Across the courtyard, Koth was losing.

Each of his strikes met perfect counters. Each advance pushed back with minimal effort. Orin wasn't even trying, just letting the massive demon exhaust himself.

"Admirable loyalty," the Grand Commander said, blocking another overhead strike. "But ultimately pointless."

His greatsword swept horizontal. Koth tried to dodge. Too slow.

The blade caught him across the ribs, cutting through armor like parchment. Blood sprayed. Koth stumbled.

Orin's boot came up, caught the demon in the chest, and sent him flying into the western wall hard enough to crack stone.

"Thirty seconds," the Grand Commander said, looking at Liam. "I gave you thirty seconds because your commander asked nicely. Did you do anything useful with them?"

Liam's hand tightened on Igar's Shard. The blade felt different now. Not heavier or lighter, just more present. Like an extension of his arm rather than a tool he was using.

"Maybe."

"Show me."

Orin moved.

Really moved, the restrained testing gone, replaced by the full speed and power of a Grand Commander who'd decided playtime was over.

He closed twenty feet in a blink. His greatsword came down with enough force to split stone.

Liam read the strike.

Saw the angle, the trajectory, the exact point of impact. Saw it with the clarity of someone who understood swordplay at a fundamental level.

He stepped left. Not phasing, just moving. The greatsword missed by inches.

Orin's eyes widened fractionally.

Liam's counter was already coming. Igar's Shard cut upward, aimed at the gap between breastplate and pauldron, the angle perfect, the timing exact.

The Grand Commander twisted. The black blade scraped across white armor, found the gap, and bit flesh.

It wasn't deep. Just enough to draw blood.

Second blood.

Orin pulled back, reassessing. His golden eyes studied Liam with new interest.

"You've improved," he said quietly. "In thirty seconds, you've improved." He tilted his head. "How?"

Liam didn't answer. Just settled into a proper stance, blade held in a guard position that the System had taught him, that centuries of swordmasters had perfected.

"Interesting." Orin smiled.

And it wasn't the condescending expression from before. It was genuine appreciation.

"You spent thirty second to become a prominent swordsman. Bought competency with whatever currency demons trade in."

He rolled his shoulders, the cuts on his body minor but present. Proof that Liam could hurt him.

"That changes things."

The golden light around Orin's armor intensified. His greatsword began to glow with radiance that made looking at it painful.

"Before, I was testing you. Seeing if you were worth the effort." His voice had gone cold, professional. "Now I'll treat you like an actual threat."

He moved.

Faster than before. Faster than anything Liam had seen.

But the Swordsmanship skill let him read it. Saw the coiling of muscles, the shift of weight, the telltale signs that preceded a lunge.

Liam phased right.

[Blink] carrying him three feet as Orin's blade carved through the space he'd occupied.

But this time, when he reappeared, his counter was precise. Igar's Shard cut toward Orin's knee joint with perfect edge alignment, perfect angle, perfect force distribution.

The Grand Commander blocked. But had to actually work to do it, greatsword coming down to intercept in a defense that suggested respect.

They separated. Circled.

"Better," Orin acknowledged. "Much better. You're actually reading my attacks now. Responding with proper technique instead of raw instinct."

His next assault came as a combination.

High feint, low real strike, immediate follow-up thrust.

The kind of sequence that required training to execute and training to counter.

Liam met it. Parried the feint, dodged the low strike, and caught the thrust on Igar's Shard in a deflection that sent both blades wide.

They were three feet apart. Too close to swing. Too far to grab.

Perfect distance for fire.

[Hell's Flame]

Black and crimson flames erupted from Liam's free hand, point blank range, no time to dodge.

Orin's response was immediate. Golden light blazed from his armor, meeting the infernal fire in a collision of opposed energies.

But this time, Liam was ready. The instant Orin's attention focused on negating the flames, Liam moved.

[Blink]

He phased behind, blade already coming up in a thrust aimed at the gap between helmet and gorget.

Orin spun. Caught the strike on his armored forearm. And his elbow came around in a counterstrike aimed at Liam's head.

Liam ducked. Felt the armored limb pass overhead. Rose with an uppercut slash that caught Orin under the chin, scraped across the helmet's edge, drew another thin line of blood.

Third blood.

They separated again, both breathing harder now.

Orin touched his chin, examined the blood on his gauntlet.

"You're making me work," he said. There was approval in his voice. "Actually making me work. When was the last time a demon did that?"

He began to circle, greatsword held in a high guard.

"But you're running out of tricks. I've adapted to your spatial displacement. Your flames are countered by divine light. Your swordplay is better but still inferior to mine."

He was right. Liam could feel it.

Each exchange was razor close, but close wasn't winning. He was landing minor cuts while Orin could end this with a single clean hit.

"You need more power," Orin continued. "More training. More demon magic. More everything." He smiled. "And you don't have time to get it."

The Grand Commander lunged. A full commitment attack, greatsword coming down with enough force to crater stone.

Liam phased left. The blade missed. He countered, Igar's Shard seeking any opening.

Orin was already moving, his next strike following so fast it seemed continuous with the first.

They traded blows. Ten exchanges. Twenty.

Liam blocking, dodging, phasing when necessary, each movement economical and precise.

But Orin was faster. Stronger. More experienced.

And every exchange proved it.

Liam's blade scraped across armor, found gaps, drew blood. But never deep cuts. Never anything that slowed the Grand Commander down.

While every strike Orin landed, even the grazing ones, took pieces out of Liam.

A cut across the shoulder. Deep enough to matter.

[Health: 51%]

A pommel strike to the ribs that cracked something.

[Health: 43%]

A boot to the knee that nearly buckled his leg.

[Health: 38%]

The mathematics were clear. Liam was losing. Slowly, professionally, but inevitably.

"You're good," Orin said between strikes. His breathing was elevated but controlled. "Better than good. With another decade of training, you might have been a real challenge."

He pressed forward, each attack forcing Liam back another step.

"But you don't have a decade. You have minutes."

His greatsword came up in a rising slash aimed at disemboweling. Liam blocked desperately, felt the impact jar his arms, felt something in his wrist crack from the force.

[Health: 31%]

He was running out of essence. Running out of health. Running out of options.

And Orin knew it.

"Any last words?" the Grand Commander asked. Not mockingly. Just professionally.

The courtesy of one warrior to another.

Liam's grey eyes met his golden ones. Saw the absolute certainty there. The faith that this was righteous work, holy purpose, divine judgment made manifest.

And something crystallized in Liam's mind.

Orin was better. Stronger. More skilled.

But he was also predictable.

Thirty years of training meant thirty years of patterns. Responses drilled until they became automatic. The kind of muscle memory that made you perfect but also made you rigid.

Liam had been fighting as a swordsman. Trying to match Orin's technique with technique.

But he wasn't a swordsman. Not really.

He was an actor who'd learned sword skills three minutes ago.

And actors knew something swordsmen didn't.

How to lie.

"Yeah," Liam said quietly. "I've got last words."

He settled into a defensive stance. Blade low. Guard open. The kind of posture that screamed exhaustion and defeat.

"You're right. I'm not good enough."

Orin's expression softened fractionally. Almost sympathetic.

"I know."

He moved in for the killing blow. Greatsword rising high, preparing to come down and end this.

And Liam smiled.

Because Orin had taken the bait.

The next move would be cinematic, desperate, and would cost almost everything Liam had left.

But it just might work.

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