And Liam moved.

[BLINK]

The world fractured. Reality bent. Liam phased three feet left, Igar's Shard already cutting toward Orin's exposed ribcage in a strike [Martial Combat] made instinct.

The greatsword wasn't there to meet it.

Orin had pulled the strike entirely, stepped back, and was watching with clinical interest as Liam's blade carved through empty air.

"Spatial displacement," the Grand Commander observed, his tone almost conversational. "Interesting. Short range, I assume? The energy signature suggests limited distance." He tilted his head. "Again."

It wasn't a request.

Orin moved—not fast, not the blinding speed Liam had seen him use on the garrison. Just quick and measured. The greatsword swept horizontal at chest height, giving Liam exactly enough time to react.

Testing.

Liam dropped under the blade, felt the wind of its passage ruffle his hair, and thrust upward with Igar's Shard aimed at Orin's armpit where the plates met.

The Grand Commander pivoted...adjusted.

The black blade scraped along white armor, found no purchase, and Orin's boot caught Liam in the shoulder—enough to create distance.

Liam rolled with it, came up five feet away, already analyzing.

Orin wasn't fighting him.

He was studying him.

"You move well," Orin said, lowering his greatsword slightly.

"Better than most demons. They rely on brute strength, overwhelming power. You fight like someone who's been trained." His scarred face showed genuine curiosity.

"Where did a demon god learn human combat techniques?"

Around them, the courtyard had gone silent.

The few surviving demons had pulled back, recognizing something fundamental—this wasn't their fight.

This was between Lord Azra and the monster wearing white armor.

Koth stood twenty feet away, bleeding from a dozen wounds, his weapon ready but his body language uncertain.

Attack? Defend? What did you do when your commander was being evaluated like a training exercise?

"Not going to answer?" Orin smiled. "That's fine. Your technique speaks for itself."

He moved again—faster this time, but still restrained. The greatsword came in high, then pivoted mid-swing to cut low. A feint designed to test reaction speed.

Liam read it.

Saw the real strike coming. Brought Igar's Shard down to intercept—

The impact sent shockwaves through his arms.

It wasn't enough to break bones. Not even enough to really hurt. Just enough to feel the weight behind Orin's blade.

The casual strength that said he could have hit ten times harder and chosen not to.

"Good block," Orin acknowledged. "Proper form. You recognized the feint." He pressed forward, blade work fluid and controlled.

"But you're compensating. Your left side is weaker. Defensive posture favors your right. Old injury? Or just natural imbalance?"

Liam didn't answer. Focused on staying alive. On reading patterns in Orin's strikes that felt less like attacks and more like... questions.

How fast can you move?

How well can you read intent?

What's your threshold for pain?

Each strike tested something different. Liam blocked, dodged, occasionally managed a counter that Orin deflected with minimal effort.

They moved through the courtyard in a deadly dance, and every step revealed more about Liam's capabilities.

And nothing about Orin's limits.

"You use magic," the Grand Commander continued, still in that pleasant, conversational tone.

His greatsword swept wide, forcing Liam to [Blink] again or be caught in the arc. "That spatial displacement. What else? Show me."

He wasn't asking.

The next strike came faster. Hard enough that blocking would hurt. Liam phased behind Orin instead, black blade already moving for the gap between helmet and gorget—

Orin spun and caught Igar's Shard.

Bare-handed.

His gauntleted fingers wrapped around the black blade like it was nothing, and he held Liam's strike frozen in place.

"Predictable," Orin said. His golden eyes studied Liam's grey ones. "You phase behind, strike for the neck. Classic assassin technique. But it only works once against someone paying attention."

He released the blade and backhanded Liam almost casually.

The blow sent Liam tumbling fifteen feet.

Barely a devastating blow, just... dismissive.

[Health: 91%]

[Combat Analysis: Opponent using approximately 30% combat capacity]

[Warning: Current skill set insufficient against full-strength engagement]

Liam pushed himself up, tasting blood. His cheek throbbed where Orin's gauntlet had connected.

Around them, the fortress burned and bled, and the Grand Commander stood in the center of it all like a teacher disappointed with a student's performance.

"You're stronger than most demons," Orin said. "Faster. More skilled. That blade of yours is exceptional—I felt it trying to bite through my gauntlet. And the fire..."

He gestured to where Liam had used [Hell's Flame] earlier against the garrison.

"Impressive display of destructive power."

He started walking forward again. Slow. Measured.

"But you're not Azrakul. You're not even close."

Twenty feet.

"The Primordial Demon would have torn through me by now. Would have unleashed power that makes your little tricks look like parlor magic." Orin's voice carried across the courtyard. "You're a joke."

Fifteen feet.

Liam's mind raced.

Every skill he used—Orin had countered or dismissed them all without breaking stride.

The spatial displacement he'd noticed and adapted to. The blade work he'd matched with minimal effort.

"I volunteered for this mission," Orin continued. "Because I wanted to know if you were a god wearing human skin, or a human wearing god's name."

He smiled that terrible smile.

"Now I know."

Ten feet.

"Lord Azra." Koth's voice cut through the tension. "Orders?"

What orders?

What strategy worked against something that had tested every advantage and found them wanting?

Liam's grey eyes swept the courtyard. Saw Thrak's body lying where it fell. Saw the survivors huddled near the western passage, too terrified or too smart to intervene.

Saw Zara positioned on the rampart, her analytical mind probably running the same calculations he was.

Probability of victory: approaching zero.

Probability of survival: worse.

"Tactical assessment," Orin said, still approaching. "You have three options. One: fight me seriously and die quickly. Two: run and die slowly. Three..." He paused five feet away. "Surrender. Kneel. Admit you're just a human pretending, and I'll make it clean."

The greatsword rose slightly.

"I'm curious which you'll choose."

Liam looked at the blade.

At the Grand Commander who'd killed eighty-one demons without breathing hard.

At the math that said there was no winning this.

Then he thought about Thrak's final calculation. About Varg dying to create an opening that didn't exist. About the Nameless Litany who believed Lord Azra was real.

About Liam Cross, the actor who'd spent his whole life pretending to be things he wasn't.

"You want to know what I am?" Liam asked quietly.

Orin's eyes sharpened. "Yes."

"I'm the variable you didn't account for."

Liam's left hand moved to his pocket. Felt the small, crystalline object he'd kept there since the Council.

The Focusing Crystal from the Nameless Litany that amplified a single skill by 300%.

He'd been saving it. Waiting for the perfect moment.

This would have to do.

[Hell's Flame] + [Focusing Crystal]

The world turned black and crimson.

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