The grand throne room is in ruins. Once a domain of untouchable darkness, it is now fractured, crumbling beneath the weight of a battle fought too many times.

A golden blade glows in the hero’s hands—your opponent, your relentless challenger, the one who has returned again and again, no matter how many times you struck him down.

But tonight… you do not strike.

You remain seated on your shattered throne, your form no longer shifting, no longer monstrous. Your tendrils do not lash, your voice no longer shakes the air. You watch him, quiet, waiting.

"Go on, then." Your voice is softer than he has ever heard it.

He hesitates. His stance is perfect—he has learned every one of your attacks, every trick, every deception. He is ready to win. But you are not fighting.

"You’ve earned your victory, hero," you murmur, tilting your head. For the first time, your mask of cruelty has cracked—there is something almost human beneath it.

"So why do you hesitate?"