The chaotic din of the brawl faded into a background hum. The remaining factions, their greed momentarily eclipsed by a primal sense of self-preservation, instinctively pulled back, giving the two titans a wide berth. They formed a ragged, bloody circle around the chamber's heart, becoming spectators to a duel that would decide not just the fate of the artifact, but the future of the world's power structure. The air, thick with the smell of blood and ozone, grew still and heavy with anticipation.

Edward gave a single, sharp nod to Fenris. "Hold the line. Protect Sarah. No one interferes."

"Break him in half, Alpha," Fenris growled, her voice a low rumble of absolute confidence as she and the other Unchained formed a tight, protective cordon around the non-combatants.

Edward walked forward, away from the safety of his pack, his footsteps echoing in the sudden, vast silence. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, his four abyssal tendrils unfurling from his back, not in an aggressive posture, but simply extending to their full length, their obsidian tips gently scraping against the crystal floor. He was not just accepting the duel; he was embracing it, revealing the full, monstrous extent of his new form.

Seraphiel watched him approach, his face an unreadable mask of grim resolve. He stood as still as a statue, a perfect icon of holy order, the pulsating, chaotic light of the Abyssal Core behind him casting him in an otherworldly glow. He was the light against the shadow, the immovable object against the unstoppable force.

They met in the center of the chamber, the space between them charged with an energy more potent than any spell. There were no words, no taunts. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. Now, there was only the verdict of steel.

Their final duel began not with a charge, but with an explosion of motion.

Seraphiel moved first, his greatsword a blur of silver and gold. His style was the epitome of martial perfection, refined over a lifetime of disciplined training and blessed by a divine power. Each parry, each riposte, each powerful slash was a masterclass in swordsmanship. There was no wasted energy, no unnecessary flourish. It was pure, economic mastery of the longsword, each strike carrying an immense, holy power that sizzled and burned against Edward's corrupted flesh even when blocked.

But Edward was a different beast than the one Seraphiel had fought before. He was faster, more agile, and far, far more unpredictable. He did not meet Seraphiel's perfect form with one of his own. He met it with chaos.

He was a whirlwind of motion, a dizzying, six-pointed assault. His longsword, Regret, would meet Seraphiel's greatsword in a shower of golden sparks, the impact sending shockwaves through the crystal floor. In the same instant, his dagger, Resolve, would dart in like a striking snake, aiming for a gap in the paladin's armor. At the same time, his four abyssal tendrils were a storm of independent attacks. Two would stab and slash, forcing Seraphiel to constantly adjust his footing, while the other two would whip and feint, trying to ensnare his limbs or foul his blade.

It was a duel of impossible contrasts. Seraphiel's defense was a near-impenetrable wall of perfect, geometric blocks and parries. But Edward was not attacking in straight lines. He was a storm, a chaotic maelstrom of blades and shadow that struck from six points at once.

The combat was purely physical. Seraphiel did not unleash waves of holy fire. Edward did not use his soul-devouring abilities. This was a contest of a more fundamental nature. It was a battle of philosophies, of ideals made manifest in flesh and steel.

Seraphiel represented order, faith, and the pinnacle of human perfection. His every move was a testament to the belief that with enough discipline and devotion, a man could become a flawless instrument of divine will. He was the perfect knight, the righteous champion, the embodiment of a world governed by honor and law.

Edward, in his new, monstrous form, represented chaos, adaptation, and a terrifying, beautiful evolution. His every move was a testament to the belief that survival, at any cost, was the only true law. He was the monster born of a broken system, the predator who had embraced the darkness to protect his own flickering light. He was the embodiment of a world where the old rules no longer applied.

The duel was a brutal, breathtaking spectacle. Seraphiel, for all his perfect skill, was on the defensive. He was a master swordsman fighting an octopus. He would block a sword strike in front of him, only to be forced to twist and parry a bladed tendril coming for his throat from the side. He was a fortress under siege from every direction at once.

But Seraphiel was the Champion for a reason. His focus was absolute. His will was unbreakable. With every block, with every parry, the holy energy of his blade would lash out, leaving sizzling, smoking burns on Edward's abyssal limbs. The pain was immense, a cleansing fire that fought against his very nature.

Edward, in turn, was a storm of relentless aggression. He was faster, more agile. He pressed his advantage, his six-bladed assault a constant, hammering rhythm against the paladin's perfect defense. He was forcing the flawless champion to make mistakes. A slight over-extension on a parry. A moment's hesitation as he tracked a feinting tendril.

It was during one of these fleeting moments that Edward found his opening.

Seraphiel, forced to block a high strike from Regret and a low stab from a tendril simultaneously, left a tiny, split-second gap in his guard. It was an opening no human opponent could have exploited. But Edward was not human.

His two upper abyssal limbs, moving with a speed that defied the eye, shot forward. They did not stab. They wrapped around the blade of Seraphiel's greatsword, their obsidian surfaces groaning as they fought against the weapon's holy power. At the same instant, Edward twisted his own body, using his sword and his tendrils in a complex, disarming maneuver of pure leverage.

There was a sharp, metallic wrenching sound. Seraphiel's greatsword, the legendary holy blade, was torn from his grasp. It flew through the air and embedded itself, quivering, in the crystal wall a dozen feet away.

The paladin was disarmed.

A collective gasp went through the crowd of onlookers. The Champion, the invincible symbol of the Inquisition's might, had lost his weapon.

But Seraphiel was not defeated.

He did not look shocked. He did not look afraid. His expression did not even change. As Edward pressed his advantage, lunging forward with his own longsword for a final, decisive blow, Seraphiel moved.

With a motion so swift and fluid it was almost invisible, he dropped into a low crouch, letting Edward's sword pass harmlessly over his head. In the same motion, his hand shot to his boot and came up holding a long, consecrated dagger with a silver, cross-shaped hilt. It was a simple, secondary weapon, a tool of last resort.

He rose from his crouch, not in retreat, but in a counter-attack. He was inside Edward's reach now, too close for the longsword or the lashing tendrils to be used effectively.

The duel had just changed. The grand, sweeping battle of a greatsword versus a monster was over. Now, it was a close, brutal, intimate fight. A dagger fight. And Seraphiel, the master of all forms of combat, was now perfectly, terrifyingly, matching Edward's own signature dagger-and-sword style.

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