A silence so sharp it felt like the world held its breath.
Void gathered in Simon's blade, a cold stillness that made the cavern feel like a tomb. Opposite him, Orba's mana boiled like a storm ready to swallow mountains.
Both of them moved.
One step forward.
One breath.
One heartbeat.
And everything exploded.
Impact Without Sound
Orba's magic surged first — black currents twisting, bending reality around them like liquid shadow. It wasn't brute force; it was a refined devouring spell, a technique Orba had hidden for years. A technique meant to rip the power of kings and wear it like a crown.
"This power," Orba snarled, eyes blazing, "is my rightful throne!"
His stump pulsed with cursed runes — devour and claim. His remaining hand flared with abyssal flame — scorch and erase.
Two layers of death, simultaneous.
Once, it might have terrified Simon.
Once, before void. Before acceptance. Before becoming his own fate.
Simon stepped.
No emotion. No fear. No anger.
Just calculation — and remembering.
He remembered every flicker Orba ever revealed.
Every twitch of a runic finger.
Every faint energy pattern since Simon used the magic that permeated Orba's sword to injure Vala, ranked 42nd.
Simon had memorized it, studied it, hated it — and now used it.
That hatred had burnt away.
Only understanding remained.
There.
The spell structure slowed — not in reality but in his perception. Mana paths. Runes. Weak nodes.
A single unstable point where arrogance lived — where Orba believed no one would ever understand.
Simon's blade moved.
No wasted motion.
A surgeon inside a battlefield.
Shing.
He cut the rune core — delicate, lethal precision.
The devouring spell shattered like brittle glass.
Orba's eyes widened, choking in disbelief as his ultimate weapon unraveled into dust.
"You— what did you—?!"
"I watched," Simon replied, voice empty.
"And I remembered."
Orba's fury ignited. "You were nothing but a stray dog!"
"You fed me power," Simon corrected. "And expected me to starve."
Simon shifted. Another cut — faster than panic, colder than reason.
The blade cleaved through Orba's left leg.
THUD.
Orba crashed onto one knee, the stone cracking. His eyes shook — part shock, part horror, part betrayal he didn't deserve to feel.
"You can't— you CAN'T— regenerate fast enough," Simon murmured.
Amujamu pulsed — runes on its metal licking the air like a hungry serpent. The demon-metal blade hummed, sealing flesh, delaying recovery.
Orba growled. "You… bastard—!"
Slice.
Simon severed Orba's right shoulder. Bone split, flesh tore, sparks of abyssal energy spilled like embers.
A raw cry tore from Orba's throat.
Simon didn't flinch. Didn't blink. The void inside him breathed, steady as a heartbeat, quiet as snowfall.
"You think you're calm?" Orba rasped. "You're EMPTY!"
"Yes."
He didn't fight the accusation. It wasn't insult — it was truth. Void. Precision. Liberation from fear, guilt, doubt.
He stepped again.
Slash.
A line of blood opened across Orba's waist. A precise cut to disrupt core channels — stopping his demonic regeneration deeper than flesh.
Orba gasped, breath rattling.
"You monster…"
"Correct," Simon said softly.
The next blow struck Orba's right eye.
A clean downward pierce.
Orba screamed, clawing at the socket, purple fire erupting around him. "I RAISED YOU! I OWN YOU!"
"No."
Simon lifted Amujamu like a quiet sentence. "You shaped me to consume me. But I am the one consuming you."
Orba's remaining eye widened. Terror, pure and ancient, washed over him — terror only predators feel when prey evolves into something that hunts back.
Simon drove the blade forward.
Straight through Orba's solar plexus — the demon heart-root.
SHUNK.
Orba choked, breath gurgling. Black blood spilled thick down the blade.
He trembled, body jerking, power unraveling like threads snapping.
"You… you think this… makes you strong…?" Orba spat, foam and blood mixing. "You're still nothing. A forgotten orphan. A stolen soul. Trash…"
Simon didn't blink.
Insults meant nothing to void.
"You spent years waiting to devour me," Simon answered, voice soft, almost gentle.
"I spent years waiting to stop being afraid."
Orba coughed harder, collapsing onto his remaining knee, wheezing like a dying beast.
"You will never belong," Orba hissed.
"No kingdom. No place. No name."
Simon pulled the blade free slowly. Blood rained.
"I belong to myself."
Void swelled — not to shout, nor roar, but to stand. Still, unshakable, inevitable.
Orba slumped forward, face hitting stone. His voice decayed into a hateful whisper — venom thick even in death.
"You… empty… filth… I curse you… may the abyss… devour your soul…"
Simon's fingers relaxed on the hilt.
His breathing stayed level.
His expression didn't change.
He spoke only one thing — a quiet truth, the softest verdict of all.
"It already did."
The light in Orba's eye died.
Silence returned — deeper than before.
Simon stood over the corpse that once called itself his maker, and felt…
Nothing.
Not relief.
Not triumph.
Not grief.
Just stillness.
Void didn't celebrate.
Void didn't mourn.
He wiped the blade. Turned. Walked.
No dramatic farewell.
No ritual.
No last look.
Orba deserved none.
The abyss had given Simon a truth:
When you stop waiting to be saved, you become unstoppable.
And Simon — reborn by his own will — stepped forward as the world shifted around him, destiny trembling like a curtain about to fall.
---
The walk back to Orba's domain felt… quiet.
No triumph followed Simon's steps.
No shaking adrenaline.
No voice celebrating victory.
Just the steady echo of boots on stone and the faint scent of abyssal iron. The fortress rose ahead — spires like jagged teeth piercing a sky that never knew sunlight. Walls carved with runes that hummed with power. A throne carved for cruelty, not rule.
He crossed the obsidian gate.
Guards bowed instantly — instinct, not loyalty. They smelled the aura. They felt the void.
They knew something ancient had shifted.
Simon didn't speak to them.
Did not acknowledge them.
He walked past like a shadow given shape.
Inside the audience hall, Eras waited.
Tall, thin, posture respectful yet spine straight. Skin pale-blue like glaciers under moonlight. Silver hair cascading to shoulders. He looked more scholar than warrior, but eyes sharp — too sharp for just a servant.
Orba had chosen him for a reason: loyalty disguised as servitude, intellect disguised as obedience.
He bowed the instant Simon entered.
"Welcome ba—"
"I killed Orba."
Simon said it before Eras' sentence could finish. No ceremony. No cloak of diplomacy. No hesitation.
Just truth, dropped like a blade.
Eras' eyes widened — not with fear, not with grief, but with calculation. A flicker of shock, then stillness. His breathing did not spike. His body did not tremble.
He had expected this day.
He simply didn't expect it today.
"…I see."
Simon walked forward, boots echoing in the silence. He didn't slow. Didn't wait. He sat on the abyssal throne like someone who had been born in it, not someone who stole it. Back straight. Eyes forward.
"I am taking his rank," Simon continued.
"Ninth Demon King — Executioner Seat."
He rested his hand on Amujamu's hilt.
"I am human. If that offends you, leave."
No anger. No taunting challenge. Just a flat instruction.
Eras didn't move. His head lowered deeper — not forced obedience, but deliberate submission.
"Congratulations," Eras said calmly. "I recognize your right."
Simon blinked once. Not surprise… but recalculation. He had expected resistance — maybe betrayal, maybe flight. Something. But Eras' tone held neither fear nor reluctance. Only sincerity sharpened by reason.
"You accept a human as your king?" Simon asked.
"I accept strength and clarity," Eras replied. "Orba ruled through paranoia. You rule through stillness. Silence can inspire greater terror than rage."
Simon wasn't sure if that was a compliment or warning.
Eras continued softly, "I do not serve blood. I serve inevitability."
Void stirred around Simon, like it recognized the word.
Inevitable.
"So be it," Simon murmured. "Serve, or walk away. You chose."
Eras nodded slowly. "I choose."
He stepped back — not beside the throne, but several paces behind. Not pretending equality. Not feigning pride. Simply accepting position as easily as breathing.
Cold wind drifted across the throne room. Torches flickered purple. The fortress felt different — like the abyss itself was curious.
Simon closed his eyes briefly.
One victory behind him.
A throne beneath him.
A war in front of him.
He was not king because he desired power — but because someone had to become what the world feared.
The void did not celebrate.
But it approved.
Behind him, Eras whispered — barely audible, but the hall carried sound like confessions to a grave.
"…Good," he murmured. "A king who does not break things to feel powerful… but breaks only what stands in his way."
He smiled faintly.
"I prefer this to madness and cruelty."
His gaze lowered reverently.
"Welcome home, Your Eminence."
Simon did not respond.
He simply stared into the distant dark hall ahead, resting his hand on the sword that had rewritten fate.
He had killed a demon king.
Taken a throne.
Chosen a path no human had ever walked.
And there was no turning back.