The Hollow Pass shuddered beneath the storm of steel.

The gorge itself seemed to breathe with the armies massed within it—thousands of men pressing forward, screaming, crying, dying, bleeding into the earth. Yet for all their numbers, all their fury, the world's gaze had narrowed to two figures locked at its heart.

Ryon.

The scarred commander.

Their duel had outlasted the sun's zenith. Their blades sang through air thick with ash and mist, each strike sending ripples through the battlefield. It was just as if even the clash of armies had begun to hesitate, waiting, because the victor here would decide more than a single life.

It would decide the Hollow itself.

Ryon's arms burned, shoulders trembling beneath the weight of endless parries. He could still feel the commander's last kick rattling through his ribs, bruised deep enough to sting every breath. His own blade dripped crimson, his blood and the commander's indistinguishable now.

Across from him, the scarred northern commander grinned, teeth bared through lips split and bloodied. Wounds crisscrossed his chest and thigh, one leg dragging slightly with every step. Yet the man's eyes gleamed with a feral hunger that refused to dim. His scars, pale ridges of flesh carved by years of violence, seemed almost to glow in the firelight.

"You're slowing," the commander rasped, voice like gravel ground in his throat. His sword swept down in a brutal arc.

Ryon caught the blow, sparks erupting as steel clashed with steel. The impact rattled him to his bones, nearly driving him to his knees. He grit his teeth, twisting his blade and forcing the commander's strike aside, before retaliating with a desperate slash. His sword bit across the man's chest, carving another wound into already-broken flesh.

The commander staggered. His blood hit the mud in heavy drops. For the briefest instant, silence rippled across the northern ranks. Then the commander laughed—a guttural, blood-soaked sound that rattled from deep in his chest.

"Yes," he croaked. "That's it. You cut me, I cut you. That's how men are measured."

The system pulsed within Ryon's skull.

Measured? it whispered, eerie and cold. No. This is weighing. Flesh as coin. Blood as balance. One vessel must empty. One vessel must feed.

Ryon grit his teeth, sweat mingling with blood across his brow. The system's words curled inside him like a blade drawn slow. He could not banish them. He could only fight through them.

The commander lunged, sudden and savage, faster than his wounds should have allowed. His sword arced for Ryon's throat. Ryon twisted aside, steel flashing past his cheek close enough to slice skin. Pain flared, warm blood trickling down his face. He countered with a thrust, driving his blade into the commander's thigh.

Steel pierced flesh.

The commander roared, staggering as blood gushed down his leg. The northern line rippled, warriors shouting, their belief trembling. For a heartbeat, the southern army surged forward with cries of hope.

But the commander did not fall. His sword snapped upward, faster than any crippled man should have managed, and carved across Ryon's arm. Flesh split open, pain lanced fire down his side, and blood spilled hot over his tunic.

The duel tilted again.

Both men swayed, bleeding freely, blades shaking from exhaustion. Their gazes locked, hatred and respect braided together.

"You're no southerner," the commander growled, voice ragged, reverent in its way. "You fight like something… wrong."

Ryon spat blood into the dirt. "Maybe I am wrong. Maybe that's why I'll end you."

The commander's grin split wider, teeth red. "Try."

They crashed together again, swords screaming, sparks spraying into the mist.

The world narrowed. The roar of armies faded to a dull thunder, as though the gorge itself wanted to listen to this breaking point.

Ryon ducked beneath a vicious swing, driving his elbow into the commander's gut. The man grunted, staggering, but his retaliation came swift—a backhand that cracked across Ryon's jaw. Stars burst behind his eyes, teeth rattling, and he staggered back, boots sliding in blood-soaked mud.

The system hissed like a serpent: "You are breaking. He is breaking. The weaker vessel fractures first. Do not be that vessel."

Ryon's grip tightened on his blade. His lungs burned, breath ragged. He could taste the metallic tang of his own blood, thick at the back of his throat.

The commander limped, his leg dragging, but the fury in his strikes did not wane. He swung downward again, his sword a falling hammer. Ryon rolled aside, mud splattering up his chest, and the blade split earth where he had been.

Ryon surged upward, thrusting. His blade pierced deep into the man's side, biting through armor into flesh. The commander roared, a terrible sound, his sword lashing in reflex.

Steel shrieked against bone.

Ryon staggered as the blade carved across his ribs, deep enough to slice flesh and muscle. Pain tore through him like fire. His vision narrowed, black creeping at the edges.

They reeled apart, both drenched in blood, neither whole.

Around them, thousands watched in silence—southerners holding their breath, northerners screaming for their commander to rise, to end it. The entire war seemed paused, trembling on the outcome of this duel.

The commander leaned close, face twisted in pain and wild light. "One of us dies tonight, southern phantom. One of us feeds the Hollow."

Ryon pressed his blade harder into the man's wound, lips peeled back in a snarl. "Then choke on it."

They shoved apart, blades raised, bodies trembling.

The system whispered once more, softer now, like breath on Ryon's ear:

"The Hollow demands. One soul must fall. One vessel must break. Delay, and both will be consumed."

Ryon inhaled, vision swimming. His body screamed, but his will locked into place. The commander raised his sword, blood dripping like rain from the steel.

The gorge froze.

Then they lunged, both at once.

Blades collided in a scream of sparks. Mud splashed. The ground shuddered.

One heartbeat more. One strike more. And the Hollow would claim its due.