The gorge of the Hollow Pass had once been a road, a narrow vein carved through the spine of mountains. Merchants had walked it with their mules, monks with their chants, soldiers with their banners. But tonight it was none of those things. Tonight it was a furnace.

The sky overhead sagged under smoke, a bruised canopy bleeding orange and black. Flames licked the ruins of siege wagons. Corpses sprawled in heaps where the first charge had broken against the second. Spears jutted from the ground like weeds, swords lay forgotten in the sucking mud. The air smelled of rust and rot, every breath a rasp of iron and ash.

And at the heart of it all, there was stillness.

Two men stood where the battle had burned itself into silence. Around them, thousands watched but did not dare intervene. It was as though the whole gorge had grown narrow, narrowing further still until there was room for only two blades, two bodies, two vessels that would not both endure.

Ryon. And the commander of the North.

The scarred man's face was a ruin of history—cut, burned, and carved again by war's hand. One eye glimmered with iron fire, the other a milky scar. His armor sagged where blows had dented it, its plates slick with gore. But his stance was rooted, his grip on the longsword unshaken.

Ryon, opposite him, was little more than sinew and blood. His tunic hung in tatters, his skin mapped by cuts that still wept. One hand clenched his sword, the other clutched at his ribs as though holding them together. His lungs clawed for air, every breath dragging fire through his chest. But his eyes—stormlit, unblinking—remained steady.

Neither man spoke at first. The battlefield itself seemed to hold its breath. Then the commander's lip curled.

"You've lasted longer than any southerner I've faced. But all things break, boy. Steel. Flesh. Oaths. Men."

The system stirred in Ryon's skull, its voice curling like smoke through the cracks of thought:

"Everything breaks. Which vessel will shatter first?"

Ryon spat blood into the dirt. His voice, low and raw, rasped back like a blade dragged across stone.

"You first."

The commander lunged.

Steel screamed. Sparks burst like fireflies from the clash. The first exchange was not probing, not cautious—it was violence distilled. Every strike came meant to kill, not wound, and every parry bled strength. Ryon's arms jolted with impact, his shoulders burning as if torn apart. The commander pressed forward, blows like a smith hammering red-hot iron, each one meant to flatten what stood before him.

Ryon twisted, his blade sliding aside a downward cleave, but not quick enough to stop the follow-through. Steel kissed his arm, splitting skin to bone. Pain shot white-hot up his shoulder. He snarled, driving his elbow into the scarred throat.

The commander staggered, choking, but his retaliation was immediate: a backhand slash across Ryon's face. The blade carved his cheek, sent a fan of blood into the air.

Both men reeled. Both gasped. Neither fell.

The gorge erupted with noise. Southerners roared Ryon's name, the syllables torn from desperate throats. Northerners hammered spear against shield, their chant of the commander's title drumming like war thunder. The sound shook the gorge walls.

But the circle at its center remained sealed.

The commander surged again, his sword a storm of iron. He did not fight like a man—he fought like inevitability. His eyes burned, his blade fell, his steps devoured space. Ryon staggered backward beneath the weight, his sword trembling in his grip. Each parry rattled his bones. Each breath burned deeper.

The system's whisper returned, cruel and calm:

"You are the weaker vessel. You will splinter."

Ryon ground his teeth, a snarl ripping through the blood in his throat. "Not me."

The commander raised his sword high. Both hands gripped the hilt, every scarred muscle straining. The blade came down in an arc meant to cleave skull from shoulder.

Ryon caught it.

The impact rang like the bell of a cathedral struck by lightning. Sparks showered their faces. Their blades locked, steel shrieking against steel. The commander leaned close, their foreheads almost touching. His breath stank of copper and rage.

"Break," he hissed. "Break!"

The edge pressed into Ryon's brow, slicing skin. Blood ran into his eye, blinding one side. His knees quivered, his arms screamed. The weight bore down, inevitable as stone.

The system murmured, almost tender:

"You cannot hold. You are not forged strong enough. The vessel fractures."

Ryon roared. It was not a word but a sound torn from marrow, from the refusal of bone to yield. With a surge born not of strength but of fury and desperation, he twisted, every torn muscle flaring past its limit.

The lock broke.

Ryon's blade surged upward. The tip slid past the guard, into the seam of armor, between ribs. It drove deep, into the beating heart beneath.

The commander's eyes went wide. For an instant, the fire in them raged brighter. Then dimmed. His sword slipped from his hands, clattering into the mud. His mouth opened. Blood bubbled.

"You…" The word gurgled. "…wrong… vessel."

Ryon twisted the blade. The commander convulsed, a shudder running through scarred flesh. Then he collapsed, falling heavy into the mud.

Silence.

The gorge froze. Thousands stood, weapons slack in hand. For one breath, no voice rose.

Then the north wailed, a cry of disbelief and grief that rolled like thunder down the line. Shields sagged, spears lowered. Men staggered back as if struck themselves.

The south erupted. The roar was not human but primal, a sound of survival ripped raw. Names were screamed, swords lifted high. The gorge shook with triumph.

But Ryon heard none of it.

He stood swaying, his chest heaving, sword dripping. Every inch of his body screamed. His vision swam.

The system slid through his skull, quiet, cold, inevitable:

"Balance restored. Vessel shattered. But weight remains. Blood weighs. Yours weighs heavy."

Ryon staggered. His knees buckled. The sword slipped from his grasp, sinking into the mud. He collapsed beside his enemy, their bodies nearly touching, bound in death and near-death.

The last thing he saw before the dark closed in was the commander's lifeless eye staring skyward, glassy and blank, the scarred face frozen in something like disbelief.

And then, the dark took him.