Mito's body fell without a sound, hitting the scorched ground with a dull echo. The air, still saturated with ash and dying fire, remained trapped in an unnatural silence. The last flames quivered once before fading, and the forest became a cemetery of shadows and smoke. Satoru watched the motionless body in silence, thinking neither of victory nor defeat, only of an ending. Beside him, Hans knelt, the dagger still wet between his fingers. His breathing was steady, his face lowered to the ground as if waiting for another order.
"Good work," said Satoru, his voice completely flat.
"I only fulfilled my duty, my lord. I will always come when you call," replied Hans.
He looked up briefly, as if he wanted to say more, but Satoru stopped him before a word left his mouth.
"The damage is less than it seems," Satoru said, and that simple statement was enough to silence him.
Satoru looked down at his own chest, where the wounds still burned. Despite their appearance, he knew his condition was almost optimal. His HP had not dropped critically, although the sensation of holy fire still lingered under his skin.
He turned his gaze back to the woman's body. He didn't know who she was. He didn't know her name or the reason she had attacked him. Even so, something in the air felt wrong, as if the story of that enemy had ended long before her sword had fallen.
He took a step forward. He considered using Dark Wisdom to harvest the abilities he had observed, but the thought stopped when the air trembled.
An invisible current swept through the field, a long, ancient breath, almost human. In front of them, light began to condense, and a figure materialized above the ashes. First came the outline of a white dress, then the body of a young girl, and finally, hair that shimmered with every color of the rainbow.
Hans tensed at the same time as Satoru. The figure floated a few meters above the ground, translucent and calm, as if reality itself struggled to hold her shape.
For a moment, Satoru didn't understand what he was seeing. Then, memory caught up.
The Dragon Goddess. Akon Kagura.
The air grew heavy. Satoru took a step back, and his body reacted on instinct: his skin paled until it was almost translucent, the temperature dropped within an invisible radius, and the shadows quivered around him. His blue eyes lit up like liquid gemstones, releasing faint sparks into the air. It was the beginning of the return—he knew his human limits would not be enough to face the being before him.
And then, everything stopped.
The power broke like a tense thread. The light went out. His skin regained its human tone. Silence returned, and in the emptiness, only a cold, helpless sensation remained.
Satoru opened his eyes, astonished. He looked at his hands—the skin still warm, the breath that shouldn't exist still leaving his lips.
"What…?" he murmured, barely audible.
Hans turned toward him, confused, but his voice never came.
Akon, however, wasn't looking at them. She didn't see them. She was kneeling beside Mito's lifeless body, her small hands trembling over the charred ground. Her childish face showed a sadness far too ancient for that form.
"I made a mistake…" she whispered.
It was a confession with no audience. Her voice held no anger, only exhaustion. She looked up at the stars, her lips trembling with a broken smile.
"From the very beginning… I did everything wrong."
Satoru listened, unable to understand.
Akon continued, her voice barely rising. "When I saw your level, I thought we had a chance…" Her eyes turned to Mito. "With enough preparation, a level 125 opponent wouldn't have been impossible for her to defeat."
Her body shivered, as if her own words wounded her. "But you… you don't belong to this world. The rules of your power follow different laws, disconnected from the system I built."
For a moment, her eyes met Satoru's. There was no hatred or fear in them—only confusion.
"You are a fracture in creation. A living contradiction." Her voice cracked, but she continued speaking. "I didn't even understand what you were until it was already too late."
The air grew denser, not because of magic, but because of the weight of what those words implied. Hans, on guard, took an instinctive step forward.
"My lord, step back."
Satoru didn't answer. He was still staring at his hands, and in his abdomen, the wound left by Mito glowed faintly. A pulse of energy, barely perceptible, ran through the cut.
"I…" he murmured, disbelief in his voice. "I can't transform back…"
The shock in his tone froze Hans. It was the first time he had ever heard his master falter.
Akon looked at him, weary. "That was part of the plan," she said coldly. "To seal your body. To give her a chance."
Her words hung in the air like a verdict.
Satoru raised his head, stunned. But before he could speak, Akon added, "You never even noticed. Not the seal… nor the rest."
"The… rest?" he asked, his voice barely a thread.
Akon was angry—how cruel the irony. Satoru hadn't noticed what she had done because the difference between them was so vast that he didn't even need to fight seriously to defeat Mito.
Her mistake had brought this. Not only had the one she loved most died, but now her only companion as well. Both killed by the same hands.
Akon turned her gaze away, disgusted by her own explanation. "It doesn't matter anymore," she muttered. "None of it does."
What happened to this world no longer concerned her.
The glow of her body began to fragment into specks of light. Her silhouette dissolved into particles that rose slowly, like inverted ash. Her voice, however, did not waver.
"I don't know when I'll wake up… or how long it will take before the world burns. But listen, monster…"
The breeze stopped.
"When I return… I'll kill you."
The threat was spoken with a serenity so pure that it hurt. It was the voice of a child, and of a god who had long since abandoned compassion.
And as she vanished completely, something fell to the ground.
A sword.
The metal rang against the ashes, clear and sharp, the only true sound in that dead place. Satoru didn't move. He stared at the weapon lying motionless on the burned ground, the faint blue reflection on its edge, and understood—though he didn't say it—that the end of this battle was not closure.
The silence that followed Akon's disappearance became unbearable. Satoru didn't move. The blue light of his eyes remained fixed on the void where the goddess had floated moments before, as if trying to comprehend something slipping from his grasp. Then he looked at his hands again and tried once more.
The color began to fade from his skin; the air temperature plummeted. Thin lines of bluish light ran beneath his veins, burning under the human flesh that no longer wanted to contain him. The power answered—but only halfway, as if something unseen held it back. His figure trembled, the air distorted… and then, everything stopped.
Nothing.
The flow broke like a cut breath. The aura went out, the cold receded, and Satoru remained standing.
"My body…" he whispered.
It wasn't a phrase, but a wound. He tried again. Once, twice, three times. The result was always the same—emptiness. The sensation of helplessness rose through his chest, a pressure not from the body, but from the mind.
A distant chorus of voices echoed across the field.
"Master!"
"Sir!"
"M-Master!"
Satoru didn't answer. He barely heard them. The sound of footsteps on the ashen ground grew clearer—Liza, Tama, and Pochi were running toward him, guided by the anxiety that had followed Hans's disappearance. But Satoru didn't see them. His gaze was fixed on his hands, on the body that no longer obeyed him.
"My body…" he repeated, his voice dropping lower each time.
His breathing grew uneven. The rational mind that had always kept him composed began to fracture under the weight of an emotion he couldn't suppress. Fear. Helplessness. Rage. It was the first time he had ever felt it so sharply. Never before—never—had he felt so insulted by existence itself.
The air changed. A freezing current swept through the field, draining color from the world. Hans stopped several meters away, every muscle tensing. He didn't dare move; instinct warned him that even one step closer could unleash something he wouldn't be able to contain.
Satoru's aura emerged—slow, heavy, a black tide devouring everything around him. The leafless trees bent beneath it, the ground cracked, and the dying embers vanished without smoke.
"My body!" His voice erupted with an inhuman resonance.
Darkness spread like a sea of death. Hans felt his heart race—not from magic, but from the primal instinct that screamed danger. The two beastkin girls didn't resist at all: Tama collapsed first, followed by Pochi, both unconscious beneath the crushing pressure.
Only Liza remained standing. She trembled, eyes wide in terror, every fiber of her body pleading for her to run.
A faint sound rose behind her, but Satoru didn't hear it. He clutched his head in both hands, fingers digging into his hair as the darkness swallowed him. His aura grew thicker, a silent roar of power expanding without end.
Then—a small sound, a touch. Warm hands grabbed his arms.
"Satoru!" Liza cried, her voice breaking between fear and desperation.
The contact was enough. The distraction triggered his mental immunity, closing the chaotic surge of emotion. The darkness halted. Air returned. The pressure vanished. Satoru blinked. The vibration of his aura dispersed into a mist that faded with the wind.
Hans remained on alert, his pulse still racing. The two girls lay unconscious, breathing weakly. Satoru stood silent, forcing calm into his breath. He looked down at Liza—she still held his arms, drenched in sweat, her eyes glassy. Her tail twitched uncontrollably, the fear etched into every movement.
For a moment, no one spoke. Only the wind moved, brushing through the blackened earth.
The silence that followed was heavy. The last embers had gone out completely, and the metallic scent of blood replaced the smell of ash. Hans and Liza stayed near, watching every movement of their master, both breathing with difficulty.
Satoru stood upright, his eyes unfocused, staring at a point that didn't exist. For the first time in a very long while, his mind processed no data, no possibilities—only one sensation: fatigue.
It was Liza who broke the stillness.
"T-that's…" she whispered, incredulous.
Her gaze fell on Satoru's body. His clothes had been completely destroyed, the fabric burned and torn, streaked with black marks and deep slashes across his torso and limbs. The luminous wound Mito had carved into his abdomen remained open. It wasn't minor: the charred flesh and blackened edges showed that holy energy had passed straight through him.
Satoru followed her gaze. It took him a few seconds to process it. Then, slowly, he lowered his hand to his stomach. A dark liquid slid between his fingers.
Blood.
For a moment he said nothing. He simply stared, bewildered.
Hans took a cautious step closer, uncertain whether to speak. "My lord…?"
Satoru raised his hand, looking at the blood in his palm. It was warm, thick, human.
His thoughts began to turn rapidly. He calculated the time since the end of the battle, the regeneration protocols, the passive enchantments, the amount of energy that should have restored him by now. The wound should have been gone minutes ago.
And yet, it remained.
A sudden realization cut through his thoughts. He pressed a hand against his chest, tracing his own flow of energy.
Nothing had changed. His HP was still exactly where it had been after the fight—an even eighty percent. The same with his MP. Static values.
His throat tightened. He tried to activate manual regeneration, forcing the flow—but nothing happened.
Akon had told him she'd done something else to his body. Now he understood.
His passive regeneration was sealed.
A faint tremor ran through him, though this time it came not from rage, but from understanding. His body felt heavier than before, and that sensation was new—uncomfortable. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt like this: weak.
Liza called out again, her voice closer now, soft but strained, the tone one uses to calm a wounded animal.
"Master… you should rest."
Satoru didn't reply. His breathing became slow, mechanical. He lifted his hand and made a simple, familiar gesture—a command he had performed countless times before.
A mental order followed.
Nothing happened.
The invisible space of his inventory didn't open.
He tried again. No response.
The pressure in his chest deepened. The seal wasn't just restraining his body—it had disconnected him from everything else. Without access to his inventory, he was isolated, cut off from the resources that defined him.
Hans noticed.
The ninja had his own dimensional space, and he recognized the motion immediately. "I see," he said quietly. "My lord, please allow us to find a place for you to rest."
Satoru looked up. His face showed neither anger nor doubt—only emptiness. He nodded slowly, wordless.
Hans gestured to Liza. She met his eyes, still frightened, but understood and obeyed.
When they walked away together, Satoru remained alone, staring at the blood staining his hands. The blue light in his eyes had dimmed slightly, as if even its glow refused to reflect him.
He felt no pain. He felt nothing.
And yet, for the first time since awakening in this world, he truly felt wounded.
***
Hans and Liza walked in silence. The forest, blackened by fire, still smelled of iron and scorched earth. In the distance, the night sky looked veiled in dust. Liza glanced at the bodies of Tama and Pochi lying on the ground. Before she could stop, she heard Hans's voice.
"They're fine," he said calmly, without turning back. "There's something more important now."
She nodded and followed him. When they reached an area where the trees still stood upright, Hans chose one, measured its thickness with his eyes, and cut it down in a single clean motion. The trunk fell with a hollow crack.
"What can I do?" Liza asked, her voice lower than usual.
Hans didn't answer immediately. He looked up at the stars for a moment, the edge of his mask faintly visible under the pale light.
If he was honest with himself, he had never thought much about Liza or the girls. They were part of the group, yes, but until now he had seen them only as useful tools for maintaining his master's human façade. Functional ornaments. He felt neither disdain nor fondness, only indifference.
But now, the image of that girl crossing the darkness to calm the most feared being he knew made him hesitate. He, with all his preparation, had felt only fear. She, on the other hand, had faced him—not with power, but with will. And that, he thought, deserved respect.
Without looking away from the sky, he spoke. "I don't know all the details," he said quietly, his tone steady but carrying weight, "but our lord needs support." Then he turned to her. "I'm entrusting this to you."
Liza didn't need further explanation. Her eyes hardened, and she nodded without a word.
Hans accessed his inventory and handed her a small jar of ointment, bandages, a canteen, and a clean cloth. Then he lifted the trunk onto his shoulder. "I'll give you as much time as you need. I'll watch the perimeter."
Liza watched him leave until he disappeared among the trees. Then she drew a slow breath and returned to where her master waited.
***
Satoru was seated on the makeshift log, his back straight and his eyes fixed on the ground. His body still stained the earth with a thin line of dark blood. He didn't speak when Liza approached.
She observed him for a moment, trying to gauge his state, then knelt in front of him. "Allow me to clean your wounds, Master," she said softly.
Satoru looked at her from the corner of his eye, then turned his gaze away.
Liza uncapped the canteen, dampened the cloth, and began to wipe carefully. The cold water carried away the blood and soot, revealing the edges of the cuts. The wounds remained open, but what disturbed her wasn't their depth—it was the intention behind them. She could feel it. Each mark told a story, every strike deliberate and filled with emotion. These weren't wounds from an ordinary battle; they were carved by hatred and vengeance, by someone who had wanted to destroy, not to win.
Liza swallowed hard. She couldn't imagine what kind of history lay between those two. It shouldn't have been possible for anyone to move with injuries like these, yet her master simply ignored them.
As she cleaned, memories surfaced—small things she had always noticed but never said aloud. The way he barely blinked, the unnatural calm in his eyes, how he seemed more like a statue lost in thought than a living man. Even his inhuman beauty, which she had glimpsed that one time without his hood, was something she could never forget.
She had started to suspect long ago that he wasn't human. But that idea had never frightened her.
Liza was eighteen. She had been a slave for a long time and had met many kinds of people. Satoru was the first master who had treated her like a person. He had given her and the girls enough food to be full, clothes to keep them warm, and even lessons on how to survive.
He had given them names. He had given them identity.
He didn't use gentle words, but his actions were enough.
His power was another thing she admired—not because of its scale, but because of how he carried himself with it. Satoru's presence commanded respect, never contempt. He spoke to nobles and slaves in the same tone: calm, measured, dignified.
That was what made him different.
And that was why she admired him.
As she passed the cloth across his abdomen, memories of her past returned: the fall of her tribe, her father's surrender, the emptiness in his eyes. That same emptiness was now reflected in her master's face.
Her hand trembled. Tears began to fall before she could stop them.
She didn't even know why she was crying.
Maybe it was compassion. Maybe helplessness. Or maybe it was the understanding that even someone as powerful as her master could still break.
Satoru lifted his gaze. His blue eyes met hers, silent, unreadable.
Liza looked away quickly, embarrassed, wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand. She didn't know what to say.
The wind swept through, lifting traces of ash from the ground. Satoru kept his eyes on her, his expression unreadable, but with something that almost resembled doubt.
"I don't understand," he said at last, his voice low.
The phrase hung between them with no answer.
And so, beneath the gray and silent sky of the burned forest, a god and a slave shared the same confusion—the uncertainty of what to do with the humanity that still remained within them.