The blade struck down with a force that rattled the stone beneath Belial's feet. Sparks erupted as steel kissed steel, the impact sending a tremor through his arms. He twisted, letting the shock roll through his lean frame, then pivoted sharply, rolling to the side with the grace of a shadow fleeing the sun. In one fluid motion, he pushed himself up into a single-legged side-flip, landing silently in a low, coiled stance—his hidden form. The dance had begun.
Dance of Death: Silent Passing.
In that instant, Belial vanished.
Not even a whisper remained. No breath, no heartbeat, no trace. His presence dissolved like mist in moonlight. To the untrained eye, it was as if he had never been there at all.
Towering columns loomed like dead sentinels, their surfaces pitted by time and war. light filtered through cracked crystal-lights, casting jagged shadows across the floor. In the center stood the statue: a monstrous construct of blackened stone and etched iron, forged in the likeness of a long-dead warlord. Its armor bore the scars of centuries, each dent a testament to battles lost to history. The enormous two-handed Great Jian it clutched hummed with dormant malice, its edge glinting faintly in the half-light.
The air stilled.
Then, motion.
A blur of black cleaved the stillness—a vertical slash from the statue's Great Jian, splitting the air with a low, resonant hum. Belial reappeared just in time to meet it. His curved longsword, a slender crescent of polished steel, struck upward, deflecting the blow just enough to veer it past his shoulder. The impact vibrated through his entire body, nearly unbalancing him. His boots skidded across the marble, and he staggered back into a defensive stance, one hand brushing the ground, jaw clenched.
Too dense… he thought bitterly. The statue was impenetrable, a construct of sheer force and forgotten magic, its stone hide impervious to his usual techniques. His blade, sharp enough to split silk, left no mark on its surface. Each clash felt like striking a mountain.
What had he done to make it this mad?
The statue advanced, its thundering steps shaking the hall. Another strike came, faster than before, a horizontal arc that threatened to bisect him. Belial ducked, the blade missing him by a finger's breadth. The shockwave from its passage toppled a broken pillar behind him, sending shards of marble skittering across the floor. He leapt backward, catching his breath, sweat mingling with the dust on his brow. His dark hair clung to his face, and his leather armor creaked with each movement. He wasn't ready—not fully. But this wasn't a battle of choice.
He gritted his teeth. This bastard…
The statue pressed its assault, each swing carrying the weight of mountains. Belial met them with desperate dodges, glancing parries, and narrow escapes that left his limbs aching and his breath ragged. He rolled beneath a sweeping strike, sliding under the massive blade as it arced overhead. Twisting mid-slide, he parried the follow-up blow with the flat of his sword, the metal ringing sharply. His boots skidded again, and he barely kept upright, his muscles burning from the strain.
This was no place for the Dance of Death. Not here. Not against this. The silent steps that had made him a ghost on the battlefield—slipping through his enemies, leaving bodies in his wake—failed against such raw, soulless fury. The statue didn't tire, didn't falter. It was a machine of war, animated by some ancient grudge, and Belial was running out of time.
Another slash tore downward, forcing him to dive to the side. The blade grazed his arm, slicing through leather and drawing a thin line of blood. He hissed but kept moving, circling the statue, searching for an opening. His eyes darted over its form, seeking any weakness in its monolithic design. The statue pivoted, tracking him with glowing crimson eyes, and swung again. Belial flipped backward, landing in a crouch as the blade cratered the floor where he'd stood, sending up a cloud of dust.
He needed another way.
The statue charged, closing the distance with terrifying speed for something so massive. Belial sprinted toward a column, using it as cover. The Great Jian followed, shearing through the marble like paper. He vaulted over the collapsing stone, landing in a roll, and sprang to his feet, blade raised. The statue was relentless, its attacks a storm of steel and stone. Belial countered where he could, his longsword flashing in precise, economical strikes, but each parry felt like clashing with a battering ram. His arms trembled, and his breath came in sharp gasps.
Then, amid the flurry of exchanged blows, his eye caught something.
Three glints. Subtle. Metallic.
Hairpins.
Nestled on the statue's back, partially obscured by its stone-wrought mantle, three silver hairpins protruded from a central seal. They were delicate, almost ornamental, but they pulsed faintly with an otherworldly light. Belial's mind raced. A seal. A weakness. It had to be.
The statue lunged, its blade descending like a guillotine. Belial twisted out of its path, but the tip caught his side, slicing through leather and into flesh. Blood sprayed, warm and quick, and he cried out, stumbling. Pain seared through him, but it only sharpened his focus. He couldn't fight this thing forever. His strength was waning, and the poison in his blood—ever-present, ever-hungry—stirred, sapping his stamina.
A plan bloomed in his mind.
He leapt sideways, avoiding another crushing blow, and sprinted toward a toppled column. Using it as a springboard, he launched himself into the air, twisting mid-flight to face the statue's back. With a desperate cry, he flung his curved longsword in a spinning arc. The blade whistled through the air like a wraith and embedded itself into the central hairpin with a ringing clang.
The statue froze.
Its sword halted mid-swing, inches from the ground. Its crimson eyes dimmed, the glow fading to a dull ember. The hall fell silent, save for the faint hum of the embedded sword.
Then, slowly, the statue turned away, lumbering back to the center of the room. It knelt, folding its legs beneath it in perfect silence. Its Great Jian planted tip-first into the ground, hands resting atop the hilt, head bowed like a monk in prayer.
Belial dropped to one knee, panting. Sweat dripped from his brow as he stared, disbelieving. His side throbbed, blood seeping through his fingers where he pressed against the wound. His vision swam, but he forced himself to stay focused.
He'd done it.
A grin crept across his face—half relief, half disbelief. He limped forward, each step a battle against exhaustion, and plucked his sword free from the statue's back. The metal was warm, vibrating faintly, as if alive with the magic it had disrupted. He tested its weight in his hand, marveling at the precision of his throw. One chance, and he'd taken it.
The poison stirred again, a familiar ache coiling through his veins. It always did after a fight, as if roused by the nearness of death. Belial leaned back against a column, watching the kneeling statue. His thoughts drifted to the Dance of Death, to the technique that defined him.
His master had once told him that to truly perform the Dance, one had to stand a breath away from death—to court it, flirt with it, draw it into your arms like a lover. Only then would the steps flow, seamless and unstoppable. It was why the technique had always been so taxing, demanding risk, sacrifice, a willingness to teeter on the edge of oblivion.
But ever since the poison…
The poison was old, a remnant of the cursed Mirror beast that had bitten him years ago. He had survived, but barely. Xin, his healer, had tried to extract it, her hands trembling as she worked her spells. She had failed. The poison lingered, coiled in his blood like a waiting serpent, a constant reminder of his mortality.
Yet, that persistent pain, that ever-present threat, had changed him. It kept him on the edge, always near enough to death that the Dance no longer required a ritual of blood. It had become second nature. He didn't need to force it anymore. Each step, each strike, flowed as naturally as breathing.
Perhaps… the poison wasn't a curse.
Perhaps it was a gift.
Belial touched the bloodied edge of his sword, whispering a silent thanks to his master, to the gods, if they still bothered to listen. The statue remained motionless, its purpose fulfilled or forgotten. The hall was silent, save for the drip of his blood on the marble.