Two days had passed, and although the others treated M-8 with slightly less disdain, he remained distant, keeping to himself. As they dug, a sudden scream pierced the air. Everyone rushed over, only to find two teenage boys in a desperate situation. One was dangling over a widening hole, his feet barely touching the ground as the other held onto his chains, struggling to prevent him from falling. The boy's pleas for help echoed as the sand beneath them gave way.
A-2, with his cold and calculating demeanor, approached, preventing anyone else from assisting. He chuckled sinisterly, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Finally," he muttered, and without hesitation, he kicked both boys into the hole.
The group stood frozen in horror as the boys' faint screams grew quieter until the sand stopped shifting. Then, a sickening "SPLAT!" echoed from the depths of the hole, sealing the fate of the two.
M-8 looked down, his eyebrows twitching with restrained emotion. The tomboy beside him lowered her gaze, taking a moment of silence for the lost lives.
"ALRIGHT, EVERYONE GATHER UP AT CAMP! WE'RE LEAVING FOR THE HOLE FIRST THING IN THE MORNING!" A-2 barked, pushing them all forward. Some stumbled, and others cried as they moved toward the camp. M-8 noticed there were only five of them left, a grim reminder of how many had perished.
As they trudged on, M-8 slowed his pace to walk beside the tomboy, who was trying to comfort the children still sobbing. In a low voice, he whispered, "Listen, when I give the signal, run."
"What do you mean, run? We can't escape!" she whispered back, her voice filled with disbelief.
"Trust me. They're not as tough as you think," M-8 assured her.
Though she was hesitant, after a minute of convincing, she reluctantly agreed. As they neared the camp, M-8's attention shifted to one of the guards, distracted and fiddling with his knife. Seizing the moment, M-8 used the back of his foot to knock the blade out of the guard's hand. The tomboy took her cue, pulling the confused children and running across the sand.
One of the footmen turned, trying to grab her, but M-8 was faster. He snatched up the fallen dagger and stabbed the guard in the leg repeatedly. Blood sprayed as the man fell, gargling in pain. With swift precision, M-8 loosened the chains wrapped around him, leaping onto another guard who had moved to block the tomboy. He stabbed the guard's gut and yanked the blade out violently, the blood blinding a nearby footman, whom M-8 promptly stabbed multiple times in the face.
Watching from a distance, A-2 smiled, clearly entertained by the chaos. As one of the guards grabbed a spear and charged, M-8 dodged, using his knife to slash at the man's joints before slicing through his Achilles tendon. The guard collapsed, and M-8 stabbed him repeatedly in the chest, blood spilling everywhere, staining the sand red.
Three footmen remained, charging with spears of white light. M-8 kicked a fallen spear into his hand and slashed upward, cleaving one of them in half. He hurled the spear toward the other two, who dodged it by weaving left and right. One lunged at M-8, but M-8 deflected the attack by using his hand to push the spear aside, spinning around to slash open the man's chest.
The injured guard cried out in pain, trying to restrain M-8, but M-8 swung upward, cutting the man's jaw in half, and causing blood to gush from his mouth. As the final footman lunged at M-8 from behind, M-8 used his fallen comrade as a human shield, stopping the spear's advance. He then jumped to the side and lunged forward, stabbing the footman through the jaw and twisting the blade. The footman's instincts spilled out onto the sand before he collapsed.
M-8, drenched in blood, walked toward A-2, who was smiling, clearly delighted by what he saw. "There it is!" A-2 shouted. "That's the M-8 I know and love!"
M-8's eyes were no longer their usual silver; they had turned a scarlet red, glowing faintly as the pendant in his hand glimmered. As he faced A-2, the tomboy watched in horror, realizing the extent of M-8's abilities.
"So this is..." she thought, her mind struggling to grasp the truth.
"…the White Devil," A-2 said, finishing her thought with a twisted grin. "You know how long I've waited to fight someone like you again! Everyone else here is so boring, but you—you're different!"
The nickname "White Devil" had been given to M-8 after A-1's death. In a fit of rage, he had hunted down most of A-2's men, earning the moniker. But he had abandoned that title four years ago, determined not to let his anger make him sloppy. Yet here he was, once again lost to the fury.
"I've only heard rumors about this version of you, so I tried to bring him out in our last duel," A-2 mused. A flashback of M-8's body being nearly split open filled both their minds. "But it seems anger only weakens you now. What happened? Are you trying to follow A-1's teachings beyond the grave?"
M-8 said nothing, his silence speaks volumes.
"Not so talkative, as always," A-2 chuckled. His eyes fell on the bloodied, dull dagger in M-8's hand. "If you're going to fight me, at least use a proper weapon."
He tossed a marble to M-8, who caught it. The marble was for his short blade.
"I know you would've preferred your spear, but spears aren't my style." A-2 grinned. "You understand, right?"
After a moment, M-8 responded, "What's stopping me from running away right now?"
A-2's smile widened. "Two reasons." He held up two fingers. "First, I *could* easily catch you, but where's the fun in that? I'd just kill the kids while your back's turned." He dropped one finger. "And second, I have A-1's weapon."
M-8 froze, his heart skipping a beat. The odachi—A-1's weapon—was a legendary blade, capable of cutting down golems a hundred times larger than any creature M-8 had fought. It was a weapon said to have taken millions of years to forge, and A-1 had once remarked that it could even harm a deity.
'But why does he have it?' M-8 thought. 'And why hasn't he used it?'
"If you kill me, it's all yours," A-2 said, smirking. "I won't use it because if I even try to pull it from its sheath, it'll destroy my arms."
'That's a relief,' M-8 thought as he shattered the marble, revealing his curved blade. 'It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is surviving to see another worthless day.'
As the wind whipped the sand around them, both fighters readied themselves. Neither had the advantage—malnourishment and the harsh conditions had sapped their strength. In this world, where the past, future, fate, and abilities could be erased with a deity's whim, only survival mattered.
A-2, after touching the pendant eight years ago, had seen it all—the outside world, the happiness, the memories of his past. In his desperation to leave, he had killed the one who held the pendant, only for it to be stolen by someone who had no ambition to leave at all.
Now, the two stood at the brink, ready to face off for the last time.