"No, no, no," Pangil sang, daggers flashing. "Don't look at him. Look at me."
Zealth blocked one blade with the buckler and caught the other on the broken sword.
"Move."
"Make me."
Zealth pressed forward with strength, forcing Pangil back a step. Pangil gave ground, grinning wider, then twisted sideways and slid under the next strike. His maneuvering was better. Zealth knew it immediately. Pangil's footwork was not simply fast—it was slippery, adaptive, built for ugly fights where balance mattered more than elegance.
Zealth had speed.
Zealth had power.
Pangil had angles.
And worse, Pangil enjoyed every second of it.
Alan supported him from the rear, sending vines across Zealth's path and raising stone spikes whenever Zealth tried to cut around Pangil. The attacks no longer caught him cleanly, but they forced adjustments. A half-step here. A delayed swing there. Tiny interruptions, each one giving Pangil a chance to slash, retreat, or laugh directly in his face.
"See?" Pangil said, ducking beneath another swing. "This is better. This is much better."
Zealth blocked a dagger, stepped in, and drove his shoulder toward Pangil's chest.
Pangil spun with the impact instead of resisting it, skidding sideways with a laugh.
"You're strong," Pangil said. "But stiff."
Zealth flicked his gaze toward Alan.
Pangil was there again.
"I said focus on me."
Their weapons clashed faster.
Sparks from Pangil's skill scattered with every exchange. Zealth's broken sword hammered down again and again, each blow heavy enough to make Pangil's arms bend. Yet Pangil kept moving, turning impact into motion, slipping from direct lines, striking from places Zealth had to calculate rather than feel.
At first, the fight looked even.
Pangil's speed matched his.
His maneuvering surpassed him.
His grin never fell.
But slowly, something changed.
Zealth felt it before he saw it.
Pangil's steps remained quick, but the recovery after each dodge grew shorter. His laughter still came, but breaths began hiding inside it. His lightning still crackled, yet the rhythm lost some of its wild smoothness.
A Vagabond burned bright.
A Rogue endured.
Zealth understood the difference now.
Pangil did too.
And instead of fear—
The maniac smiled harder.
"Hah," Pangil breathed, wiping his mouth with the back of his wrist. "So that's how it is."
Zealth raised the broken blade.
"You're running out of stamina."
Pangil's eyes blazed.
"Good."
He lowered himself again, daggers ready, robe snapping in the heated wind.
"Then I'll just finish you with what's left."
Zealth ignored him, raised the broken sword, and shifted his eyes past him.
Alan.
The druid stood behind the battle line, one hand pressed to his wounded side, the other gripping his staff. His breathing looked uneven, but the green light at the staff's tip still pulsed. As long as he remained standing, the vines and stone spears would keep interrupting Zealth's movements.
Support first.
Zealth stepped forward.
Pangil's grin sharpened.
"Oh no, you don't."
He lunged to intercept, daggers flashing toward Zealth's chest. Even slowed, he was fast enough to threaten. His body slid into the angle perfectly, selfish and fearless, as if blocking Zealth's path with his own life was not sacrifice but entertainment.
Zealth did not meet him blade to blade.
He dropped his weight and drove his knee upward.
The kick sank into Pangil's stomach.
Pangil's breath burst from him in a rough laugh.
"Kh—!"
The impact folded him just enough.
Just enough space.
Zealth slipped past.
Alan's eyes widened. "Pangil—!"
The druid struck his staff down. Vines erupted between them, thicker than before, twisting like living ropes desperate to delay him. Zealth cut through them with the broken sword, not cleanly, not elegantly, but with enough force to tear a path open. Stone needles rose next, aimed for his legs.
He stepped through the narrow gap before they fully formed.
Alan lifted his staff again, voice tight. "Bind—"
Zealth arrived.
One swift slash.
The broken blade cut across Alan's body from shoulder to ribs. The druid stiffened. His mouth opened as if he meant to complain, explain, or correct someone's timing.
Nothing came out.
He dropped to the grass, knees first, then one hand, black particles leaking from the wound and scattering across the field like powdered ash.
"…I really hate close combat," Alan muttered weakly.
Zealth almost answered with a joke.
Almost.
A flash appeared beside his face.
Pangil.
"Found you."
The dagger drove toward Zealth's temple.
Zealth let go of his sword.
The broken blade fell.
His hand shot up and caught Pangil's wrist before the dagger landed. Momentum slammed through his arm, but he held it. Pangil's grin widened inches from his face, wild and delighted.
"Good catch."
Zealth twisted.
Pangil's wrist bent at an ugly angle. The dagger slipped from his grip.
Zealth took it.
Pangil's other blade came immediately, cutting toward Zealth's throat. No hesitation. No panic. Even with one arm trapped, he attacked like losing a limb would only make the fight funnier.
Zealth turned the stolen dagger and slashed.
The blade cut across Pangil's attacking hand.
Black particles burst from the wound.
The second dagger fell into the grass with his severed hand.
Pangil stepped back, clutching his injured hand. He felt no pain. But the dullness still came—the heavy numbness, the sick warning that the body had taken damage even if the nerves refused to scream.
Pangil looked down at his hand.
Then back at Zealth.
His smile did not fade.
It grew.
"There," he said, voice breathless and thrilled. "That's it. That's the face."
Zealth stood over him with the stolen dagger in hand.
Pangil spread his arms slightly, wounded hand trembling but open, as if inviting the next strike.
"Come on, Rogue." His voice lowered, rough with excitement. "Finish it. Don't make that heroic face now. You already won."
Zealth's fingers tightened around the dagger.
"Shut up."
Pangil laughed softly. "That's better. Kill me."
Zealth stepped in.
The dagger rose.
A clean stab would end it. One motion. One final hit. Pangil would collapse, his body would dissolve into black particles, and the field would finally be quiet.
Zealth aimed for the chest.
Then froze.
A memory took him.
The man knelt in front of him, bloodied, elegant clothes torn, face pale beneath streaks of dirt and red. His hands clutched Zealth's wrist with humiliating desperation.
Behind him, a child hid near the ruined staircase.
Small.
Silent.
Shaking.
"Please," the nobleman begged. "Not my son. Take everything. Take the house. Take me. But spare him."
Zealth remembered the weight of the weapon in his hand.
He shook his head hard, forcing his eyes away.
His gaze landed on Alan.
The druid on the grass became someone else.
A young man in a white polo and black pants lay curled on the asphalt, soaked in his own blood. One shoe had come loose. His fingers scraped weakly against the road as if he could crawl out of what had already happened to him. Blood pooling beneath him, thick and dark under the orange streetlight.
His mouth had moved.
Maybe he had asked for help.
Maybe he had begged not to die.
Zealth's throat tightened.
He stood still for a few seconds.
Then.
A gunshot cracked through everything.
Zealth's head snapped sideways.
Something struck his skull with dull finality.
The manor shattered.
The road vanished.
The field returned.
Grass. Sun. Drone. Pangil kneeling before him, still grinning. Alan curled on the ground, leaking black particles instead of blood.
Zealth slowly turned.
Glen pinned in the boulder, half-collapsed, one trembling hand gripping a spare revolver. Smoke curled from the muzzle. His face looked pale beneath the brim of his hat, his breath thin but steady enough.
"Hit," Glen muttered. "Finally."
Black particles dripped down the side of Zealth's head.
He tried to move.
His body refused.
His knees weakened. The stolen dagger slipped from his fingers and fell soundlessly into the grass.
Pangil watched him sink.
His grin remained, but something in it cooled.
"How disappointing," he said.
Zealth dropped to one knee.
A panel appeared before him.
YOU HAVE BEEN DEFEATED.
Do you wish to Respawn?
YES
NO
Below it, another line glowed.
Ganymede Candy available: 1229
A revival item.
One use, and he could rise again.
Laugh it off.
Call it lag.
Pretend the stream still mattered.
Pretend Pangil had not become a nobleman begging for his son.
Pretend Alan had not become a student bleeding on the road.
And continue the fight.
The countdown began.
9
Zealth stared at YES.
8
He had enough candies to return again and again.
7
He could still win.
6
Maybe.
5
But he had already lost.
4
Not because Pangil was stronger.
3
Not because Glen outplayed him.
2
Because the game had opened a door inside him, and what waited behind it was not harmless at all.
Zealth lowered his hand.
He selected NO.
1
Pangil's voice reached him faintly.
"Running away after all, shabby Rogue?"
0
Darkness swallowed him.
Beyond the stream window, two individuals stared at their phones.
The two viewers.
Neither face could be seen.
One leaned back with a thin, disappointed smile, as if the show had ended before reaching the best part.
The other leaned closer.
Their smile widened slowly—bright, curious, almost innocent.
Like a child who had just found a new toy.