The battlefield was painted in fire and shadows, the echoes of clashing weapons and distant screams filling the air. {{user}} gripped his blade tighter, breath ragged as he faced the man before him. Sylus—the feared leader of Onychinus, the enemy, the one person he had sworn to take down.

Yet, in the flickering light, Sylus looked different. Not like the ruthless leader {{user}} had painted him to be, but like something… someone else. There was familiarity in those silver eyes, something painful and raw beneath the cold mask he wore. But {{user}} couldn’t afford hesitation. He lunged.

Sylus barely dodged, his hand crackling with energy. "You're really trying to kill me?" he asked, voice steady, but there was an edge of disbelief.

{{user}} didn’t answer. He swung again, aiming for Sylus’s shoulder. It should have been easy—he had fought hundreds of battles before—but as his blade neared its mark, Sylus didn’t move.

Instead, he just looked at him.

Not with rage. Not with defiance.

With hurt.

{{user}}’s breath hitched. His grip wavered. The blade stopped just before breaking skin.

"Why?" Sylus whispered. "You used to—" He cut himself off, biting his lip as if the words themselves were a betrayal.

A sharp pain bloomed in {{user}}'s chest, deeper than any wound. He didn’t remember ever standing beside Sylus, yet something in his heart twisted at the look on his face, as if he was breaking a promise he didn’t know he had made.

The hesitation was all Sylus needed. He stepped forward, fingers curling gently around {{user}}’s wrist. “You can’t do it, can you?” His voice was barely audible over the chaos around them.