I came here to avoid bloodshed, to be free of the temptation to kill without regard for others. So that I might learn how to deserve life myself. It seems as if it may be for nothing. The very air of this place seems to reek with slaughter, Karel thought, gazing solemnly at the bleak horizon.

The light of sunrise was just beginning to shine brightly, yet the Dread Isle, Valor, was as gloomy as ever. Maybe all the dark magic performed there over the years had left it's mark.

Or possibly, Karel mused, it was the reverse.

He glanced down at where a series of tally marks were scratched into the dirt. Three hundred and sixty-five little lines in the ground. Three hundred and sixty-five days of waiting, filled with fear and a morbid hope, for the return of his friend and student.

Now, finally, Karel could relax, almost, secluded from humanity in Valor's ancient ruins. Imprisoned, far from those he would pointlessly harm.

He stepped out into the sunlight. Even that brilliance felt somehow corrupted, here. It was better that way. Before retreating to the Dread Isle, it felt as if his mere presence would cast a shadow on the world around him, tainting it. Here, it almost seemed as if his existence could be tolerated, for a time.

Instinctively, he reached for his sword when he spotted the silhouette in the distance, despite all his thoughts to the contrary. Some habits could no longer be broken.

As the slight figure approached, he could see the face; young and stubborn, framed by untidy green hair. A face Karel, to his dismay, knew.

"Master." the boy -no, he was a man now- acknowledged calmly, almost happily. That alone seemed impossibly naive.

"So, you did come." Karel's face was impassive, his voice indifferent to the turmoil that consumed him.

"The people of Sacae never lie." Guy reminded him, smirking slightly.

"No. " Karel agreed. "And I too am of Sacaen descent. I too promised that our blades would cross." He gazed across the shadowy landscape, toward the Dragon's Gate, where that promise had been made. "Draw your sword." Karel said grimly, unsheathing his own Wo Dao.

* * *

Blades at the ready, they stood lightly, watching each other carefully for the slightest hints movement.

There was a beautiful simplicity to the duel. They were reasonably far from any structures or trees, and the ground was free of rocks or mud. Nothing was there to distract them, and there was no one else on the island to intervene. Skill, and nothing else, would determine who lived and who died.

Skill, or mercy. It was not a word that Karel understood the true meaning of, but it wasn't hard to understand that Guy, and not him, deserved to live. The young fighter would never accept it if Karel did not seem to fight his hardest, though. He was prepared for this, had known it all along, that this would have to be a fight to the death. In a way, he was glad of it.

Ever impatient, Guy launched himself into a reckless lunge, barely regaining his footing as Karel sidestepped away easily. He struck at his challenger's head, severing Guy's braided hair, but nothing else, as the youngster leapt back.

Rising from a crouch, Guy feinted at Karel's sword arm. Karel was barely able to parry fast enough, and felt steel carve a shallow cut into the flesh of his leg. He turned just in time to see a silver blur whip through the air where his head had been.

He has improved, Karel thought, and then he had no time to think, fully engaged in the duel for the first time in years.

Even if he had been aware of the difference, he would not have been able to say where his hand ended and his sword began; they were one and the same. He lost all memory of who he fought and why, as well as the memory of his desperate attempt to hold back, to ensure that Guy was the one who walked away from this place alive.

All he knew was cold, cruel joy as he fought on, caught in the endless rhythym of swordplay.

His awareness did not return until, mere minutes later, his foe collapsed at his feet.

The mad glee fading away, Karel looked down and fell to his knees, feeling sick and numb. Guy lay there, contorted oddly, one hand pressed to his side in a pool of blood, the other vainly reaching for his sword.

"No... no, I couldn't have. Help! Anyone, help!" he shouted, before vaguely remembering that there was surely no one on the island who could heal his friend. There was no one else at all. Wasn't that what he had wanted?

Guy suddenly seemed to remember his presence, as the boy's green eyes flicked upward, glazed with pain.

"Guess I... messed up, didn't I, Master? I was wrong... No match for you after all... I'm sorry." Guy whispered, breathing heavily.

"No, no, you fought wonderfully." Karel assured him, unsure of why he said it.

"Then why did... I lose?" Guy asked rhetorically, forcing a smile. "This...not your fault. I asked, remember? So, please... my last wish. Don't blame yourself." his old friend told him, still smiling slightly.

"Whose fault could it be, then?" Karel yelled, then quieted. He was talking to a dead man.

For the first time since he was a young child, Karel realized that tears were falling onto his student's still body. It was almost a comfort, but not much of one, to know that he still had enough emotion left in him to cry.

* * *

That evening, Karel left Valor to seek solitude elsewhere, escaping the island in Guy's small boat. He had long ago destroyed his own, to ensure that he would be unable to leave, but if he couldn't avoid bloodshed on the Dread Isle, there was no reason to stay.

He glanced back at the highest hill on the island, where the grave of the greatest swordsman of Sacae was marked by two swords; his own, and the one that had killed him.

Karel would respect his friend's request. He would not retreat into despair. But, as he departed from one prison to seek out another, he vowed silently to never pick up a weapon again.