CRASH!
A thunderous impact shook the vibrant tunnel as Veynor was sent hurtling backward, his body smashing through solid rock like a cannonball. The wall behind him erupted into a cascade of glowing colors—streaks of blue, red, and gold rippling outward like shattered glass refracting light. Dust and debris mixed with the tunnel's strange, shifting hues, creating a surreal storm of color and chaos. Before the dust could even settle, a shadow loomed from the other side—Uwe. He stepped through the destruction with his fists raised, his knuckles bloodied from repeated impact, his breaths controlled and measured.
Veynor, unfazed, dug his heels into the ground and came to a stop, rolling his shoulders as if the force of the punch had been nothing more than an inconvenience. The walls of the tunnel pulsed, shifting in hue like a living painting, reflecting the tension between the two fighters. His lips curled into a smirk. "You hit hard."
Uwe cracked his neck. "You talk too much."
Veynor chuckled, lifting his fists again. "Then let's change that." He lunged.
They collided mid-step, exchanging blows at a relentless pace.
Boom! Veynor's fist slammed into Uwe's ribs—Uwe barely flinched before driving a counterpunch into Veynor's shoulder. Their feet skidded against the ground as they locked eyes, neither backing down. The tunnel shimmered with every impact, the colors shifting wildly—deep reds flaring with aggression, electric blues sparking with tension.
And then—a shadow moved behind Uwe.
Geschicht.
Silent, quick, and determined, he sprinted forward. His journal, always at his side, flipped open mid-stride, its pages glowing with an ethereal light. The pages rippled like water, and from within, Geschicht drew his sword. The blade materialized in his grip, shimmering as if newly forged, its surface reflecting the kaleidoscopic hues of the tunnel.
Veynor, too focused on Uwe, barely noticed—until the edge of Geschicht's summoned sword came whistling toward his side.
The tunnel's colors seemed to freeze for a split second—a brilliant silver hue illuminating the moment as if holding its breath.
Veynor barely had time to shift. The attack almost connected. He twisted just in time, raising his arm to intercept. The impact forced him a step back, his eyes narrowing at the newcomer.
Uwe turned his head slightly, raising a brow at Geschicht. "You trying to steal my fight?"
Geschicht smirked, twirling his sword in a reverse grip before leveling it at Veynor. "What, you wanted to keep all the fun to yourself?"
Uwe scoffed, cracking his knuckles. "Fine. Just don't slow me down."
Geschicht exhaled, settling into his stance. "Right back at you."
Veynor, regaining his footing, eyed them both before letting out a slow chuckle. "Interesting." He flexed his fingers, his expression turning sharper. "Come on then—let's see what the two of you can do together."
The tunnel's lights pulsed wildly, as if responding to the rising intensity.
And then—all at once, they rushed him.
Veynor was fast—but not fast enough.
With Geschicht now fighting alongside Uwe, the battlefield had shifted completely. Every attack, every movement came from a different angle, a different rhythm—a storm of fists and steel closing in on him.
Veynor weaved, dodging left and right, but it was never enough. A punch from Uwe sent him reeling backward—just as Geschicht's blade came arcing toward him. He barely managed to raise his arm to block, but even then, the impact rattled his bones.
They weren't just attacking. They were suffocating him.
A downward strike—Geschicht. A sweeping kick—Uwe. A feint, then a slash—Geschicht again. The tunnel's colorful lights blurred as Veynor struggled to keep up. Every time he evaded one, another attack came from an impossible direction.
He stepped back—only for Uwe to appear right in front of him.
A fist crashed into his stomach.
The shockwave rippled through the air, sending Veynor skidding across the tunnel floor. He coughed, steadying himself, his eyes flickering between the two.
He had barely landed a single hit.
Veynor wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, his breathing steady despite the relentless assault he had endured. He looked between Uwe and Geschicht, a smirk playing at the edge of his lips.
"Two on one, huh?" He rolled his shoulders. "Doesn't seem fair."
Uwe scoffed, cracking his knuckles. "We can take turns if that makes you feel better."
Geschicht, gripping his sword, tilted his head. "You're still standing, aren't you?" His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it. "If it was really unfair, you'd be on the ground by now."
Veynor chuckled, the vibrant colors of the tunnel reflecting in his sharp eyes. "That's true. But if we're talking fairness..." His muscles tensed. "Then I should return the favor."
Without another word, he stomped down hard, the tunnel floor cracking beneath his foot. A sudden shift—an explosion of movement.
Veynor was already in front of Geschicht.
A fist blurred toward him. Geschicht barely raised his sword in time, but the sheer force of the punch sent him skidding back, his boots scraping against the colorful stone. Uwe had already reacted, lunging toward Veynor with a counterstrike, but Veynor twisted his body—fluid, controlled, precise.
He grabbed Uwe's wrist mid-swing, using the momentum to spin and slam his elbow into Uwe's ribs. The impact sent Uwe staggering a step back, but not for long.
"You talk big," Uwe grunted, straightening. "But I'm not going down that easy."
Geschicht, recovering from the hit, stepped forward again, sword gleaming under the shifting lights. "Neither am I."
Veynor grinned, rolling his neck. "Good. Otherwise, this wouldn't be fun." -a blur of fists, steel, and the endless glow of the colorful tunnel.
Uwe exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders as his red eye began to glow—a deep ember burning in the shifting colors of the tunnel. Then, his blue eye followed, pulsing like the glint of moonlight on water.
"Here is my view."
In an instant, Geschicht's world fractured and expanded.
He didn't just see from his own eyes anymore. Another layer of vision overlapped his own—Uwe's perspective. It was as if his soul had been split between two bodies, yet somehow remained whole.
From one angle, he saw himself standing firm, sword gripped tightly. From the other, he saw through Uwe's sharp, battle-hardened gaze—Veynor's every twitch, the way his stance shifted before a strike, the faintest flicker of movement betraying his next action.
It was overwhelming. Geschicht's breath hitched, and for a second, he stumbled, caught between his own body's instincts and the borrowed sight flooding into his mind.
Uwe clicked his tongue. "Do not falter. You will grow accustomed to it."
Geschicht clenched his jaw, struggling to adjust. His hands felt disconnected from his body, his depth perception twisting, fighting between two angles of the same reality. He could see himself hesitate—but from both perspectives.
Then—Veynor moved.
A blur of motion. A strike aimed right for his ribs.
Geschicht's instincts screamed at him to dodge, but Uwe's sight already told him where to move. He wrenched himself sideways at just the right moment, his sword snapping up in perfect rhythm with his step.
Veynor's brow furrowed. He hadn't expected that.
Geschicht exhaled sharply. It worked.
His two views weren't clashing anymore. They were synchronizing.
From his own eyes, he saw his blade press against Veynor's. From Uwe's, he saw the opening in Veynor's stance.
Geschicht didn't hesitate. He twisted his grip, using the leverage from both points of view to break Veynor's guard and press forward.
Uwe smirked. "That's more like it."
Veynor, now on the defensive, flexed his fingers. A slow grin spread across his face. "Well now, that's new."
Geschicht and Uwe wasted no time. They moved in unison—Geschicht adjusting his stance instinctively as if he had fought a hundred battles with Uwe before. Every feint, every shift in weight, every flicker of motion, he could see not just from his own eyes but from Uwe's perspective as well.
Uwe surged forward with a crushing hook, his fist carving through the air with raw force. Geschicht mirrored the timing, stepping into Veynor's blind spot with a precise slash. The moment Veynor twisted to avoid the blade, Uwe's knee was already driving into his ribs. The impact sent a tremor through the tunnel, shaking the vibrant, color-streaked walls like a living painting disturbed by a storm.
Veynor managed to guard, but his counters fell short—whenever he moved, Geschicht and Uwe moved faster. When he tried to read Uwe's attacks, Geschicht's blade was already coming from the other side. Their coordination was seamless, not through words but through sight itself, their actions weaving together like an unbreakable chain.
"Tch—" Veynor clicked his tongue, his smirk wavering as he found himself fending off attacks from every direction. Uwe's blows forced him back, while Geschicht's blade carved through the openings left in his defense. The tunnel filled with the sharp clang of steel and the deep, echoing thuds of fists meeting flesh.
Veynor's breath came heavier now, his smirk faltering as he deflected another strike. His movements, once fluid and effortless, had grown slightly sluggish. He had been holding his ground, but the relentless onslaught from Geschicht and Uwe was beginning to wear him down.
Yet, they weren't without their own fatigue. Geschicht's arms ached from the sheer force of their exchange, his muscles protesting with every swing of his sword. Even with Uwe's Singularitat allowing him to see from two perspectives, the strain of processing both views at once gnawed at his focus. His breaths came in quick, sharp gasps, sweat forming along his brow.
Uwe, too, was slowing—his once-crushing blows now just a bit less precise, a fraction less forceful. His chest rose and fell with each inhale, his knuckles slightly bruised from the relentless barrage he had been delivering.
Veynor exhaled through gritted teeth, rolling his shoulders. "You two aren't looking too fresh yourselves," he muttered, forcing a chuckle despite the fatigue creeping into his stance.
Uwe cracked his neck, shaking out his hands. "Aye, nor are you." His voice carried a rough edge, but the fire in his gaze remained unwavering.
Geschicht tightened his grip on his sword, forcing himself to steady his breath. His chest burned, but he wasn't about to fall behind now. He met Uwe's gaze, a silent agreement passing between them.
Uwe's eyes burned like twin beacons—one crimson, one sapphire—blazing with an intensity that swallowed the surrounding colors of the tunnel. The vibrant hues around them dimmed in contrast, as though his very presence drained the light from all else. He exhaled slowly, his breath steady despite the exhaustion clawing at his limbs. Then, his voice rang out, carrying the weight of undeniable finality.
"Let this battle be sealed in fate."
In an instant, the world froze.
The swirling dust in the air ceased its aimless drift, locked in place like stars captured in glass. The rippling colors of the tunnel halted mid-flow, as if the very veins of reality had been severed. Veynor—mid-step, mid-motion, mid-breath—stood petrified, his expression still holding the remnants of a smirk that would never reach completion.
It was as if time itself had lost its will to move beneath Uwe's gaze.
Geschicht, standing just behind him, felt a jolt of disorientation. His senses screamed at him—something was wrong. The silence was too perfect, the air too still. His own body responded sluggishly, but then—he understood. He could move. He could act.
Because Uwe allowed him to.
The moment realization struck, Uwe lunged forward, and Geschicht followed without hesitation.
They moved as twin specters in a world devoid of motion. Uwe's fists crackled with force, the sheer momentum of his movements sending invisible shockwaves through the air.
Their attacks landed one after another.
A brutal strike to the ribs—Uwe's fist sank deep, the impact forcing Veynor's unresponsive body to lurch, though he remained locked in time's unyielding grasp. A sweeping cut from Geschicht, slicing a shallow line across Veynor's shoulder—no blood spilled, no reaction came, only the ghost of future pain waiting to awaken.
They struck like a storm, an unrelenting tide of force and steel, their bodies untethered by the frozen world around them. Every motion was precise, every attack calculated. A kick from Uwe sent Veynor reeling, only for Geschicht to meet him mid-air with an upward slash. A downward hammering blow crushed into Veynor's back, followed by a spinning cut across his side.
Five seconds.
An eternity compressed into a breath.
Uwe's eyes burned brighter, his grip tightening into a final, decisive strike. He twisted his body, every muscle coiling like a drawn bow, then—a devastating blow, a single punch infused with all the force his body could muster. The moment his knuckles met Veynor's torso, the tunnel seemed to quake, the very air howling with the impact.
And then—
Everything resumed.
A delayed explosion of force erupted outward. The dust in the air burst forward as if suddenly remembering it had fallen. The tunnel's colors roared back into motion, blurring violently around them. Veynor, once frozen in place, was sent hurtling backward, crashing into the tunnel wall with such force that the very stone cracked upon impact.
For a moment, he remained standing—staggering, reeling—but his legs wobbled beneath him. His vision blurred, and as he tried to take a breath, his body finally gave out. With one final step forward, he collapsed, unconscious, his body refusing to continue the fight.
Silence fell upon the tunnel, save for the ragged breathing of the two victors.
Uwe rolled his shoulders, shaking out his bruised knuckles, his glowing eyes dimming back to their normal hues. "Stay low, you freak" His voice, though steady, carried the weight of exhaustion.
Geschicht exhaled sharply, barely suppressing the tremor in his hands. He had never fought within stolen time before—never moved against a world that had stood still. And yet, despite the ache in his limbs, despite the exhaustion threatening to pull him under, he couldn't suppress the slight upward curve of his lips. He sheathed his sword back into his journal with a flick of ink. "That was something else."
Uwe exhaled sharply as he plopped down right on top of Veynor's unconscious body, using the man as an impromptu seat. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the lingering tension from the fight, before leaning forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. His red and blue eyes had dimmed to their usual hues, though exhaustion still weighed heavily on his frame.
A few feet away, Geschicht let himself slide down against the tunnel wall, landing on the ground with a quiet thud. His breath was still uneven, and he tilted his head back, staring up at the swirling colors above them. The aftermath of their battle had left the tunnel in disarray—fractured stone, disturbed dust, and lingering energy from their fight humming in the air.
Then, with an exasperated sigh, Geschicht muttered, "This whole thing was exhausting... I wonder how much Doh I'll get after this."
Uwe let out a short chuckle, shifting slightly on his makeshift seat. "Plenty," he said, patting Veynor's unconscious form like a prized catch. "We took down a Proximal Phalanx, after all. That alone should get us a good haul. And that's not even counting if these guys have bounties on their heads."
Geschicht groaned, rubbing his temples. "I really hope they do. I think I deserve a little extra after nearly getting my head taken off by rogue traps."
Uwe smirked. "Well, if you weren't running around barehanded half the time, maybe you'd have had an easier time."
"Excuse me," Geschicht shot back, lifting his head to glare at him. "I was being efficient. Can't be swinging a sword at every little thing."
Uwe raised an eyebrow. "Says the guy who jumped in swinging at Veynor the moment he saw an opening."
"That was different," Geschicht huffed. "That was teamwork."
Uwe laughed, shaking his head. He leaned back a little, glancing at the still-vibrant colors of the tunnel, their glow shifting and pulsing like a living thing. "Either way, we'll walk away with heavy pockets." He stretched out his arms before resting them behind his head. "And I could use a good drink after this."
Geschicht snorted. "Just don't go spending your share all in one place."
Uwe smirked, tilting his head toward him. "And what? You gonna save yours?"
Geschicht waved a hand dismissively. "I have plans."
"Oh?" Uwe grinned. "What, gonna buy yourself a castle?"
"Nah," Geschicht said, exhaling. "Just thinking of setting some aside for later. Might come in handy."
Uwe hummed, watching him for a moment before leaning back again. "Fair enough."
For a while, neither of them spoke. The tunnel was eerily quiet now, save for their slowed breaths and the occasional shift of loose rubble. The colors still swirled, casting a surreal glow over the aftermath of their battle.
Then, after a beat, Geschicht muttered, "You're really not gonna move off him?"
Uwe gave an exaggerated sigh, patting Veynor again like he was the most comfortable seat in the world. "Eh. He's still warm."
Geschicht shook his head, a tired chuckle escaping his lips. "You're unbelievable."
Uwe stretched his arms, rolling his shoulders before giving Geschicht a side glance. A smirk tugged at his lips as he said, "Wanna have the view of the whole thing?"
Geschicht, still catching his breath, turned his head toward him. There was a brief pause before he gave a firm nod. "Yeah."
The moment he agreed, Uwe's blue eye began to glow—not just a faint shimmer, but an intense, pulsing radiance, almost as if a star had ignited within it. A second later, Geschicht felt his vision blur, his own senses momentarily swallowed by a rush of foreign sensations.
And then—
A shift. A pull.
He wasn't in the tunnel anymore.
His sight expanded, and suddenly, he was looking through the eyes of Harriet and Jelle, their battle unfolding as if he were right there with them. The world around them was chaotic, filled with the clash of weapons and the flickering light of embers and sparks. Barbel stood before them like an unshakable force, her presence heavy with unwavering determination.
Through Harriet's perspective, Geschicht watched as the invisible force of spectral hands struck, parried, and pushed against Barbel's defense. Barbel met every strike with monstrous strength, her montante carving through the air with unrelenting force. Geschicht couldn't feel the weight of the attacks or the resistance of the blows, only witnessing how effortlessly Barbel responded to each assault.
Then, from Jelle's eyes—her perspective was different. More fluid, more instinctive. Geschicht saw the way she moved, shifting like the wind itself, her wooden blade moving unpredictably. But despite her speed and ferocity, Barbel remained undeterred, her stance unwavering like an immovable mountain.
Geschicht's real body remained still in the tunnel, disconnected from the sensations of battle, but within his mind, he was witnessing it all—the overwhelming clash, the tension in every strike, the struggle that neither side could afford to lose.
Barbel's montante carved through the air with thunderous force, each swing birthing a violent rupture—air compressing, then detonating outward in concussive bursts. The tunnels trembled beneath the weight of her strikes, their once-vivid hues flickering like candlelight in a storm.
Jelle danced through the shockwaves, her wooden sword tracing sharp arcs as she sought an opening. The moment her blade met Barbel's side, another blast erupted, hurling her backward, her feet barely catching the ground in time.
Harriet surged forward, spectral hands unfurling like unseen chains, grasping for Barbel's wrists, her blade, anything to break her stance. But she was an unrelenting force—every movement carried the weight of inevitability, every strike sundered the space around her as though the world itself sought to push back against her will.
"Why?" Harriet's voice cut through the air, his golden eyes searching hers amidst the chaos. "Why are you doing this?"
Barbel's grip on her montante did not waver. "Because the wind does not wait for the fallen leaf," she said, her voice even, yet edged with something unspoken—something raw.
Jelle, steadying herself, narrowed her eyes. "What does that mean?"
Barbel exhaled, her stance never breaking. "It means that stillness is indulgence," she murmured. "And indulgence is decay."
Jelle tightened her grip on the wooden sword, shifting her stance as the force of Barbel's words struck deeper than the concussive bursts of her montante. Harriet stood firm, spectral hands rippling in the air, waiting—watching.
Barbel did not falter, but there was something beneath the weight of her presence. A tension not born from battle, but from something older, something unresolved.
"Stagnation invites ruin," she continued, her voice low, almost distant. "What is lost cannot be held in place. To linger is to let rot take root."
She swung her montante in a slow, deliberate arc—not an attack, but a motion. The blade hummed, the air around it stretching thin before snapping back in another violent burst. A warning. A reminder.
Harriet's golden eyes narrowed. "So you think if you just keep moving—keep destroying—you won't have to face what's behind you?"
Barbel's jaw tightened, her grip on the hilt rigid. "I am facing it."
Jelle took a step forward, her wooden sword at her side. "No," she said softly. "You're running through it."
The tunnels pulsed with shifting colors, the fractured light casting strange reflections over Barbel's face. For the first time, there was something almost unreadable in her expression. Not anger. Not certainty.
Just a shadow of something left behind.
Barbel exhaled, steadying her stance. "Forward is the only direction that exists," she said.
And with that, she charged.
The air twisted.
Barbel's voice had barely faded before something—something vast, unseen—answered. The very walls of the tunnel trembled as if breathing, and then, as though reality itself had grown impatient with its shape, everything expanded.
The confined passage shattered into openness. No debris, no broken stone, just an abrupt and seamless transition into something immeasurably vast. It was as if the tunnel had never been a tunnel at all but merely the prelude to this place.
Jelle and Harriet were thrown backward by the sheer force of the shift, their footing lost as the ground beneath them warped into a boundless surface of interwoven colors. No texture, no weight—just an endless, ever-shifting plane of color that had no beginning or end.
The air no longer tasted of dust and damp stone but of something indescribable, something both ancient and unfamiliar—the scent of everything and nothing.
Harriet barely had time to push himself upright before his breath caught in his throat.
The Eye.
It did not float. It did not loom in the air like some celestial watcher. Instead, it rested—placed—upon an altar of rough-cut stone, its shape too unnatural, too precise, to be something that had merely formed here.
The altar was weathered, cracked along its edges, yet pulsing with an ancient radiance. It stood alone at the center of the vastness, as if the world itself had been constructed around it. And upon it, nestled in a smooth, concave impression, was the Eye.
An enormous, left eye, severed from whatever being it once belonged to, its form preserved as if untouched by time. Its iris was a swirling storm of rainbow hues, shifting and blending in ways that defied comprehension. The sclera pulsed faintly, as if something lived within it—something watching.
Barbel stood at the very edge of the stone altar.
The light from the Eye cast a thousand fleeting colors across her form. Her hand gripped the hilt of her montante, but for the first time since the battle had begun, she did not move. She did not attack.
She just stared.
Harriet forced himself to his feet, eyes darting between Barbel and the Eye. He could feel the weight of its gaze, though it did not blink, did not shift. It simply watched.
Jelle steadied herself, her wooden sword feeling laughably small in the presence of something so incomprehensible. She took a step forward, then hesitated. "Barbel… What is this?"
Barbel did not answer.
Instead, she raised her hand—not toward them, not in defiance or in readiness to fight, but toward it.
Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper.
"No matter what… I need to see them again."
The moment the words left her lips, the world responded.
The colors around them surged, spiraling outward in great, undulating waves. The vastness of the space seemed to breathe, the Eye's iris shifting faster, faster, until the very air itself was alive with movement.
And then—the altar pulsed.
A single beat.
The force of it sent a shudder through the endless space, rippling outward like a heartbeat too large for any body to contain. The colors around them distorted, stretching and twisting as if something were about to break through.
Jelle and Harriet braced themselves, but Barbel did not.
She merely watched as the Eye upon the stone opened wider.
The world quivered.
The altar pulsed again—once, twice, thrice. Each beat sent waves of force rolling through the boundless space, distorting the air, twisting the colors into frenzied chaos. The rainbow storm within the Eye swirled faster, coiling inward as if being drawn toward something—toward her.
Barbel did not resist.
She did not move, did not recoil, did not even blink as the Eye's spiraling hues elongated into thin, shifting tendrils of light. They stretched, reaching for her, bending toward her face as if guided by an unseen will. The colors flickered wildly, refracting against the polished steel of her montante, dancing across the surface of her armor.
Then, without warning—they struck.
A single tendril of rainbow light shot forward and pierced into Barbel's left eye.
Her body tensed. Her fingers dug into the hilt of her sword. Her breath hitched, sharp and silent. And yet, she did not scream.
The Eye upon the altar collapsed inward, its swirling mass unraveling in an instant, shrinking, condensing—funneling into Barbel.
Harriet took a step forward. "Barbel—"
But it was too late.
With one final pulse of ancient energy, the last of the godly object fused into her. The stone altar was left bare, cracked and empty, its purpose fulfilled. And Barbel—
Barbel opened her eyes.
Her right eye remained the same, sharp and unwavering. But her left—
Her left eye was no longer hers.
It gleamed with the brilliance of the absorbed entity, its iris a churning storm of ever-shifting colors, a living prism that defied the very fabric of reality.
Jelle tightened her grip on her wooden sword. Harriet said nothing, his golden eyes reflecting the impossible sight before him.
Barbel breathed in. A slow, steady inhale.
Then she turned to them, her rainbow-lit gaze somewhere.