The silence between the two held for one moment longer.
Enough.
The next movement came without warning.
The count moved first.
The advance came straight, without transition — the ground giving under the step as distance ceased to exist.
The fist rose from low to high, heavy, precise, meant to break the axis before a response could form.
Éreon read.
The blade dropped to intercept.
The impact came.
But it didn't hold.
The force drove in.
Drove through the arm.
Hit the base.
The stone beneath Éreon's feet cracked—late. The sound came after.
The breath didn't return in time.
The body gave a step back.
Controlled.
But the gaze didn't follow.
The count was already in.
There was no pause.
The first came straight, the claw cutting through space at face height — no test, no apparent reading.
Éreon did not retreat.
The blade turned in his hand.
The base gave half a degree.
Not by choice.
"Moon Dance… Waning Moon."
The body relaxed.
The attack passed.By millimeters.
Closer than before.
The blade did not block.
It touched.
Shifted his axis.
The claw followed open into the void.
The second strike was already coming.
Lower.
Faster.
Seeking the center.
Éreon did not answer the strike.
He answered the flow.
The wrist yielded.
The blade met the arm in its path—
not to cut.
To guide.
The force slipped sideways.
The count's body advanced beyond its own axis for an instant—
enough.
Éreon entered.
Short.
Without opening the movement.
The blade rose.
Direct.
The elbow joint.
It went in — shallow, precise — and came out.
The air didn't follow.
The counter came immediately.
The other hand came down, heavy, trying to close the space before the withdrawal—
But Éreon was no longer there.
The body turned close.
Low.
The base shifting without locking.
The third strike came in sequence.
Horizontal.
Wide.
More force.
Less restraint.
Éreon yielded with it.
The torso tilted.
The blade followed the arm—
deflecting enough to let the impact pass—
and returned.
Short.
Another point.
The knee.
The cut landed.
Fast.
Without depth.
But in the exact place.
The count's body gave.
An instant.
Almost nothing.
But enough to break the perfect chaining.
And that was enough.
Éreon did not press.
Did not advance.
Only repositioned.
Already out of line.
Breath short.
Controlled.
Watching.
The cuts began to close.
Slow.
Slower than before.
The count did not retreat.
He advanced without transition, closing the space at once — the first step already inside the line as the claw came down from above, heavy, direct, not to open, but to crush.
Éreon turned the blade to intercept on the deflection, but the force did not leave clean — it went in, ran down the arm and found the chest.
The breath failed, short — and did not return complete.
The body gave half a step.
The second strike was already coming, faster, closer, leaving no time to recover.
Éreon did not retreat — there was no space.
The blade rose, touched the wrist and shifted the axis at the limit, but the impact still scraped through, opening the cut further.
The pain came, but did not interrupt.
The body turned low, the base shifting under pressure, as the third attack closed the distance completely — short, lateral, seeking the already open point.
This time, the reading came late.
A minimal delay.
Unusual.
The blade entered the path not to block, but to push; the line shifted a degree — enough.
The claw passed, taking the air with it.
The body answered on instinct.
The free hand touched the ground at the same instant — not to stabilize, but to leave — and the turn came short, close, tearing him out of the line by little.
The base had not yet fully returned.
The air came short. Late.
And he was already inside.
The attack came without variation, straight to the center — to the wound.
Éreon reacted.
Late.
The blade rose to deflect, but did not close the timing; the impact went in without being clean, still enough to cross the axis.
The body left the ground.
Spun in the air — once, twice — before falling a few meters ahead, the feet touching first, sliding until the base was recovered.
The ground gave under the drag.
The knee touched the ground.
There was no impact.
Only adjustment.
The katana came down with it.
The tip found the broken stone—held.
But the air—
did not return.
Silence.
The count did not advance.
His eyes moved over Éreon's body, measuring, recognizing.
Blood ran from the chest.
Slower.
Heavier.
The chin lifted a minimal degree.
"So… this is how it ends."
The voice came low, but now carried something sharper.
"Like the others before you."
A brief silence.
The gaze lowered, marking the blood on the chest.
"They fell.
Rose again."
The fingers closed, the claws adjusting with precision.
"This time."
The chin tilted slightly.
"I end this."
The silence did not break.
It remained even with the blood running, even with the air that still did not return.
The hand pressed the katana, and the body answered after — slow, irregular, but enough.
Éreon rose without haste.
The knee left the ground last, as if the weight were still there, caught, refusing to yield completely.
The posture did not return whole.
But it remained.
The count watched without intervening. There was no need.
Eyes fixed, measuring what remained.
The shadows around trembled.
Not as reflection—
as response.
Éreon lifted his face.
"I know."
The blade aligned with the body.
"Totsuka no Tsurugi."
The gaze remained on the count for a moment longer than necessary.
Then lowered.
There was no haste in that gesture — only reading.
The wounds.
Still closing.
Slower.
As if something in the process no longer answered fully.
When he looked at him again, there was no more doubt.
The count advanced.
Fast.
Without warning.
The ground gave under the step as distance collapsed, the claw already closing before even reaching, precise, inevitable — a movement made to finish.
Éreon did not retreat.
The attack went in.
Closer.
The air compressing between them, the end already occupying the space—
"Inverted World."
The voice came low.
And the world answered.
The darkness didn't fall.
It sealed around them, swallowing the space, erasing the ground, the air and any possible direction, until the count's advance no longer had anywhere to arrive.
And he was swallowed.
The darkness did not return form.
There was no ground.
There was no air.
There was no distance.
The next step found no support.
Even so, the count did not hesitate.
The body remained upright, sustained not by space… but by itself.
The gaze ran through the void.
Nothing answered.
No vibration.
No return.
Silence.
For an instant, he remained still.
Feeling.
Measuring.
The head tilted a minimal degree.
"…Interesting."
The voice did not echo.
There was no repetition.
There was no response.
The sound died where it was born.
The fingers closed slowly.
The claws adjusted.
Precise.
Controlled.
A short movement broke the space ahead—
or should have.
Nothing gave.
Nothing reacted.
Nothing existed to be crossed.
The arm stopped in the middle of the gesture.
Found nothing.
The eyes narrowed a degree.
There was no irritation.
But there was something new.
"So… this is what you call a world."
A short pause.
"A place where nothing answers."
The chin lifted slightly.
"Where there is no return."
Denser silence.
"And still…"
The hand opened.
Slow.
As if testing the void.
"you chose to bring me inside it."
The darkness did not remain the same.
There was no visible movement.
But something changed.
As if the space had… listened.
The shadows adjusted a minimal degree, contracting where there had been no limit before.
The absence ceased to be passive.
It began to observe.
Then, the voice came.
From all sides.
Without origin.
Without direction.
"Do you remember… all those you killed?"
There was no weight in the tone.
No provocation.
Only statement.
The count did not answer immediately.
The void offered nothing, and yet he seemed to feel — as if measuring something that did not need to exist to be understood.
A slight shift appeared at the corner of his mouth.
It was not humor.
It was recognition.
"Tell me… do you remember every insect you have ever crushed under your feet?"
The gaze swept the darkness.
Precise.
Even with nothing there.
"Do not confuse volume with value."
The voice remained low, steady.
"Most of them… were already dead before I even touched them."
The space did not remain static.
Something passed.
Close.
Without defined form, but present enough to be felt.
The count did not react.
Only perceived.
Then the voices came.
Low at first.
Disconnected.
"…no… please…"
"…he is only six years old…"
"…I beg you…"
Another cut through, overlapping.
"…don't take him…"
"…leave him with me…"
"…I'll do anything…"
The sounds followed no order.
There was no continuity.
They were fragments.
Moments torn before finishing.
More appeared.
Closer.
Clearer.
"…mom…"
"…mom, it's dark…"
"…I'm scared…"
The space around thickened.
The voices did not echo.
They remained.
Overlapping.
Trapped.
"…you promised…"
"…you said you would protect…"
"…why…"
The count's gaze moved a degree.
Still precise.
Still controlled.
But now… following.
Ahead, something took form.
Not whole.
Enough.
A fallen silhouette, the body curved into itself, hands clinging to the void as if still holding something that was no longer there.
The head lifted.
Slowly.
The voice came out broken.
But firm enough to cut through everything.
"Give me back my son."
The darkness remained.
And, this time—
it did not seem empty.
The count moved forward.
Without hesitation.
A firm step advancing into what offered no ground, as if the void itself yielded just enough to sustain him.
He passed through the figure as if it had no weight, the body crossing without resistance, the gaze fixed ahead.
The scream remained behind him, trapped in space, but found no response.
To him, it was just another voice lost among so many.
The shadows around closed a degree.
They did not touch him.
But followed.
Then another voice emerged.
Lower.
Closer.
"Count… please… I'll be a good boy…"
It did not cross the space.
It was already in it.
For an instant, the world did not change.
But something in him recognized.
The small resistance.
The hands trying to break free.
The dragged sound on the ground.
"NOOO!"
The memory did not form whole.
It came in parts.
Enough.
The shadows reacted.
Not in clear form — but in presence.
Closer.
Denser.
As if the void itself pressed.
Something slid around him.
Not visible.
But constant.
Following each step.
The voices continued.
Not organized.
Not clean.
Always on the verge of overlapping.
"…you promised…"
"…don't take him…"
"…please…"
The count lifted his chin.
Slowly.
The gaze did not lose focus.
There was no hesitation.
"Is that all?"
The voice came low.
Firm.
"A pile of voices that no longer exist."
A short pause.
Enough.
"If that is all this world has…"
A short pause.
"then it was born empty."
The laugh did not come loud.
It came contained.
Dry.
And remained there, cutting through the space without effort.
"Regret requires value."
The gaze followed ahead.
Unshaken.
"And none of them had enough for that."
The shadows did not retreat.
They dragged over him.
Thin. Insistent.
They entered through the cracks of the skin.
Through the cuts.
Without resistance.
As if there was already space waiting for them.
Disappearing under the flesh.
The count did not react.
"It is not enough."
The voice came low, without deviation.
"There is nothing here that can touch me."
The voices ceased.
They did not fade.
They vanished.
The darkness contracted before him.
Taking form.
Ahead, a simple door, worn by time and war, rose among the shadows.
The count stopped.
Watched.
The world around twisted.
The darkness pulled back like torn veils, revealing a narrow alley, taken by cracked walls, improvised roofs and remnants of houses nearly in ruins.
As if it recognized… not the place —
but what would come after it.