"What do you think about us having a catchphrase? Maybe a monocle…" Mordret spoke to himself, crossing through reflections toward the prison.
Receiving no response from the voice, he shrugged and kept going.
The temple corridors were empty, drowned in complete darkness — and that would become even more pronounced after a few weeks.
Letting out a soft sigh, he noticed the number of people increasing, including at least four awakened standing guard.
Ignoring them, he watched the lamplight flicker, the shadows reflecting the shapes of nearly twenty lost ones.
Carefully, Mordret studied the gathered awakened.
His expression opened into satisfaction.
The air felt heavier in that wing of the temple. Not because of the smell of mold or the lack of light — but because of the concentration of presences.
Each awakened there carried invisible scars.
Each lost one breathed like someone who had already died a little inside.
Mordret felt it.
He felt the weight of fragmented existences, broken wills, dreams consumed by the same cycle he now fed.
For a moment, something akin to curiosity crossed his mind.
How many of them still believed they could leave?
How many had already given up?
A faint smile appeared.
He would find out.
Like lightning — or its reflection — he launched himself into the eyes of a black-haired awakened, irises shining like emeralds.
The man seemed experienced; his face marked by scars, his expression stern, always alert.
Diving into the lost one's soul, Mordret once again entered the sea of souls.
But he wouldn't make a grand speech or anything like that; there was no time for trivialities.
In moments, both he and the stern-faced man stood face to face.
Mordret moved first, an illusory blue sword forming in his hand.
The man's eyes widened for a second before his expression hardened.
He forged a blade as well.
The weapons collided in a thunderous impact, making the sea of souls tremble in response.
The swords locked. Mordret's seemed more solid, denser — the power emanating from it superior.
"Accept it. You know you cannot win." Mordret hissed in a heavy voice, trying to unsettle the lost one.
The man smiled before answering with difficulty:
"What's the point of dying without fighting? I want to carry my art to the grave… young one."
Mordret resigned himself and silently accepted the words.
Raising his sword, he tore through the air toward the lost one's arm. The man defended with a low groan and stepped back a few paces.
"You have a great thirst for blood, boy. I can't imagine what you must've faced to reach this point…"
An expression of disgust appeared on Mordret's face.
"You truly shouldn't even try to imagine." His dry tone echoed across the sea.
The blades met once more, the light expelled from the swords shining beautifully.
It was as if an unspoken conversation was happening between them; only the clash of weapons was enough for them to understand each other's emotions and feelings.
The strikes were majestic, like a dance of blood in which the dancers decided the fate of their lives within it.
Each step forward was measured, each retreat precisely calculated.
When the blades touched, the sound echoed like a distant bell — clean, pure, almost solemn.
There was no uncontrolled brutality.
There was intention behind it…
Hozoin spun his body with precision, cutting through the void where Mordret had stood a second earlier. Mordret responded with a minimal flick of his wrist, dodging by inches and counterattacking in the same breath.
There was not only power, but something deeper…
Animosity?
Amusement?
Or perhaps recognition?
Neither of them knew the answer.
And yet, they shared the same feeling.
Reality, however, did not allow it to continue.
In less than a minute, the man stood without one of his arms, pain clearly visible on his face.
Mordret watched him without any strong emotion, perhaps a trace of empathy for the strong warrior who had endured for so long.
He wasn't even sweating, much less tired. But that man had proven his worth.
Then, suddenly, the lost one began to laugh.
He laughed a warm laugh, like someone finding a long-lost friend.
One of Mordret's eyebrows rose at the strange situation.
"Why are you laughing?"
The awakened looked at him calmly, catching his breath.
"Isn't it obvious? I found a great opponent…"
A spark of happiness flickered deep within his gray-green pupils.
"And by your hands, I will die."
The sea fell into stillness for a moment as Mordret absorbed the man's words.
His mouth went dry; something in the man reflected himself.
A sigh escaped his lungs, relaxing his posture.
"Tell me your name. I will remember it…"
Surprise passed through the awakened's eyes before he closed them serenely.
"Hozoin… Call me Hozoin. Heir of the sword…"
Without hesitation, Mordret pierced through Hozoin; the blade that once defended him brought him death.
Falling to his knees, Hozoin looked up, the unnaturally calm figure of Mordret watching him.
He saw himself reflected in those silver eyes — the shape of a shattered swordsman.
"How many people have you killed? You must've faced many in your life…"
The awakened's exhausted voice betraying his fading strength.
"But you must understand… They weren't your enemies. Not anymore…"
More blood flowed from the hole in his chest.
"If you ever get the chance to leave this place… Try not to lose yourself in your anger…"
His tone low and melodic, like an artist's final poem.
"Your own thirst for blood… Turns everyone you meet into enemies…"
His body fell. Hozoin saw the sky and raised his hand, trying to grasp it.
But the sky did not move, remaining untouchable to mortals.
Calmness washed over him, making him cast a look of pure empathy at Mordret.
"How many more will you have to kill… to understand that?"
His eyes closed slowly, never to open again.
And Mordret remained silent.
A painfully lonely silence.
———
An uneven breath filled Hozoin's chest.
He opened his eyes.
The prison returned.
Some lost ones walked nearby. Others stood guard.
He rose slowly, stretching his arms.
"Sleepy, Hozoin?" a companion beside him asked, yawning.
"A little… I think I'll warm up."
There was something strange in his tone.
"Warm up? If you're getting coffee, bring me a cup too."
Hozoin smiled.
A light began to form in his hands.
"I can do better than coffee."
The smile widened — too cold to be natural.
"I need something… hotter."
The companion frowned.
"What do you mean—"
The sword fully formed.
The strike pierced his chest before he could finish the sentence.
Blood slowly flowed.
Hozoin held him for a moment, almost gently.
"Forgive me," he murmured, low. "But I need to warm up."
He let the body fall.
The blade shone.
And then the battle before the prison began.