The ritual platform had become a stage for slaughter.
Steel screamed against steel as Marya and Shiryu clashed across the ancient stones, their blades meeting in explosions of sound that echoed off the cliffs. Sparks showered the ground with each impact, brief constellations that died as quickly as they were born.
Shiryu pressed forward, his invisible form flickering in and out of existence as he attacked from every angle. His sword—a blade that had ended more lives than most warriors had seen—sought openings that weren't there, weaknesses that didn't exist.
Marya met every strike.
Not with effort. Not with strain. Just... there. Her blade was always where his was, always at the perfect angle, always exactly where it needed to be. Her golden eyes tracked him with the lazy attention of a cat watching a mouse that had already been caught.
Shiryu materialized fully, frustration etching lines into his face. "You fight like him!"
He meant it as an insult. As a reminder that she was merely a copy, a shadow, a pale imitation of the world's greatest swordsman.
Marya pushed him back with a flick of her wrist that sent him stumbling across the stones.
Her expression didn't change.
Unfazed. Unimpressed. Almost bored.
Shiryu's jaw flexed. He had killed admirals. He had assassinated kings. He had ended bloodlines and toppled nations from the shadows. And this girl—this child—looked at him like he was an inconvenience.
He found an opening.
Or thought he did.
He lunged, his blade extending in a thrust that should have pierced her heart.
Marya moved.
It wasn't a dodge. It wasn't a block. She simply... wasn't there anymore. His blade passed through empty air where her chest had been, and she stood two feet to the left, watching him with that same disinterested expression.
Shiryu cursed again, the word torn from somewhere deep.
Marya sighed.
Then the ground trembled.
The tremor rolled through the ritual platform like a wave, shaking stones that had stood for eight centuries. Marya's eyes shifted—not toward Shiryu, but toward the source. Toward the shrine. Toward the darkness that had begun to seep from its doors like smoke from a dying fire.
An immense sensation washed over her.
Haki. But wrong. Twisted. Blackbeard's power—the Yami Yami no Mi—reaching out, consuming everything it touched, infecting the very air.
Shiryu saw his chance.
Assuming she was distracted, he attacked again—a wild slash meant to end her.
Marya's blade came up.
The block was lazy. Almost dismissive. His sword bounced off Nisshoku's edge like a wave against a cliff.
"DO NOT IGNORE ME!"
His voice cracked with fury.
Marya didn't look at him. Her golden eyes remained fixed on the shrine, on the darkness, on the battle she could feel but not see.
Shiryu lunged again, his pride bleeding now as much as his arm.
"DO NOT UNDERESTIMATE ME!"
Another lazy block. Their blades locked, pressed together, steel singing against steel.
Marya leaned in.
There was no effort in the movement. No strain. She simply... leaned. And Shiryu, for all his strength, for all his killing intent, for all his decades of experience, gave ground.
Another tremor vibrated through the stones.
Marya smirked.
It was a small expression—just a curl of her lips, a flicker of something almost like amusement. Her golden eyes met Shiryu's, and he saw nothing there. No fear. No respect. No interest.
"This has been a nice warm-up," she said. Her voice was quiet, conversational, as if they were discussing the weather. "But this has gotten boring. And I am losing interest."
Shiryu's jaw flexed so hard his teeth creaked.
He opened his mouth to respond—to threaten, to curse, to do something—
Marya swung her blade.
Not at him. Not exactly. She swung it in an arc, as if cutting the air itself, and from Nisshoku's edge, a wave of Haki erupted.
It crossed the ritual platform in an instant.
Shiryu saw it coming. Had time to register the golden light, the pressure, the absolute certainty of what was about to happen.
Then it hit him.
The impact was absolute.
He left the ground—not flying, not tumbling, but flung, as if the world itself had decided he didn't belong there anymore. His body cartwheeled across the ritual site, bouncing off stones, skidding across flagstones, finally coming to rest in a crumpled heap near the edge of the platform.
His eyes were open but unseeing.
Unconscious.
Finished.
Marya didn't look at him.
Another tremor rolled through the ground, stronger this time. The darkness from the shrine pulsed, and somewhere in its depths, she heard the clash of battle—Kipa's staff, Clarissa's voice, Jannali's spear.
She didn't wait.
She vanished.
One moment she stood on the ritual platform, Nisshoku gleaming in the firelight. The next, she was gone—mist and shadow and the whisper of movement too fast to track.
The platform fell silent.
Shiryu breathed—just barely—his body broken, his pride shattered.
And somewhere below, in the heart of the shrine, Marya's golden eyes opened on a new battlefield.
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