The black wolf lunged at the Lord, slashing with its terrible claws towards its head.
Artemis could only watch these events, only a spectator. Until it was finished, until one of them had grown too fatigued to continue, or had perished.
It was up to Lark now, up to her cunning.
It was certainly in Lark's interest to try and win the fight. If Artemis died, she would have no contract holder. Who would supply her with food then?
But was Lark a formidable warrior, or just an annoying monster?
The Castellan battled at the black wolf, slamming an iron fist into its jaw. It shot backwards, crashing against the stone. The Castellan didn't hesitate to step forward, flipping the spear upside-down as it was jabbed into the wolf's side, pinning it to the stone.
As the Castellan walked to the edge of the battlefield, searching for his thrown black blade, the black wolf bit into the heft of the spear with one of the mouths on the side of its head, pulling it out of its body and throwing it to the side. Crimson blood— Artemis's blood— spilled out onto the ground.
But he felt no pain, that was Lark's to bear. And he was sure that the Daemonic Spirit enjoyed such a feeling.
Noticing the wolf's standing, the Castellan picked up his blade and spun around, raising his blade to strike.
But the black wolf had disappeared from sight.
He looked left, then right. Nothing.
Neither below him, the wolf had not ducked underneath his vision.
He stumbled backwards as he glanced up, spotting the shadow obscuring the stars above.
This was no storybook. In a real battle, a fight was decided on the premise of another's failure, or another's triumph.
A fight was like a Spirit Contract, a dominance of willpower and strength.
And the Lord had ceded victory when he had stumbled!
The black wolf hopped high up into the air, Lark keenly sensing the surge in Artemis's mind. She knew what had to be done.
The Spirit Contract was immediately released, causing Artemis to free-fall as he drew the talwar, holding it over his head as he grimaced.
The silver talwar sunk into the shoulder of the Lord as Artemis fell upon him, cleaving his left arm away from his body in a single, swift arc.
The Lord let out a groan, grasping at the tattered stump which spilled black blood onto the ground. He fell to his knees, emaciated and ruined. His spear clattered against the stone, and it cracked underneath his weight.
Artemis landed in front of him, grimacing as he clutched at his side to obscure the flow of crimson. The spear had indeed pierced him, but it seems that it had missed anything important.
Luckily, thankfully, in this cursed city, he had finally been fortunate.
"Does Lord Vaultracht yield? This is your defeat. You could fight until you lose too much blood to remain alive, or we could talk until your end." Artemis responded coldly.
"A Lord does not yield…"
"Then this fight ends verbally. Hold your blade to the end, and you will have never yielded."
Artemis drove the end of the talwar into the stone below, kneeling down across from the Lord as he let out an exhausted sigh.
The Spirit Bond had taken everything he had left.
All for the sake of battle with this warrior.
Even with all he had, he had almost lost. He had almost died on several occasions since he had come to the city of Lars-Eleme, but this was the closest he had gotten by far.
"Why did you come to this place, this lonely tower? You remained here for so long, those prisoners who bear age all speak of you. You've been here for quite some time, watching over them."
"Punishment."
"From this Lord Lautstarke?"
The Castellan remained silent for a moment. He could tell that the grand figure was hesitating, measuring whether or not in his final moments, he should open himself up to a lowly human. He was surely dealing with the death of his pride, of having lost to Artemis of all people.
"Yes…"
Sitting with the Lord, Artemis felt it all sink in.
Loneliness, duty, despair.
He could sense all of these things in the Castellan.
They were so very bitterly similar.
Whatever regrets this figure had, whatever wrongs he had done to this person he had spoken of, Lautstarke, didn't derive from his great tragedy. He was just a guardian, eternal, set in a prison full of crazed individuals he could never converse with, only ever rambling. It was surely maddening.
He had done enough.
He should deserve this release.
Artemis grasped the hilt of the talwar, holding it against Lautstarke's abdomen.
He couldn't hesitate in this, or it wouldn't happen at all.
But as Artemis drove his blade into his stomach, lengthening the wound on his chest, he felt nothing but pain in his heart. It was purely physical, it was agonising.
He couldn't bear what he had been tasked with.
To a recluse, any connection was the greatest connection. When he had first encountered Ruffliette, it felt like his whole world had brightened up. Even though this person hadn't been what he had expected, and had even gotten him into immense danger, and would kill her without hesitation if she complicated his survival, he felt some semblance of attachment to her.
It was ironic, that the most dangerous experiences in his life had also been the most enlightening.
Him and the Castellan hadn't talked much, hadn't even exchanged amicably, but he still felt as if he was killing an acquaintance, a comrade.
Maybe not even that… his connection towards this person was definitely exemplified and heightened by his previous seclusion, but there was another element to it.
Perhaps it was… genuine respect?
Artemis had never considered himself a warrior.
Was it respect for another person who was trying to survive?
Not in the physical sense, the Castellan clearly wanted to die.
"You were trying to survive your loneliness, weren't you…?"
There was silence between the two for a moment, the Castellan clutching the wounds on his abdomen as he let out shallow, harsh breaths. It seemed that even those Lords above humanity could struggle desperately.
"Why… would I tell a human… of my loneliness?"
"Because I was lonely too. Who was it you wished to be with, this Lautstarke figure?"
He could see the narrowing of the Castellan's window-pane eyes.
"Lord Lautstarke… no. Not him. He would never accept such a connection, not with anyone…"
"Will you not admit your loneliness then?"
"A Lord does not give in…"
"Even in the end?"
The Castellan did not respond to this question. He clearly did not want to talk about the matter any further. Perhaps Pride was the greatest Sin of the Lord.
"Why… do you cry?"
The Castellan chuckled wryly, weakly.
"This is the most… curious— human thing. It is joy, sadness, laughter… why?"
Artemis shook his head, grinning. Truly, tears had collected at the edges of his eyes unknowingly.
"There is no reason for it, don't ponder it. There is no human who would think something like you worthy of their tears."
"Then, why…?"
The Lord had begun to slip, sinking down against the stone. He feebly reached for the spear beside him, grasping it tightly.
"Because you have taught me something. Something about myself, perhaps during that fight, and so I grieve."
"Then perhaps— you are not human at all."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because humans— do not learn. Only Lords do... from their mistakes, from their triumphs, these are— treasures of Lords."
Artemis raised an eyebrow at this statement, glancing around at the ruins past the black veil.
"If these are the treasures of your people, and you have learned from them, then why has your city fallen…?"
The Castellan weakly gazed at the blanket of black stars above.
"This… is not our city… not our home… Our home… is a sky… of blue…"
Strength fled his body in his last moment. The titan of hardened black flesh that resembled armour gradually fell to a heap beside Artemis, his spear clutched tightly in his hand which never faltered, even as he died.
His death, for such a grand being, was unceremonious. There was no last surge of strength that allowed him a heroic last stand. He fell as soon as he had risen to fight. He did not turn into brilliant shards of light, or sink away into shadow.
Like all others, this grand Lord was just another corpse.
Artemis was the one that had survived. He was the one who had triumphed. Not this mysterious Lord who had claimed himself better than all of humanity. And it was certainly true that he was. Even though this Lord had crippled himself, he had nearly surpassed Artemis.
If he had lost almost all of the blood in his body, could he seriously fight another person and almost win…?
He felt pain surge through his head.
Lark was ready to effectuate the contract.
"There's one thing you were wrong about, Lord Vaultracht. Humans do learn from their mistakes, from their triumphs. We are chasers. One triumph after another, those are our goalposts. We will repeat our mistakes as many times as we need to achieve a repeat victory…"
"It does not matter what we have learned from our mistakes at all. Not as long as we can bear repeating them."
His jaw unceremoniously unhinged. Inhumanly, he bit down on the thick-steeled corpse of the Castellan. Black blood spilled out onto the ground, pooling around its edges.
In only a few moments, there was no one left but him. In his agony, in his grief. How should he bear this pain?
If he was alike to an inhuman monster, was it the very proof that he was no longer human? Or was it that the Lord was more like humans than he cared to admit?
And was that grief over the loss of Lord Vaultracht, or the loss of himself?
He had survived, as he had intended, but what was left to celebrate after the fact?
When the black veil around them faded, the night returned to him.
He knelt on the stone below, drenched in the black blood of the Castellan, his corpse vanished, consumed by Lark.
And at the edge of the tower's surface, Ruffliette stared blankly, horrified by his visage.