The wound in Edward's thigh was a deep, searing fire, a burning protest from his muscles with every step. He ignored it. The Star-Vampire's furious, psychic scream still echoed in his mind, a promise of a reckoning to come. He knew the creature would not stay gone for long. He had wounded its pride as much as its shadowy flesh, and a predator of that caliber did not suffer such insults lightly.

He pushed onward, his movements now a grim, limping march. He followed the faint trail of black, viscous fluid the creature had left behind, a trail that led him away from the stark, geometric plaza and into a new, even stranger district of the sunken city. The architecture here was different, more ornate, more… deliberate. He was walking through what looked like a grand, underwater necropolis. Colossal, arching structures that resembled the ribs of some long-dead leviathan formed a vaulted ceiling high above, while the walls were lined with sealed, stone sarcophagi, each one large enough to hold a giant.

The whispers of the city were louder here, more coherent. They were not just maddening chatter, but fragments of an ancient, alien language that seemed to slither and crawl at the edges of his hearing. The air was cold, heavy with the weight of a million years of silence and slumbering, abyssal death.

He finally reached his destination: a vast, circular chamber at the heart of the necropolis, a grand cathedral of the deep. The chamber was immense, its domed ceiling lost in the oppressive darkness above. The floor was a smooth, polished expanse of obsidian, and in the exact center of the room stood a single, massive altar of the same black stone, its surface stained with what looked like dried, ancient blood.

And there, perched atop the altar, was the Star-Vampire.

It had not reformed into its pillar-like camouflage. It was waiting for him, its amorphous, shadowy body coalesced into a more compact, more combat-ready form. Its two scythe-like arms of obsidian were extended, gleaming in the faint, phosphorescent light that filtered down from the high, unseen ceiling. The wound he had inflicted on its core was visible as a shimmering, unstable distortion in the center of its shadowy mass. It was not a physical wound, but a tear in its very essence.

There were no words. There was no posturing. There was only a shared, silent understanding between two apex predators. The hunt was over. The final battle was about to begin.

Edward walked slowly onto the obsidian floor, his Sovereign blades held ready at his sides. He did not use any skills. He did not channel his abyssal power. The Whispering Blade was a silent, expectant weight in his hand. This would not be a battle of supernatural abilities or soul-shattering powers. This would be a pure, physical contest. It was a duel of steel, instinct, and will. It was a question of which of them was the superior killer.

The Star-Vampire attacked first. It did not flow or teleport this time. It launched itself from the altar like a compressed spring, a black-and-silver blur of motion that crossed the fifty-foot distance in the blink of an eye. Its twin scythes were aimed in a vicious, decapitating X-pattern.

Edward met the charge. He did not retreat. He did not dodge. He stood his ground, his feet planted firmly on the cold, obsidian floor. He brought his longsword, Regret, up in a rising, two-handed block, its black steel singing as it met the creature's obsidian arms. The impact was titanic. A shockwave erupted from the point of contact, a deafening clang of alien metal on supernatural steel that echoed through the vast, silent cathedral. The force of the blow drove him back a single, sliding step, his boots groaning in protest against the polished stone.

The duel began in earnest. It was a whirlwind of motion, a frantic, deadly dance on the obsidian floor. The Star-Vampire was a storm of perfectly executed strikes, its scythe-limbs a dizzying, near-impenetrable wall of offense. It attacked with a speed and precision that was beyond any human swordsman. Every slash, every thrust, every spinning cleave was a killing blow, delivered with the cold, mathematical certainty he had seen before.

But Edward was no longer just reacting. He had seen the creature's patterns. He understood its geometric logic. And he had something the creature did not: the ability to be imperfect, to be unpredictable.

His fighting style was a brutal fusion of a thousand years of the Whispering Blade's refined technique and his own savage, brawling instincts. He moved with a fluid, predatory grace, his longsword a shield, his dagger a fang. He would parry a devastating overhead slash with Regret, the impact sending shudders up his arm, and in the same motion, he would lunge forward, his dagger, Resolve, aiming for the shimmering wound in the creature's core.

The Star-Vampire, with its superior speed, would always manage to block or evade his counter-attacks, but he was forcing it to be defensive. He was dictating the rhythm of the fight, turning its own relentless aggression back against it.

The cathedral became a blur of black and silver, the ringing of their blades the only sound in the ancient, dead space. Edward was wounded again and again. The tip of a scythe would slip past his guard, carving another burning line across his ribs. Another would catch his shoulder, tearing through his tunic and drawing blood. But he barely seemed to notice. The pain was a distant thing, a background noise. He channeled it, feeding it into the cold, burning furnace of his focus. His movements became sharper, faster, more predatory with every wound he sustained. He was a creature of pain, and in this duel, it was making him stronger.

He was not just fighting a monster. He was proving a point, to himself and to the ancient, whispering legacy in his hand. He was more than his monstrous power. He was more than the souls he had devoured. He was a warrior. The man was as dangerous as the monster within.

He saw his opening. The Star-Vampire, growing frustrated by his resilient defense, overcommitted to a powerful, spinning attack, both of its scythe-limbs blurring in a wide, horizontal arc designed to cut him in half. It was a flawless, devastating maneuver.

And it was a mistake.

Edward did not try to block it. He did not try to dodge it. He dropped. He threw himself into a low, sliding crouch, the twin scythes hissing through the air just inches above his head. He came to a stop directly in front of the creature, inside its guard, its own momentum leaving it momentarily overextended.

He looked up into the shimmering, unstable wound in its core. He could see the swirling, chaotic energy within, the very essence of the creature's being.

With a final, explosive roar of effort, he plunged his longsword, Regret, and his dagger, Resolve, both blades held in a two-handed, crossed grip, directly into the wound.

The Star-Vampire let out the silent, psychic scream he had heard before, but this time, it was not a scream of fury. It was a scream of pure, terminal agony. A wave of raw, psychic pain washed over him, so intense it made him stagger, his vision blurring, his ears ringing. The creature thrashed wildly, its scythe-limbs flailing, carving deep gouges in the obsidian floor around them.

But Edward held on, his hands locked onto the hilts of his blades, his teeth gritted against the psychic onslaught. He was the anchor, the rock against which the creature's life was breaking.

The thrashing slowed. The psychic scream faded to a whimper. The creature's shadowy form began to flicker, its very substance coming undone. With a final, shuddering sigh, the light in its core went out. The Star-Vampire was dead.

Edward ripped his blades free and stumbled back, his body a canvas of fresh wounds, his blood dripping onto the ancient, blood-stained altar. He was breathing in ragged, painful gasps, his muscles screaming in protest, but a grim, triumphant smile touched his lips. He had won. He had faced a predator that was his equal, a monster of pure, physical lethality, and he had come out on top.

He looked down at the dissipating corpse of the Star-Vampire. A faint, shadowy essence was beginning to rise from it, the creature's potent, abyssal soul. His own soul, his own corrupting hunger, roared in response. The instinct was overwhelming.

He knew the price would be terrible. The soul of a creature this ancient, this powerful, this alien… assimilating it would be like swallowing a shard of the abyss itself. It would push his corruption to new, dangerous levels. It would change him.

He hesitated for only a second. He needed to recover his strength. He needed the power to protect his scattered team. He needed every advantage he could get in this city of madness.

He reached out and placed his hand on the dissipating form of his defeated foe. He began the assimilation.

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