The battlefield outside the Demon Lord's castle was a hellscape of fire, blood, and steel.
Corpses of both man and monster littered the torn earth. Smoke coiled into the sky, choking the air, while the clash of weapons and magic thundered across the field without pause. Neither side held an advantage—victory hung just out of reach for both.
Three heavenly beasts fought at the heart of the storm.
The white lion, cloaked in golden flames, let out a roar that shook the heavens. Its divine fire scorched through waves of lesser demons, yet it was soon met by a hulking demon general clad in blackened armor, wielding a bloodstained axe the size of a tree. The two collided with a force that cracked the ground, their power shaking the battlefield as they tore into one another without mercy.
Above, the sapphire-scaled dragon whipped through the smoke-filled skies, trailing thunderclouds in its wake. Bolts of lightning rained down with every flap of its wings. But even the skies were not safe, for a winged demon general with obsidian feathers and a spear of radiating dark energy rose to meet it, matching speed for speed, strike for strike. Their aerial duel became a deadly storm of light and darkness, flaring above the battlefield like a second war in the clouds.
On the ground, the silver-clad warrior—beast in human form—fought in a dance of blades and fury. Every movement was precise, every strike deadly. But it wasn't alone. Another demon general emerged from the smoke slender, sharp-eyed, with twin swords that shimmered with cursed magic. They clashed in a blur of steel and footwork, neither giving an inch. Sparks flew. Wounds were traded. Neither fell.
Around them, human soldiers and demonspawn battled in a tide of chaos. Arrows flew, spells erupted, screams rose and fell. The field was littered with the wounded and the dead, but neither side broke. The humans held their ground with grit and faith. The demons fought with hatred and anger.
No side was winning. No side was losing.
The battle had become a test of endurance—of who would break first. And as the sun dipped lower, casting a deep red light across the battlefield, the war raged on with no end in sight.
While the war outside raged on, the throne room inside the Demon Lord's castle had fallen into an unnatural silence.
The Hero, glowing with golden divine light, stood with a sword in hand. Across from him, the Demon Lord shimmered with a deep purple aura, his power thick and suffocating. They were just inches apart two legends on the brink of a world-shaking battle.
But neither moved.
It wasn't hesitation that kept them still. It wasn't doubt.
It was something far worse – Fear.
A presence far stronger than either of them, weighed down the room like a crushing tide. Familiar. Unmistakable. Neither had forgotten it from the last time he had appeared. Neither had hoped to see him again.
The air split with a sudden, jagged sound.
A rift tore through space itself, like reality had been slashed open with invisible claws. From it stepped a man—tall, composed, and dressed in a perfectly fitted dark suit, the fabric unruffled as if untouched by the chaos of the world. A party mask covered the upper half of his face, adding a surreal, almost mocking edge to his arrival.
His posture was relaxed, but the room reacted to him as if gravity itself had shifted. Both the Hero and the Demon Lord felt it—the crushing aura of a force beyond them, beyond good or evil, order or chaos.
Beside him, a woman emerged in a maid uniform, face expressionless, movements silent. But even in her stillness, danger radiated off her like heat from a flame.
The man looked around the room—not with curiosity, but with a quiet certainty, like he already knew how everything would end.
He took a single step forward.
Neither the Hero nor the Demon Lord moved. They couldn't.
Because now, this was no longer their battlefield.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he bowed his head slightly—as if greeting old acquaintances.
"Hello, Hero. Demon Lord," he said, voice smooth and composed. "As both of you know... but allow me to repeat myself—my name is Phantom."
The name echoed like a bell in a graveyard—soft, but unforgettable.
He lifted his head, gaze hidden behind the mask, and let out a sigh, more tired than angry.
"What is all this?" he asked, his voice low. "The last time I met each of you, I told you clearly—you weren't strong enough to give me the kind of battle I wanted. The clash of legends. Hero versus Demon Lord... and yet, here we are."
As he spoke, his voice grew heavier. The floor vibrated. The walls trembled. The room seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his presence, as if even the stone itself feared what would follow.
The Hero, already pale and shaking, forced himself to speak.
"I've become stronger than before," he said. "I'm certain I can defeat the Demon Lord. Even the heavens sent me a sign—Saying I'm ready."
The Demon Lord snarled softly, his tone defensive.
"He attacked first. I simply retaliated."
Phantom tilted his head, slowly.
Silence followed. A silence so thick it pressed against their skin like cold iron.
And in that silence, they both realized—they had no control over what came next.
Phantom turned his head toward the Hero.
"You," he said, voice calm yet razor-sharp. "You claim to have grown stronger. In what way?"
The Hero opened his mouth—but no words came. His mind raced, searching for proof, for evidence, for anything. But what could he show? His trembling hand clenched at his side, unable to speak under the weight of Phantom's gaze.
Phantom didn't wait for an answer.
With a flick of his wrist, he summoned something impossible.
A book appeared in his hand—a grimoire unlike any seen in centuries. Its cover shimmered with divine gold, etched in glowing runes. Chains wrapped tightly around it, pulsing faintly as if alive. The air around it seemed to bend.
The Hero's eyes widened.
The Demon Lord took an involuntary step back.
"Do you know what this is?" Phantom asked, holding the chained grimoire between two fingers.
Neither answered.
"This," he said, with a trace of amusement, "is a God-tier Grimoire. A world treasure. One of the rarest objects to ever exist." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "It's a One time use. One spell. One miracle."
Then his voice dropped.
"Its power? Existence Erasure."
A chill swept through the room. Even the air stopped moving.
"One target," Phantom continued. "One name. And they're not just killed. They're removed. Forgotten. As if they were never born."