, reaching all the spectators who had gathered in the surrounding area. The voice was neutral, devoid of emotion, but its echo carried an unquestionable authority.
Hearing the announcement, the spectators quickly moved back, retreating to observe the encounter between the two novice players who had maintained an undefeated win record without losing a single match. Many were curious; others were excited.
Well-known figures of the Dream Scape, such as Leo Strike, El Loco, and Defense of the Twin Lions, who were streaming live, pointed their cameras toward the upcoming encounter, the viewer count steadily increasing.
The circle of spectators widened, forming an expectant human ring, all eyes fixed on the two combatants who now faced each other in silence. The atmosphere grew dense, charged with anticipation, as the battle about to unfold began weaving its own narrative.
Ash discarded the katana he had been holding until then. Without a sudden gesture, he simply let the weapon dissolve into scattered motes of light, returning to the space of his Sea of Souls from which it had emerged. And in its place, he summoned a new memory. His fingers closed around a different object—something thinner than a sword and longer. It was a blade ending in a needle-like or estoc-shaped point, white as bone.
The weapon seemed fragile at first glance, but any experienced warrior could feel the density of its edge, the promise of pain. The white surface did not reflect light; rather, it seemed to absorb it and transform it into a ghostly pallor reminiscent of white bones.
Ash knew that by summoning that memory, he would be recognized by Sunny, just as he expected. There could be no mistake in that recognition. That sword was unique, laden with history and meaning—a symbol that could neither be forged nor replicated.
Mongrel, upon seeing that sword, froze instantly. His entire body became rigid, as if a current of ice had run down his spine from top to bottom. The black odachi he held lowered slightly—barely a couple of centimeters—but enough for any attentive observer to notice the hesitation. The smooth mask could show no expression, but Mongrel's posture spoke for itself: his shoulders tensed, his breathing became irregular, and his feet planted on the ground with an indecision that contrasted with the firmness he had shown moments before.
Only a small, shaky, bewildered voice came from his mouth. The words were barely a whisper, a thread of sound that squeezed through the slits of his mask.
"How do you..." It was barely a stammer, an echo of incredulity that contained more questions than certainties.
But Ash did not respond. Instead, he attacked without thinking—he attacked. He did not wait for Mongrel to finish processing what he saw, did not grant him a second to regain his composure or formulate a response. His body moved with mechanical precision, lunging forward with the speed of someone who had executed that movement hundreds of times. The pale needle cut through the air, tracing a straight and deadly line, initiating the battle.
The impact of the first clash meant that, although Mongrel was surprised by this recognition, he recovered quickly. He could not afford to hesitate in the middle of a fight. His training and survival instincts kicked in, raising the black odachi to intercept the initial thrust. The sound of metal meeting white bone was sharp and brief.
The combat was fast and decisive. There were no prolonged exchanges or elegant dances. Every movement was calculated to end the opponent in the fewest possible strikes. Ash advanced without pause, his pale needle constantly seeking the gaps in Mongrel's defense. Mongrel retreated, parried, counterattacked, but his rhythm was broken. The discovery of Ash's identity continued to weigh on his movements, causing some parries to arrive a fraction of a second too late and some counterattacks to be born without the necessary conviction. Ash exploited every single one of those hesitations.
Until Ash finally managed to pierce Mongrel's armor by using the enchantment that allowed him to bypass defenses. The onyx metal, which had withstood countless blows before, shattered like glass under the tip of the pale needle.
In doing so, he thrust straight for Mongrel's heart. The white blade entered cleanly, without resistance, seeking the exact center of his opponent's chest. Mongrel froze again, but this time it wasn't from surprise or recognition. It was the kind of freezing that precedes the end. His hands never let go of the black odachi. Ash withdrew the sword, leaving his opponent to fall onto the sand before disappearing.
Then, simply, he vanished into particles. His body decomposed into motes of faint light that rose toward the invisible ceiling of the Dream Scape, scattering like ashes in the wind. No trace of him remained—not his armor, nor his smooth mask.
At that, the voice announced again, as neutral and cold as at the beginning. "Olvido has won."
With that, Ash twirled the pale needle in his hand—an almost absent-minded motion, as if spinning a pencil between his fingers. The white blade spun once, twice, before being stored back into the space of memories. Then, without looking at the spectators who still remained silent around the arena, Ash exited the Dream Scape. His silhouette slowly blurred, fading as if he had never been there, leaving behind only the echo of a combat that had ended before many could fully understand what they had witnessed.
Without Ash knowing it, this event would mark a new trend on the internet—but he wouldn't find out until much later.