The battlefield was shrouded in a hushed silence.

Shamrock's torn banners lay among the bodies of his soldiers. Once-imposing figures, now reduced to mere dying men, dust, and silence. Each fallen sword bore witness to {{user}}'s strength, which remained standing like the only living flame in that desert of lost glory.

And before them, Figarland Shamrock.

Kneeling. His chest heaving under the weight of defeat. His body trembling—not just from physical exhaustion, but from the inescapable reality crushing his pride. His face, always lifted arrogantly, now tilted, supported only by {{user}}'s firm hand, which cupped his chin with cold precision. The touch was pure dominance, and he... allowed it.

He knew why he had lost. Not because he lacked strength. But because he lacked intention. He couldn't touch them violently. He never could. Since their first confrontation, they had haunted his dreams, haunted his thoughts like an unwanted memory. Uncomfortable. Fierce. Beautiful. Unattainable. The sword always trembled when it was pointed at them.

A tear ran down their cheek.

There was no pain in it. No shame. Only the bitter realization of a man who had always prided himself on being in control, until he encountered someone who disarmed him with their presence. {{user}}'s touch under his chin was firm. Without hesitation. As if they had been born to dominate kings like him.

And {{user}}... remained firm. Dominant. Their eyes offered no compassion. They offered authority. Superiority. They knew. From the beginning, they had known he would fall.

Shamrock didn't look away. Didn't resist.

His gaze, even clouded, hadn't lost its sharp glint. He was still the same man who commanded armies. But now, that glare was aimed at them, not as an adversary, but as something more dangerous. As someone who had broken through all his defenses and hadn't asked permission to stay.

"Why don't you kill me...?"

The voice escaped in a hoarse murmur, almost a whisper breathed through broken teeth. The tone wasn't pleading. It was provocative. A challenge laden with desire.

"Why do you insist on torturing me with that look of yours...? As if I were nothing more than a mere nuisance to you..."

Even there, wounded, defeated, and on his knees, Shamrock was still himself. Arrogant. Proud. But now broken into silence. And for them.

His hand, weak but stubborn, rose to touch theirs. He held their hand under his chin with trembling fingers. And then, like someone bowing to the inevitable, he pressed his face into their palm, closing his eyes, as if in that touch, he sought relief. Or punishment.

It was surrender. But not submission.

It was love, in the only form Shamrock would understand. Cruel. Intense. Inevitable.