Blood dripped from both fighters, painting the misty chamber in streaks of red. Each drop echoed softly—a steady rhythm that mixed with the heavy silence, as if the ancient walls themselves breathed in the scent of iron and despair.
The haze twisted around Sinn and Lamar, blurring their faces but not their eyes. Their gazes locked, wild and unyielding, like two beasts circling in the gloom.
Sinn moved first. His hand rose, trembling, slicing through the fog like a knife. He reached out, fingers curling as if to grab the air itself, but his body faltered.
He stumbled, knees buckling, vision spinning as blood loss clouded his mind. The world tilted; the mist pulsed in time with his weakening heartbeat.
Lamar watched, relief flickering across his battered face.
A smile crept onto his lips, tinged with exhaustion and grim satisfaction. "Looks like I won't die alone," he whispered, barely louder than the soft drip of blood pooling at his feet.
He stopped moving, closing his eyes. Though the Book of Haze had slipped from his grasp, its energy still throbbed inside him—a faint, persistent glow, like the whisper of an old ritual. In his mind, plans unfolded: a double attack on Sinn. If the shade of Lanoor could distract Sinn from behind, Lamar could strike from the front, swift and unexpected.
It was a desperate strategy, born from madness. Who would believe the summoned beast had returned? The Vest of Obscurity could hide everything, masking intentions and movements.
Lamar trusted that Sinn believed Lanoor was held back by his partner, never suspecting the shadow lurking in the mist.
How could Sinn possibly know or anticipate this? Lamar wondered, as the room filled with the sounds of dripping blood and the silent tension of two souls locked in battle, each breath heavy with fate.
The shift in weight in the air shattered only after Sinn stumbled forward.
This sensation of weightlessness loomed over Sinn, pressing upon him like an invisible hand. Too much blood loss—he needed energy to heal his wounds. There was only so much his body could endure.
Essence from the heart would do wonders, but from what heart?
Sinn's cold, empty eyes constricted as helplessness washed over him, his body staggering. Lamar watched all of this, seeing a massive pull of crimson blood, his lips curled up.
With little hesitation, he acted.
"Re deltes."
With the simple chant, Sinn's blood started to fall, wrapping around him.
It slowly morphed into spikes, piercing his body and holding him in place. The transformation haunted Lamar's spirit, as well as the Book of Haze, which slowly faded away.
Sinn's once strong grip and quick movements turned dull as his strength faded. The Book of Haze dropped to the floor with a hollow thud, echoing through the chamber—a final punctuation to the battle, as the mist swallowed all traces of hope and victory alike.
The scene was strange in Lamar's eyes… how could Sinn just stop moving? The whole scene felt creepy to him. That attack was meant to contain him? Even though Sinn was perfectly still, Lamar hesitated.
As if to force his hand, the blood on the floor started to swell and heat.
The sickening sound of popping blood was heard as the haze fell bare. The blood spikes, as well as Sinn's blood, started to dry unbelievably fast. The thick smell of rot filled the room.
'Damn,' Lamar thought.
"Damn it. Can't this bastard just die normally…"
Lamar began to feel the same despair his victim used to feel—the gnawing uncertainty of whether something was real or false, or if death would come not from attacking, but simply waiting.
He wasn't stupid, but if he didn't act, he would just bleed to death. Should he take Sinn with him? If he was to take him with him… then he would have to sacrifice himself.
With this logic, a slight smile filled his face. Life felt quite worthless at this point. The deep feeling slowly lifted as he lunged at Sinn.
"Now."
Lamar spoke as he used the remaining energy to let his shadow beast attack too. In his eyes, he saw the mist turn behind Sinn, but Sinn never moved.
"Oh."
'Is he actually dead?'
Even then, Lamar wouldn't believe Sinn was dead until his head was decapitated. This was the fear that unknowingly gripped Lamar's heart…
How could Sinn simply stop moving, as if frozen in time? Shadows flickered across the blood-stained floor, and an eerie silence pressed against Lamar's ears, broken only by the sickening pop of swelling blood.
The crimson pools began to bubble and heat, releasing a thick, fetid stench that clawed at his nostrils, reminiscent of rotting flesh left too long in the haze.
The deep look of curiosity—or was it confusion?—vanished from Lamar's face as his gaze locked onto the monstrous silhouette of the Lanoor beast looming behind Sinn.
The air seemed to thicken, charged with a sinister energy that made every breath feel like swallowing glass.
Sinn stood motionless, an eerie calm radiating from him.
Lamar's smile stretched wide, almost manic, his eyes burning with a green glow that flickered like wildfire, fixed on Sinn as if trying to pierce through his soul.
Desperation surged through Lamar's veins. He lunged forward, his hand twisting unnaturally, bones cracking and flesh warping until it formed a spear sharper than any blade.
But even as he prepared to strike, a cold shiver crawled down his spine—a primal warning. Someone, or something, was watching him from behind.
His face contorted in terror, memories flooding back: the iron rule when facing Sinn—never attack from the front.
Sinn was not just an assassin; he was the living embodiment of betrayal, a demon who thrived in shadows and struck where least expected.
Driven by dread, Lamar began the mental chant for sacrifice—the only ritual he knew.
But this time, there was no innocent maiden to offer. Instead, he did the unthinkable: he sacrificed himself. His soul, his mind, his essence—all poured into the desperate invocation.
Yet, without the Book of Haze as a medium, the ritual was doomed.
Lamar realized, with a sinking feeling, that he was merely daydreaming. Could a fool who never saw he was just a pawn ever hope to change his fate?
His thoughts raced, tangled and frantic, but his body moved with the precision honed over centuries.
He sidestepped, feet blurring across the ground, leaving behind a ghostly afterimage and a thunderous sonic boom. Pain exploded through him—muscles tearing from his feet up to his core, agony threatening to drown his senses.
By the time his mind caught up, Lamar was already falling backward, confusion etched across his face. "Huh?" The word slipped out, barely audible.
He saw it then—the source of his terror. Sinn's arm, withered and grotesque, floated toward him.
This was the nightmare that had haunted him, left him broken and scarred. But Lamar had no time to react; he'd turned his back to his enemy.
If only he could see what happened behind him. The beast of Lanoor had pierced Sinn's heart perfectly, yet Sinn remained unmoved. Instead, the beast shifted, its arm reaching for Lamar with impossible speed—a blur that crossed the distance in a blink.
Lamar never saw the withered arm that bested him. Instead, blood sprayed into the air, droplets suspended like rubies in the gloom. A black hand, scaled like a lizard and furred at the edges, clutched a still-beating heart. Heat radiated from it, and blood trickled from the corners of Lamar's mouth.
Time snapped back to normal. The endless moments of fear were nothing more than the rush toward death. They say life flashes before your eyes, but for Lamar, it was torture—each memory dragged out, each regret exposed.
He felt the weight behind him, a presence so heavy it threatened to crush his spirit. Desperate, he tried to turn his head, but couldn't.
Someone else did it for him—a hand seized his chin, forcing his gaze backward. The touch might have seemed gentle, almost intimate, but only a fool would mistake it for kindness.
As his vision faded, Lamar glimpsed true horror. Sinn stood lifeless, but beside him, the beast of Lanoor smiled—a twisted grin that screamed, "Did I do good?"
Shock shattered Lamar's composure, leaving him mentally reeling. To make matters worse, the beast began to dissolve into fog, its form unraveling. Through the mist, a crimson eye glared, and Lamar finally understood: Sinn hadn't just seen through him—he had manipulated Lamar's plan from the start.
Who was the dead Sinn? Lamar wondered, his thoughts hazy and fragmented.
One thing was clear: Sinn couldn't conjure illusions without a medium—blood or a severed limb. Lamar realized the weight he felt was Sinn releasing his restriction, revealing the corpse's true form.
Despair crashed over him. The dead Sinn was actually the beast of Lanoor.
"Fufu." Sinn's laughter echoed, sharp and mocking. Refusing to drop the illusion, he kept the beast's image alive, tormenting Lamar further.
With his remaining arm, Sinn covered Lamar's eyes, letting only a sliver of light through. His expression twisted with malice as he released his grip on Lamar's heart, letting the beast of Lanoor fall away.
Sinn pulled Lamar's body closer, forcing him to witness as Sinn took a bite from his heart. The dark circles under Lamar's eyes grew heavier, his vision clouded with pain and exhaustion.
Crystalline tears formed beneath Lamar's eyes as his body slowly began to shut down. His knees buckled, sending him collapsing to the ground with a low, broken sound.
Even in his final moments, it seemed Lamar was mastering the height of sin; his transformation would not end, even after death.
Sinn felt the enormous energy of Lamar's essence seeping into him.
The refined power that Lamar had cultivated over centuries was more than enough to heal the grievous injuries riddling Sinn's body.
Warm fog enveloped Sinn's severed arm, his broken limbs, and the many holes that marred his flesh. His strength returned, and the grip of death loosened its hold on him.
With only lingering traces of his essence remaining, Lamar did not speak aloud. Instead, he projected his will directly into Sinn's spirit.
This attack was never meant to deliver a crushing blow to Sinn, but rather to leave an everlasting mark on his soul—a scar that would never fade, a memory that would always be remembered.
But Lamar Underestimated the demonic nature of Sinn.
This was the concept Lamar comprehended at the very end of his life.
His message was tinged with irony:
*"You're like a small child who's curious about the world…
Haha… To lose to you… How humiliating it is…"*
Lamar's gaze slowly dimmed as blood continued to flow from his eyes and lips.
The false Immortal, Mogi Fushi—also known as Lamar—fell today.
The legend of the Konton to Shita Kibō era was over.