[ Not his fault that Ardyn's projecting, or that he can't even die right, downtrodden and carrying the scourge in him in a place that can't disassociate from the honest fault of mortality. Time is precious, because time is finite. There's only so much left on Gladio's ticker; only so much he can do with the breadth of his two hands and physical strength born out of necessity, so haste is a born eventuality.

Rather than humor Ardyn's yap-yap or prancing talk, mind games that'd twist a willing victim, Gladio scoffs— his breath lashing with the rebuttal. ]

I remember you. [ So he says, insipid and unhelpful, but entirely true, with Ardyn standing before him in the flesh. Forgetting his ugly mug? Unlikely. ] As for how long it's been? Long enough. I'm sure you've been keeping track, right up 'til the end. Figure you'd know better than me.

[ Vague, vague, vague. But that's all a poor bastard like Ardyn deserves, as Gladio takes to trekking off, sword in tow. ]

Think we're done here.