The shift in the duel was instantaneous and brutal. The grand, sweeping arcs of the greatsword were gone, replaced by the tight, vicious, close-quarters reality of a knife fight. The battle transformed from a spectacle of power into an intimate, desperate struggle for survival, a flurry of motion so fast and so close that the onlookers could barely track it.

Seraphiel, now armed with his consecrated dagger, was a different kind of opponent. He was no longer a defensive fortress. He was a whirlwind of aggressive, precise lethality. His style was a perfect, textbook example of dagger combat, a form that Edward had once seen in ancient scrolls in the Sunstone Academy library. Every block was a redirection, every parry was an attempt to trap a limb, every thrust was aimed at a vital, debilitating point—a wrist, a knee, the gap in the neck's armor.

Edward was forced to adapt in a split second. His longsword, Regret, was now a liability in the close-quarters press, too long and unwieldy. He used it defensively, as a barrier, a shield to keep the paladin's silver dagger from finding its mark. His primary weapon became his own dagger, Resolve, which he wielded with a savage, instinctual grace.

The two men were a blur of motion, locked in a deadly, intimate dance. The ringing of steel was gone, replaced by the soft, sharp shing of dagger on dagger, the grunt of effort, the scrape of armored boots on the crystal floor.

This was a different kind of fight, and it revealed a different kind of truth.

From a distance, Seraphiel had seen a monster, an abomination of writhing, shadowy limbs and chaotic power. But up close, inches away, he saw something else. He saw the sweat beading on Edward's brow. He saw the flicker of exhaustion in his eyes, the deep, bone-weariness of a man who had been fighting an endless war. He saw the raw, desperate resolve etched into the lines of his face. He saw the grim set of his jaw as he endured the burning pain from the holy energy of Seraphiel's dagger every time their blades met.

Seraphiel had expected to see mindless, demonic evil. He had expected to see a soul consumed by a lust for power. Instead, he saw a man. A tired, wounded, impossibly stubborn man who was fighting with a desperation that was not born of greed, but of a profound, unshakable will to protect something. It was a look Seraphiel had seen before, in the eyes of soldiers defending their homes, of knights protecting their king. It was the look of a true warrior.

And for the first time in his life, a seed of doubt, a tiny, hairline crack, began to form in the perfect, unshakeable bedrock of Seraphiel's faith. Could a true monster fight with such… honor? Could a being of pure chaos possess such a resolute, human spirit? The Inquisition's teachings, the Grand Inquisitor's zealous rhetoric, all of it seemed to clash with the reality of the man he was trying to kill.

Edward, in turn, was experiencing his own revelation. Up close, he could feel the tragic, unwavering conviction in Seraphiel's every move. There was no hatred in the paladin's eyes. There was no cruelty. There was only a profound, sorrowful duty. Seraphiel was not a villain. He was a good man, a truly righteous man, who was trapped on the wrong side of a war he did not understand. He was a flawless, beautiful weapon being pointed at the wrong enemy. And Edward felt a strange, unexpected flicker of respect, and even pity, for the champion who was trying so hard to kill him.

This was not a fight between a hero and a villain. It was a tragedy, a duel between two men who should have been allies.

But it was still a fight to the death.

The battle raged, a whirlwind of silver and black. Seraphiel, with his perfect technique, managed to trap Edward's dagger hand, his own dagger flashing towards Edward's exposed side. But Edward, with his monstrous, chaotic instincts, used his abyssal tendrils. They were clumsy and ineffective at this range, but they were a distraction. A single, lashing tendril forced Seraphiel to break his attack to avoid being impaled, giving Edward the split second he needed to free his hand.

The fight was a perfect stalemate. Seraphiel's flawless technique was countered by Edward's unpredictable, multi-limbed chaos. Edward's raw, predatory power was held in check by Seraphiel's holy aura and indomitable defense. They were two sides of a coin, perfectly matched, and they were grinding each other down.

Edward knew he couldn't win a battle of endurance. The holy energy was a constant, draining poison to him. He had to end this.

He saw an opportunity, a desperate gamble. He allowed Seraphiel to press his attack, deliberately leaving a small, seeming opening on his left side. Seraphiel, the perfect tactician, saw the opening and took it, his dagger thrusting forward in a move designed to pierce Edward's lung.

It was a feint. As Seraphiel's dagger shot forward, Edward did not try to block it with his blades. Instead, in a move of pure, brawling unpredictability, he kicked. His boot slammed into the crystal floor, sending a shower of sharp, glittering shards and dust directly into Seraphiel's face.

The paladin, for all his divine focus, was still a man. He flinched instinctively, his eyes closing for a fraction of a second to protect them from the debris.

It was all the time Edward needed.

He pivoted, not away from the dagger, but into it. He allowed the tip of the consecrated blade to slice a shallow, burning wound across his ribs, a calculated sacrifice of flesh. The pain was excruciating, a searing line of fire, but he was now inside Seraphiel's guard, too close for the paladin to recover.

Edward did not use his dagger. He did not use his claws. He brought the heavy, steel pommel of his longsword, Regret, up in a short, brutal, rising arc. The blow connected squarely with Seraphiel's armored jaw.

There was a sickening, muffled crunch of steel on steel-and-bone.

Seraphiel's head snapped back. The light in his eyes, the divine fire of his conviction, flickered and went out, replaced by a dull, unfocused glaze. His body went limp, his dagger clattering to the crystal floor. He collapsed like a puppet whose strings had been cut, a crumpled heap of silver armor on the black, blood-stained ground. He was unconscious before he hit the floor.

Edward stood over him, his chest heaving, the burning wound in his side a fiery protest. He had won.

He could kill him. A single, final thrust of his dagger was all it would take. It was the logical move. Seraphiel was the Inquisition's greatest weapon. To remove him from the board would be a decisive, strategic victory for The Unchained. The souls he had devoured screamed at him to do it, to finish the threat, to consume the powerful, holy soul.

But he couldn't.

He looked down at the unconscious paladin, at the face of the honorable, tragic man who had been his greatest and most worthy foe. To kill him now, like this, felt… wrong. It felt like a violation of the strange, unspoken respect that had been forged between them in the heat of their duel.

He simply stood over the downed Seraphiel, his dagger held loosely at his side. He had proven his point. He was the stronger of the two.

He turned away from the unconscious champion, his gaze now fixed on the pulsating Heart of the Abyss. He had won the duel. Now, it was time to claim his prize.

"You're fighting the wrong monster," Edward said quietly, the words spoken not to Seraphiel, but to the broken, corrupt world that had forced them to be enemies.

Then, ignoring the stunned gazes of every mercenary, mage, and warrior in the chamber, he began to walk, his steps slow but steady, towards the Heart of the Abyss.

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