The fire still surged up her arm when the decision was made.

There was no hesitation, no prolonged calculation—just a clean, brutal, and definitive movement. The short blade emerged from her remaining hand, and before any attempt at restraint could be made, it descended upon her own shoulder.

The cut was precise.

Absolute.

The arm severed from her body as if it were just another obstacle in the way.

For an instant, the world seemed to slow down. The limb, still engulfed in white flames, fell spinning slowly through the air, consumed from the inside out by that energy that was not confined to matter, while the rest of her body recoiled with a dry impulse, forcefully creating distance.

Strax didn’t pursue her.

He merely watched.

His eyes followed the arm’s fall for a second before returning to her, his expression unchanged, as if it were nothing surprising—just another piece of data being recorded.

And then—

The regeneration began.

It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t slow.

The flesh reformed as if being rebuilt by a will imposed on reality, fibers emerging, aligning, connecting in a matter of seconds. Bones, muscles, skin—everything remade with an efficiency that left no room for apparent weakness. The new arm moved almost immediately, the fingers flexing as if they had never ceased to exist.

The air between them grew heavy.

More so than before.

She took a deep breath, adjusting her posture as her gaze finally stabilized, no longer burdened with surprise or irritation—but with decision.

"Well...," she began, her voice lower now, but infinitely more serious. "I think we can stop with the light part now."

The wind around them shifted.

Not because of her.

But because of the expectation.

She raised her chin slightly, looking Strax directly in the eye, without any trace of hesitation.

"Shalom Ascalon," she said, not as if introducing herself, but as if affirming something that deserved recognition. "Monarch of Swords."

The name carried no vanity.

It carried weight.

History.

Something built with enough blood to justify every syllable.

And then—

She moved her hand to the side of her body.

A small black leather pouch.

Simple.

Discreet.

Almost insignificant compared to everything else.

But when her fingers plunged inside—

The world responded.

Not with sound.

But with pressure.

Something inside wasn’t just a stored weapon.

It was compressed presence.

When she pulled—

It wasn’t just a sword that emerged.

It was something that seemed... wrong to exist.

The blade was larger, longer, but it wasn’t the size that made it different. It was the way she distorted the space around her, as if her existence carried a weight that shouldn’t belong on that plane. The other two—the dragon slayers—were dangerous.

This one—

It was something else.

The air around her yielded slightly, as if recognizing something superior.

Zani reacted immediately.

Not with words.

But with a clear tremor in the connection between them.

Something that wasn’t fear.

But respect.

And alert.

Strax... came her voice, lower than before, more restrained. This isn’t just—

[I know.]

His reply cut off before she finished.

His eyes remained fixed on Shalom, now analyzing not only her posture, but the very presence of that new weapon.

She raised her sword.

And this time—

There was no playfulness in her gaze.

"Now," she said, adjusting her foot slightly in the air, as if finding the perfect balance for what was to come, "let’s fight for real."

The silence that followed wasn’t empty.

It was charged.

Heavy.

And then—

Strax spoke.

"I have no titles."

Simple.

Direct.

No need to introduce himself.

No need to justify his existence.

His blade spun slightly in his hand, his body relaxing... not through carelessness, but through absolute control.

"Only strength."

And then—

Reality shattered.

There was no smooth transition.

There was no visible preparation.

The energy simply exploded.

A black torrent erupted from his body like a contained collapse that finally found an outlet, a pillar of pure presence rising to the heavens with enough violence to distort everything around it. The air was pushed, compressed, crushed by the intensity of it all, and the sky above them—the entire sky—responded.

The blue disappeared.

Replaced by red.

Deep.

Dense.

As if the very firmament were being contaminated.

Black rays began to form, not descending, but tearing through space in chaotic patterns, like fissures forced open. The surrounding light lost stability, shadows appearing where they shouldn’t exist, the entire world entering a state bordering on collapse.

The aura around Strax was no longer just pressure.

It was dominion.

It was imposition.

It was something that undeniably said he was no longer limiting anything.

Shalom—

He froze.

Not out of weakness.

But out of instinct.

His eyes widened slightly, not from pure fear, but from sudden understanding—a realization that came too late to ignore.

This was not an increase in power.

This was not a natural escalation. It was a revelation.

"...You..." she began, her voice faltering for a brief second before stabilizing, "...were playing games with me?"

The answer didn’t come in words.

It came in the way the air around him continued to yield.

In the way the sky remained distorted.

In the way his very presence seemed too large for the space he occupied.

Strax moved his neck slowly, as if releasing accumulated tension.

And then—

He lunged forward.

There was no initial sound of impact.

Because the sound came later.

His movement traversed space with enough violence to leave a momentary void where he stood, and when the blade descended—

The sky cracked.

Shalom reacted.

By pure reflex.

The new sword rose to block, and the clash between the two weapons was no ordinary collision—it was an event. An explosion of compressed energy that expanded in all directions, creating a wave that pushed clouds, tore the air, and made the very horizon tremble.

But this time—

She wasn’t thrown.

She held on.

Her feet glided through the air.

Her body absorbed the impact.

But the cost was visible.

Her arms trembled.

The pressure subsided.

And for the first time—

She understood completely.

This wasn’t a balanced fight.

It never was.

Strax didn’t recoil after the blow.

He pressed on.

His blade pushed against hers with increasing force, not explosive, but continuous, as if testing how much she could truly endure.

His eyes were fixed on hers.

No uncontrolled rage.

No haste.

Just—

Decision.

And Shalom—

She smiled.

But it wasn’t the light smile from before.

It was the smile of someone who had finally found something worthwhile.

"Now that’s more like it...", she murmured, her teeth clenching as she adjusted her posture against the absurd pressure.

And then—

She pushed back.

And the sky, already distorted, began to tremble again.

Because now—

Neither of them was holding back.

The clash between the blades didn’t dissipate—it deepened.

The pressure that had previously seemed a limit became merely the starting point. Strax advanced slowly, but with unwavering force, his blade pressing against Shalom’s as if he wanted to crush not only her defense, but the very idea of ​​resistance. The air around them no longer behaved like air; it vibrated, distorted, yielded in invisible waves that propagated through the red-tinged sky.

Shalom held on.

Not easily.

But skillfully. Her arms trembled under the weight of that continuous impact, but her feet—firmly planted on nothing—adjusted with millimeter precision, redistributing force, shifting angles, finding micro-openings to avoid being completely overwhelmed. The sword in her hands, that third blade, reacted alongside her, absorbing some of the pressure, vibrating with an intensity that was not only physical, but conceptual.

And then—

She broke contact.

Not by retreating.

But by turning.

The movement came quickly, a lateral displacement that slid along with the force applied by Strax, redirecting the impact into the void and opening space for an immediate counterattack. Her blade described an ascending arc, charged not only with technique, but with a real intention to wound, to test how far that presence before her could be pushed.

Strax responded instantly.

His sword descended, intercepting the blow, but this time the impact was not just force against force—fire responded along with it. The white flames compressed at the point of contact and exploded laterally, creating a rupture in the air that threw them both several meters backward.

They didn’t lose their balance.

But now—

There was distance.

And within that distance—

They both moved.

At the same time.

The space between them collapsed again in an instant impossible to follow, two presences clashing at the center like conflicting natural forces. Blows began to emerge in sequence, no longer isolated, but chained together—attack, response, adaptation, counterattack. Each movement generated another, each decision created a new variable.

Shalom spun like a living blade, his body following the sword with absolute fluidity, cutting through space at seemingly improbable angles, always seeking blind spots, always trying to force an opening that didn’t yet exist.

Strax—

He simply dominated the space.

His movements weren’t excessive, they weren’t wasted. He didn’t need apparent speed to keep up—he was already where he needed to be. Each of his blows carried enough weight to end the fight, and yet, he controlled, adjusted, tested.

Zani vibrated in his hand.

Attentive.

Observing.

But now—

Without interfering.

Because this was no longer just a technical fight.

It was a confrontation of presence.

The sky above the capital was no longer just sky.

It was a field of rupture.

Black rays continued to tear through space, and the red coloration made everything denser, as if the world itself were reacting to the simultaneous existence of those two at that point. Shalom advanced once more.

This time without any restraint.

His sword descended with absurd intensity, the blade carrying a pressure that came not only from it, but from the weapon itself, as if that thing demanded impact, demanded destruction.

Strax raised his.

And blocked.

But this time—

The impact was different.

The shock generated a visible fissure in the air, a rupture line that opened for an instant before disappearing, as if space had been forcibly cut and stitched back together.

They both felt it.

Not pain.

But consequence.

And then—

Before the next movement could happen—

Something fell from the sky.

Not like a projectile.

But like a judgment.

A lightning bolt.

Divine.

Not white.

Not golden.

But something beyond that—a pure, absolute light that didn’t burn the air, but reorganized it. It descended between them with impossible precision, not as a direct attack, but as an intervention.

The impact wasn’t explosive.

It was separating.

The energy expanded in a perfect circle, pushing them both in opposite directions without brute violence, but with an authority that couldn’t be contested. Strax was thrown several meters back, his body quickly stabilizing in the air, while Shalom also retreated, her posture forced to break for the first time since the beginning of the combat.

The sky—

It stopped.

The black lightning ceased.

The red didn’t disappear completely, but weakened, as if something had imposed a limit.

The silence that followed wasn’t natural.

It was... imposed.

Shalom was the first to react.

Her eyes immediately lifted to the point of origin of that lightning bolt, her expression shifting not to fear, but to recognition—and something close to respect mixed with frustration.

"...Tch."

She twirled the sword in her hand slightly, but did not advance.

Not this time.

"A warning...", she murmured, more to herself than to anyone else. "As always."

She took a deep breath, her shoulders relaxing just enough to signal that the fight, at least for that instant, had been interrupted.

"Celestial Emperor...", she said, now in a clearer voice, as if naming the origin of that power naturally.

Her eyes then lowered.

Strax.

And for the first time since the beginning—

There was no arrogance there.

Just analysis.

"...What are you?", she asked.

Not as a provocation.

But as a real question.

Strax remained silent for a second. The fire around him was no longer erupting, but it still existed, dense, controlled. His posture wasn’t relaxed, but it wasn’t offensive anymore either.

He stared at her.

And answered with the same simplicity as before.

"Well...", he began, his voice calm, but carrying the remnant of what had filled the sky seconds before. "I was a guest."

A short pause.

Enough.

"...until you attacked me for no reason at all."

The effect was immediate.

Shalom’s face—

It collapsed.

Not dramatically.

But clearly.

Her eyebrows relaxed, her gaze lost its rigidity, and for a brief instant, something very rare appeared there:

Embarrassment.

Real.

"...Ah."

She blinked once.

Then twice.

The weight of what had just happened seemed to finally settle within her own head.

The attack.

The climb.

The sky being distorted.

And then—

The context.

"...You...", she began, running a hand quickly over her face, as if trying to reorganize her own thoughts. "...were you really a guest?"

Strax’s silence was answer enough.

Shalom closed her eyes for a second.

She took a deep breath.

And then—

She slowly exhaled.

"...Shit."