Previously...
The collision tore the ground open.
Literally. The stone foundation beneath them split into jagged trenches as the force of the impact sent shockwaves spiraling outward. Trees in the distance cracked in half. Air warped. The friction from their weapons meeting didn't spark—it combusted, momentarily igniting the space between them into a twisting spiral of red and black flame.
Dark was flung backward, skidding across the training arena, his boots digging trenches into the stone floor.
His lungs were burning.
And Igor hadn't even followed up yet.
Dark: (grinning, wild) Oh yeah...
Dark lowered himself into a crouch, licking blood off his lips as Kyuketsu morphed into a jagged cleaver—adapted for brute force.
Dark: Let's fucking dance.
...
Present:
The morning sun had long forgotten them.
Inside the ruined training gym, silence reigned—not the kind of silence that came after a battle, but the kind that signaled something worse was about to begin. Dust hovered in the air like suspended death. The floor was cracked, blood already painted across the stone. And in the center of it all—two figures, still standing.
Dark: (raising his voice) COME ON, IGOR!
The air didn't respond. But the world did.
Igor lifted his greatsword, God Killer, and shifted his stance. It wasn't flashy—no dramatic twirls or arrogant flourishes. Just precision. Authority. His body faced forward, but his left leg slid slightly behind him. Both hands gripped the sword, raised overhead, the blade angled perfectly downward at Dark. His entire form echoed the pose of a temple guardian—sacred, unreadable, terrifying.
Opposite him, Dark exhaled slowly.
No fear. Just adrenaline.
He reached behind, hand cutting into a ripple of spatial distortion as he pulled forth Kyuketsu—its form now stretched and morphed into a long, black scythe. The weapon radiated menace, its curved blade humming with hungry pressure. Veins of red shimmered beneath its surface like molten blood sealed inside a cursed artifact.
Dark twirled it once and planted one foot forward, his other heel barely grazing the ground. One hand raised, palm open, the other gripped the scythe behind him, blade tilted downward like a guillotine poised for judgment. A pose not of elegance—but of death mid-step.
Igor: (softly) My Emperor... you asked for my full power.
He dipped his head.
Igor: Forgive me for thinking you'd survive it.
A breeze stirred.
But it wasn't wind. It was calm. A pulse of absolute stillness. Even the dust in the air hesitated.
Then—
The world shattered.
Not with sound. With presence.
Igor's spiritual force detonated—not outwards, but downward. Reality buckled beneath his feet. The gym floor cracked into rings, walls bowed outward, the ceiling groaned, then collapsed entirely, slabs of enchanted stone flung skyward as if gravity itself fled his pressure. The arena was no longer a room. It was an open crater.
Dark didn't flinch. His body hovered—just inches above the fractured ground, held aloft by raw force alone. But his eyes narrowed.
Because something deeper just arrived.
This wasn't power.
This was authority.
The kind that silenced armies. The kind that made even stars hold their breath.
Igor: (lowering God Killer slightly) Are you prepared?
Dark: Y—
He never finished.
Because Igor was already in front of him.
Dark's eyes widened—just in time to feel the knuckles of Igor's fist tear into his stomach.
It was a collapse.
His organs folded inward. Blood surged up his throat and sprayed from his mouth before he even registered the impact. His body sailed across the crater like a meteor, smashing through broken pillars and crashing into the far edge of the destroyed gym—embedding six meters deep into the stone wall.
Silence again.
Then—
Crack.
A single chunk of concrete slid off the embedded wall and hit the ground.
Dark's body convulsed once. He coughed—hard—blood and bile and heat pouring from his lips.
Dark: (thinking, blurred) ...What the fuck... just happened?
He fell forward, debris raining down behind him, skin torn, ribs crushed. His entire front was a horror show of bruises, internal bleeding, torn muscle and shattered bone.
He stood anyway.
Because pain wasn't new.
He wiped his mouth slowly, blood slicked across his palm, and let out a sharp breath as Kyuketsu reappeared in his hand. Still in scythe form—still screaming for violence.
Dark: (thinking) I always knew he held back when we first fought.
Dark: (thinking) But this...? This is something else.
He took one step forward. Then another.
Dark: (thinking) The strongest swordsman ever born. Not in this world. Not in this timeline. In existence.
Dark: (thinking) Igor.
His first Shadow.
The one who should've killed him in that frozen cathedral.
Dark: (low, voice raw) I don't care if I can't beat you.
Dark: (grinning) I'm still gonna swing.
From across the battlefield, Igor didn't move.
Not visibly.
But he arrived again—one second distant, the next second in front of Dark. The space between wasn't traveled. It was removed.
He leaned in, voice just above a whisper.
Igor: (coldly) Understand this...
Igor: I have never known defeat.
Dark's pupils narrowed to slits.
But his grin didn't fade.
He planted his heel down, Kyuketsu's scythe form held low, and let his body rise with the surge of pressure humming through his bones. That hit had nearly caved his soul in—and yet, something inside him roared louder than the pain.
His blood was boiling.
No, not metaphorically. Literally. The scythe in his hand pulsed in rhythm with the chaotic, unstable thrum of his veins—each beat an explosion of inner violence. His wounds tried to close, but the regeneration wasn't elegant anymore. It was jagged. Frantic. His ribcage cracked as it reformed, muscles twisted as they stitched, organs realigned with vicious spasms.
He spit blood.
Then lunged.
Their second collision tore the sky.
Dark reached Igor with a spin, dragging the full length of the scythe upward from ground to chin—aiming to cleave vertically through the Sword God. But Igor's blade came down in a flash, meeting Kyuketsu in a diagonal intercept that stopped the strike—not with defense, but with dissection.
Kyuketsu's edge cracked.
Just slightly.
Igor slid forward with the block, pushing Dark mid-air while grinding their weapons together. Sparks shot between them like horizontal lightning. The sheer force of the pressure peeled skin from Dark's fingers—his palm split open, spraying fresh blood across Igor's helm.
And Igor didn't stop.
He twisted his wrists and slammed the flat of God Killer into Dark's shoulder—not to slice, but to crush.
And it did.
Dark's entire left arm folded in the wrong direction—shoulder shattered, humerus bone snapping clean in half. The limb sagged.
But before Dark could fall—
Igor stepped into him again.
A reverse elbow into Dark's jaw.
A downward kick into his collarbone.
A pivoting backslash that slashed across Dark's chest and stomach—
Blood exploded outward in a full-circle spray.
Dark flew back, but didn't hit the wall this time.
He twisted mid-air, flipping once, and slammed Kyuketsu into the ground mid-spin, stopping himself with a skid that carved a massive trench through the stone.
He coughed, breath wild—but his eyes burned.
Dark: (wiping his mouth) ...You're enjoying this.
Igor walked forward slowly, the Knight in Blood Red armor now fully awakened, steam rising off his body, sword dragging behind him with a weight that bent the stone.
Igor: (calmly) You always told me not to hold back. That no one improves from mercy.
Igor: So today...
He raised God Killer again.
Igor: You will suffer.
And Dark laughed.
A low, hoarse chuckle that came from the deepest, most damaged part of him. His arm hung useless, his torso was carved open like a dissected beast, and his legs were barely holding shape.
But he still grinned.
Dark: Good...
Dark: Then watch what a suffering man can become.
And he vanished.
This time, his movement broke the sound barrier twice in one breath. The gym trembled. The wind screamed. Dark appeared behind Igor, arm limp, dragging Kyuketsu with his right hand—then flipped the scythe upward from below.
It cut through the air with a thunderous wail.
Igor ducked—but not in time. The blade missed his neck by a centimeter but ripped through his mantle and shoulder instead, carving half his pauldron clean off, and splitting open the skin beneath. Blood jetted from the tear in perfect arcs.
But Igor spun immediately—his counter strike deliberate.
God Killer came around with a full-body rotation, aiming to cut Dark in half.
Dark blocked with Kyuketsu—but the force tore his body off the ground.
The impact rang out like the collapse of a cathedral. Dark flew backward—no control this time—his back slamming into the edge of the arena wall, then tumbling into the crater left behind from their earlier clash.
But he stood again.
He kept standing.
His broken left arm twitched, regenerated, then snapped back into place with a sickening crunch. His ribs reset violently. His skin crawled with unstable aura—too fast to heal neatly.
Dark: (breathing heavy) C'mon, Igor...
Dark: If you're the greatest...
Dark: Then show me something no one in history's ever survived.
And Igor... smiled.
For the first time in a thousand years.
Then the ground beneath him vanished.
Not cracked. Not shattered. Just gone—consumed by the pressure now building in the core of his being.
His next move would not be a sword swing.
It would be a lesson.
And only one of them would walk away conscious.
The gym was already in ruins, but now the air itself cracked.
Igor stood motionless—one breath, one heartbeat—before his body shifted.
Not teleported. Not dashed. It was something beyond speed.
Dark's eyes twitched as he felt the absence before the presence.
Igor's figure blurred into streaks of black-red energy, the aura around him erupting into layers. Not flames. Not lightning. But weight. Stacked intent. Every movement radiated a precision meant only for one thing.
Erasure.
Igor lowered God Killer to his side, the edge nearly scraping the ruined floor. Then he moved it horizontally, like drawing a curtain across existence itself. His left hand opened slightly, and from it, three symbols rose—no language, no runes. Just raw purpose etched in shape.
Dark's instincts screamed, but his body wouldn't budge.
The gym, the stone, the walls, the sky—everything went dim.
Not darker.
Less.
Igor's voice came—not from his mouth, but from somewhere deeper.
Igor: (resonating) Sōretsu... Enshō... Kengen.
The Killing Art had no name. It didn't need one. It was built for the absolute. The purest form of intent: to unmake.
God Killer lifted again—but this time, it wasn't a blade.
It was judgment.
His stance shifted again, slowly, beautifully—like watching the final motion of a divine puppet set free. One foot behind, body arched slightly to compress every ounce of force into a single instant. The blade began to hum, not in metal, but in blood. A soundless vibration that echoed in Dark's bones.
And then—
Igor moved.
But before the blade could descend—
Everything stopped.
There was no sound. Not even the echo of silence.
No motion. Not even the tremble of energy.
Not a freeze.
Not a pause.
A devouring.
The very concept of movement was stolen.
The particles in the air halted mid-float. The blood dripping from Dark's wounds hovered, mid-fall. The wind itself curled around Igor's blade like frozen ribbon, stilled and bound.
Dark's eyes were half-open. His breath halfway drawn. The veins in his neck visible—straining against the impossible. Kyuketsu's aura flickered one last time... then froze as well, like a frame caught in an eternal second.
The very concept of movement was stolen.
The particles in the air halted mid-float. The blood dripping from Dark's wounds hovered, mid-fall. The wind itself curled around Igor's blade like frozen ribbon, stilled and bound.
Dark's eyes were half-open. His breath halfway drawn. The veins in his neck visible—straining against the impossible. Kyuketsu's aura flickered one last time... then froze as well, like a frame caught in an eternal second.
A presence began to form behind Igor.
Not one that entered.
One that had always been there.
His shadow deepened. The world darkened—not by lack of light, but by erasure. As if reality itself bent its neck. Bent its knee. Bent its soul.
The shape rose slowly, calmly. No aura. No grand announcement. Just... presence. Like a scream in reverse. A ripple so ancient, it didn't make noise anymore—it simply devoured what dared exist too close.
Wearing a black and white kimono stitched with thread not of this world—cloth that seemed to bleed, then heal, then fade—the figure stood tall behind Igor, inches away. Chaos markings ran across his hands and legs in spirals, yet none repeated. Lines that danced like rivers carved through ancient bone. Blood-colored, like something that had crawled through centuries of corpses. His arms? More scripture than flesh. His legs? Like they'd walked through voids and brought some of it back with them.
Then came the face.
Six eyes.
Not all the same. The two at the center were unmistakable—deep crimson, dimmed, glowing like something that had seen gods and decided they weren't worth remembering. The two above? Smaller, watching from angled corners like predators in silence. And the bottom two? Carved into his cheekbones like they'd always been there. Observing from below. Judging. Waiting. All six blinked slowly, not in sync, but in rhythm with a language lost to reason.
His hair flowed back—sharp strands swept into a backwards crown of chaos. It was regal. Controlled. But still... wrong. The tips looked burnt, yet untouched. It shimmered, black tinted with veins of crimson that shifted depending on who dared stare. Like it remembered fire.
On his left ear, a single earring swayed—a fragment shaped like a broken clock-hand, wrapped in a chain that whispered movement. That earring had one meaning: Overcoming Death. Not defiance. Not survival.
Transcendence.
The kind of thing even Death wouldn't chase.
Across his face, the final touch: one symbol. Etched on his forehead in a language older than time, older than existence. It didn't glow. It breathed. A mark of chaos, a seal of Ryo, drawn in a way that no being, no realm, no reality ever managed to copy.
Because only one being was ever allowed to wear it.
Sukojo.
The Devourer Of All.
And he was smiling.
The air didn't return. The dust didn't fall. Time didn't resume.
But Igor... felt it.
His body didn't move. Not because he was frozen.
Because he wasn't allowed.
His knees trembled beneath the Blood Red armor. But they never fell. They couldn't. Sukojo's pressure didn't force you to kneel.
It made you wish you could.
That would've been mercy.
Sukojo raised his hand—casually, slowly—and placed it upon Igor's right pauldron.
Dark: (thinking, twitching) No...
The moment skin touched metal, the armor hissed. Then flaked. Then shattered. No fire. No heat.
Just... devouring.
God Killer's wielder—Igor, the undefeated swordsman, the knight no blade could touch—stood powerless as his armor turned to ash, softly disintegrating under the weight of a single palm.
Sukojo's hand now rested on the shoulder beneath.
Flesh to flesh.
His fingers slightly curled in, pressing—not to crush, but to remind.
Sukojo: (softly, calmly) I remember you.
He leaned forward.
His eyes—not the main ones, but the six—all locked onto Igor.
Sukojo: That blade of yours... was once raised at me.
Sukojo: So why do you kneel now?
And he walked to the side until he stood beside Igor.
—-
—-
Sukojo: Mm... no matter.
He turned his gaze toward Dark.
Barely a second passed. A flick of the eye. A flicker of disdain.
Dark: (war-torn battle cry) GGRRHHRAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!
He lunged forward, reckless, feral. His hand shot toward Sukojo's face—but Sukojo simply tilted his head to the right, letting Dark's palm graze the empty air beside him. His torso turned with calm precision. Then—
Sukojo's left elbow slid forward.
A light, almost lazy, strike to Dark's chest.
Dark's ribs shattered inward. Blood spewed from his mouth, nose, and even his eyes as the internal trauma surged up his throat. He collapsed midair before he even realized what happened.
Sukojo: Foolish brat.
Lifting his chin, his six eyes narrowed with a slow-burning glare. Two dominant, glowing red eyes in the center. Four others—two above, two below—angled like the corners of a cursed temple. Markings sprawled across his skin. Twisting, ancient, chaotic. Ryo Magic in its purest, vilest form.
Sukojo: So weak...
Sukojo: It's been what—a year? And this is the strength you've brought to greet me? Pathetic.
His right hand rested on Igor's armored shoulder, still calm, still motionless. But the steel beneath his palm crumbled into ash—decayed by sheer presence alone.
Dark stirred.
Slowly. Painfully.
Dark: Shut... the fuck... up.
Dark: You are NOT WELCOME in MY EMPIRE!!
He pushed himself up, grabbing Sukojo's leg for support. Clinging. Crawling. Straining. Sukojo didn't flinch. He simply caught Dark's wrist between two fingers and lifted him up—suspended him like a limp, bloodied ragdoll.
He turned his head.
Surrounding them now were villagers. Some stood frozen in place. Others half-kneeling behind ruined pillars and rubble. Every gaze was drawn toward him—not Dark. Him.
Villager 1: Is that... our Emperor?
Villager 2: There's no way...
Kid: C'mon, Emperor! You got this!!
Gasps followed. Several adults quickly rushed to silence the boy, placing hands over his mouth in panic.
But Sukojo had already moved.
In an instant, he vanished—then reappeared before the child.
Dark still dangled from his grip, beaten and bleeding. Sukojo lowered the boy's line of sight directly to Dark's face.
Sukojo: This... trash... "got this"?
Sukojo: Look closely, child. Look at him—and look at me.
Sukojo: HE got this?!
Sukojo: Have you lost your tiny little mind?
The villagers staggered back. Fear leaked from their expressions.
But the child... didn't blink.
He closed his eyes. Took a breath. Then slowly opened them again, steady.
Liam: My name is Liam.
Liam: And I will not allow you to spout this nonsense again. Leave. Now.
Sukojo: ...You're talking to me, brat?
Liam: Yes. You dyslexic, mentally unstable old man.
Silence.
Not dramatic silence.
Total silence.
No footsteps. No breathing. Even the wind held its breath.
Then—cracking laughter.
Sukojo dropped Dark to the ground like a used toy.
Sukojo: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!
Liam: What's so funny?
The laughter stopped.
Sukojo leaned forward and stared into the boy's eyes. No—through them. Past muscle. Past memory. Past time. Down to the soul. Liam's knees quivered but he held firm.
Sukojo: Insolent little insect.
Across the platform, a faint sound—
Movement.
Igor.
An inch. Then another.
He vanished.
Reappeared behind Sukojo with God Killer raised.
His eye-slit in the Blood-Red armor shone like the sun filtered through fresh gore.
Igor: (whispering) ...Sōretsu... Enshō... Kengen...
Everything blacked out.
—
The world turned black. A platform emerged—white, but fading into the abyss.
Igor stood alone.
No sword. No battlefield. No noise.
Only presence.
His blood-drenched armor, resembling an evolved Igris, radiated a noble violence. Refined. Royal. Unquestionable.
He looked directly at you.
Yes, you. The reader.
Igor: Greetings, reader.
Igor: My name is Igor. The Black Sun of Pandemonium.
Igor: Known also as the Blood-Red Knight. The Greatest Swordsman in Existence.
Igor: My blade, God Killer, is not merely a weapon. It is an extension of my domain.
Igor: And my swordsmanship—transcends this novel. Transcends the walls between your world and mine.
He raises a single hand.
Igor: I wield power built from a concept your science has not yet touched. Nano-Atoms.
Igor: You may ask, "What are Nano-Atoms?"
Igor: Allow me to educate you.
With a slow swipe of his hand, the black void cracks—revealing infinite, microscopic constellations beyond it.
Igor: A Nano-Atom is smaller than the smallest unit of your physics. It is not matter. It is not energy.
Igor: It is what predates both.
Igor: It exists beyond death, before birth, between possibility and impossibility. It is the fragment of a memory that creation itself forgot it ever had.
Igor: It is not tiny. It is too vast—compressed into an illusion of size.
He clenched his fist and the light bent around his fingers.
Igor: Within each Nano-Atom is everything that could ever be.
Igor: But there's more.
He raised two fingers.
Igor: To bind Nano-Atoms into a structure that can influence reality, I use the Vornyx Field.
Igor: Vornyx is not a law. It's not magic. It's not a system.
Igor: It is awareness.
Igor: When I swing my sword, I do not cut. I simply inform the Vornyx that your continued existence is unnecessary.
Igor: And so you vanish.
He stepped forward, and the white beneath his feet pulsed with ancient glyphs.
Igor: My sword, God Killer, bends to my will, and my will is informed by Vornyx-infused Nano-Atoms.
Igor: It is not a slash. It is truth. And truth cannot be blocked.
He looked up.
Igor: Now return to the story.
Igor: And watch... as even the Devourer fears.
The void of the meta-scene collapsed.
And just like that—
Back to the gym. Back to the battlefield.
Back to now.
Igor stood tall, blade overhead, eyes locked onto Sukojo. His stance hadn't shifted even an inch from before—but the air was completely different.
It was as if the laws had changed.
Time resumed.
Sukojo blinked once.
And in that blink—Igor swung.
Not just the God Killer, but the concept of it. The swing didn't travel across space. It erased space.
A crescent of anti-light cleaved the atmosphere—carving through the frozen remnants of the gym and the cratered ground, not burning it, not slicing it—but making it never have been.
The sound didn't come after. There was no sound.
Just a hole.
A clean gash across reality.
As if someone took a scalpel to existence and shaved off a moment.
Sukojo turned sideways, leaning so slightly, letting the strike miss him by what couldn't even be called millimeters—because space itself didn't exist between the blade and his body.
He leaned into unreality, skimming the border of deletion, and casually stepped back into the world.
Sukojo: That wasn't bad.
Sukojo: But I've devoured things far worse than annihilation.
Dark was still coughing blood on the floor.
Dark: (thinking) What the hell... did I just see...?
Liam didn't flinch.
Igor wasn't finished.
His next step cracked the ground—not from weight, but from definition. The world couldn't keep up with what he was.
His armor shifted. Glowed. Symbols in red bled along the plating.
And then—
He vanished.
Not teleported. Not sped. Just... gone.
A moment later—
Sukojo's left arm clanked to the ground.
Cleanly sliced.
He stared at it. Calm. Almost amused.
Sukojo: ...Huh.
It didn't bleed.
The limb didn't even rot.
It just wasn't his anymore.
Igor stood behind him again. Blade still extended. No smugness. No breathing. Just resolve.
Sukojo turned, all six eyes narrowing.
Sukojo: That swing... didn't cut me.
Sukojo: It removed the part of me that believed that arm was needed.
Igor: Correct.
Sukojo: You altered my conviction.
Igor: That is swordsmanship.
Igor stepped again.
Another swing.
This one, straight at the legs.
But Sukojo—
Sukojo slammed his bare foot into the concept of the swing.
Not the blade.
The thought of the swing.
And stopped it.
Like stepping on a dying god's prayer.
The energy exploded outward like compressed dimensions bursting.
The explosion was silent.
Because there were no rules left to describe what just happened.
Sukojo: Enough.
Dark's body was flung into the air just from the pressure between those two forces clashing.
Villagers in the distance collapsed to their knees.
Even the sky began to split—not from damage, but from debate. As if reality itself couldn't agree who was winning.
Sukojo's remaining hand reached out—and snapped his fingers.
That's when Liam moved.
He was already at Sukojo's feet.
Already raising a wooden stick.
Yes.
A literal stick.
Liam: Hey, freakshow.
He slammed it across Sukojo's ankle.
Nothing happened.
Not at first.
But Igor noticed it.
Sukojo's stance staggered. For one second. One impossible second.
The god flinched.
Sukojo: ...You...?
Liam grinned.
Liam: That stick? It's from a tree I planted with Dark when I was five.
Liam: It's bonded to him.
Liam: So when I swing it...
Liam: I'm swinging with the will of your Emperor.
Igor's eyes lit up.
Igor: Clever boy.
Liam: Damn right.
Sukojo's gaze snapped back to Igor.
But it was too late.
Igor whispered:
Igor: Zetsurō... Burai... Kaihō.
And the next swing—
Didn't land.
Because there was no swing.
There was only a world where Sukojo had never stood in that spot.
And yet...
Dark still felt his presence behind him.
Breathing.
Watching.
Tasting.
Sukojo's voice came again, from everywhere and nowhere, like a whisper running backwards through time.
Sukojo: Do you think... that was enough to remove me?
Igor's pupils narrowed.
Not in fear.
In calculation.
Dark: (thinking) What is this...? I felt it. The erasure. I saw it. There was no trace—so how...?
And then the shadows began to bleed.
Not form. Bleed.
The edge of the arena—what was left of it—began to rot from its corners. Stone peeled like skin. The soil groaned. Cracks formed not on the ground—but on the outline of the world.
Igor: This isn't resurrection.
Igor: He never left.
Sukojo's footstep echoed behind them again.
And yet no one moved.
Because he hadn't stepped.
There was no sound. No vibration.
Just the echo.
Of something that hadn't happened yet.
Dark turned—and Sukojo was walking past him.
His left arm... intact.
No blood.
No seam.
It was as if Igor's strike didn't matter.
But Igor knew better.
He'd erased it. He was sure.
That arm wasn't reformed.
It was borrowed.
Borrowed from a timeline where it was never lost.
A cheap trick.
Sukojo: (calm) If your strike truly mattered, I wouldn't need to cheat.
He paused mid-step.
Looked down at Liam.
Sukojo: But it did sting.
Liam stood his ground. His stick now smoldering with the residue of truth—it had left a scar on something that shouldn't even know scars.
Igor slowly lowered his blade.
Dark staggered forward, hand gripping his rib.
Dark: Enough, Sukojo...
Dark: Why are you here?
Sukojo: To remind you...
Sukojo turned, his six eyes dim and narrowed.
Sukojo: That I am never gone.
He gestured to the villagers watching in stunned silence.
Sukojo: They forget.
Sukojo: That the peace you're building... was only made possible because I'm allowing it.
Igor's fingers clenched the hilt of God Killer.
Sukojo: I devoured your enemies, devoured your rivals, devoured even the concepts that tried to rewrite you. You think any of this—your empire—was built by your strength alone?
Sukojo: No.
Sukojo: It was built on my shadow.
Dark didn't speak.
He stepped forward.
One limp step. Then another.
Until he stood toe-to-toe with the monster.
Dark: Then I'll build something strong enough...
Dark: ...to burn your shadow away.
Sukojo smiled.
A real one this time. Tired. Empty.
Sukojo: Then do it, Emperor.
Sukojo: But remember—
Sukojo's face leaned close. His breath, freezing.
Sukojo: Shadows don't burn.
They consume.
And with that—he vanished.
No sound. No swirl of wind. No effect.
He was just gone.
But the pressure remained.
The weight on every neck.
The dread in every breath.
The scent of iron still fresh in the air.
Igor stepped forward and turned to Dark.
Igor: My Emperor...
Dark didn't answer at first.
His body, broken and torn moments ago, was mending itself in real time—bones snapping back into place beneath the skin with sickening cracks, muscle knitting over ruptured veins in reverse, as though reality was replaying itself only for him. His chest rose. Then again. Then faster. Until he stood upright.
No magic spell. No healing chant.
Just will.
His left arm rotated once—stiff—but functioning. The blood on his face began to steam and dissolve, evaporating into the air. One last exhale blew the smoke away from his mouth.
Dark: ...We continue.
Igor said nothing—but slid one foot back, sword already raised. His stance, unchanged. Impeccable. Perfect.
God Killer was angled down now—tip pointed to the floor, two-handed grip—but Dark knew better. That meant one thing.
Igor would no longer aim to injure.
He would aim to end.
The crowd stepped back instinctively, ripples of tension snapping through the villagers. Even the shadows of the building began to retreat, as if afraid to remain in the presence of those two.
Liam tucked his stick into the back strap of his overalls and crossed his arms like a little general, watching from the side. His expression unreadable.
Dark took a single step forward.
Then vanished.
A shadow-blur zipped across the broken tiles, appearing in mid-air behind Igor with Kyuketsu already transformed—this time into a twin-bladed staff, curved like a crescent moon. He didn't announce anything. No war cry. Just pure assault.
Igor twisted.
God Killer rose.
And sliced.
Dark didn't dodge. He let the strike connect—but not directly. He angled Kyuketsu's inner crescent to catch the edge of God Killer, deflecting it mid-motion while twisting his entire body into a full-bodied rotational kick that sent a wave of kinetic pressure through Igor's plated armor.
Igor slid back, feet carving small grooves into the arena's broken surface.
He stopped. Smiled.
Then flickered.
Dark raised Kyuketsu just in time to intercept—barely.
The blow came down from above. Not vertical. Not horizontal. But diagonal—seventeen degrees off the center of his vision, a blind spot trained by Igor's years of absolute combat perfection. The strike bent the air. The very hue of color around them blurred. A streak of crimson flared between their weapons, and where the clash happened—
—sound didn't arrive.
Because it had nowhere to go.
A hollow implosion devoured the impact zone. Wind was sucked inward. A miniature black vortex spun outward from the lock, blowing both combatants apart like rag dolls. Dark backflipped mid-air and landed on one knee, dragging Kyuketsu like a claw across the stone. Igor glided in reverse, blade held at his side like a judgment.
Dark: (panting) He's adapting to me now...
Igor: (low) You told me to give my all.
Igor: Now you must evolve.
God Killer pulsed with a low hum—no magic, just memory. Every battle Igor had ever fought. Every opponent he had slain. Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Burned into his blade. A living archive of technique and death.
And Dark—
Dark smiled.
Kyuketsu extended, the twin blades unraveling into a spinal chain, vertebrae-like in shape, wrapping around his arm like a cursed ribbon.
Dark: Then let's evolve together.
Dark: Let's make this real.
The two didn't charge.
They collided.
This time there was no build-up. No steps. No prep.
Just steel and blood and brilliance.
God Killer arced upward in a vertical slash that wasn't aimed at Dark—but his shadow. Trying to cut his presence from the world.
Kyuketsu curled like a serpent and bit into the edge of the swing, dragging Dark along with it in a spinning, low-sweeping maneuver that aimed to trip Igor's balance.
Igor leapt.
Mid-air spin.
Reverse grip.
Downward slam.
God Killer hit the floor and split it.
A ripple traveled through the arena floor and exploded like an underground geyser behind Dark. Shards of stone rained into the air.
Dark ducked and vanished from under the debris—appearing behind Igor in a crouched stance, his hands glowing now, coated in some kind of black ichor.
He punched.
Igor didn't block.
He let the punch hit—and used the opening to bring his elbow into Dark's jaw so fast it dislocated his neck.
Dark hit the ground sideways, bones already snapping back.
Dark: (groaning, smiling) That's what I needed...
Igor raised God Killer again.
And they rushed each other.
No more conversation.
Just the symphony of death.
Every blow after that was painted in blood.
Every movement... precise chaos.
And every villager watching?
They didn't cheer.
They didn't flinch.
They simply watched.
And maybe that's all they could do.
Because this wasn't some duel of pride. It wasn't revenge, wasn't survival, wasn't even glory. This was preparation.
Dark had said it himself—"We continue."
And Igor understood exactly what that meant.
He wasn't training Dark to survive a fight.
He was training him to survive the impossible.
To survive Astaroth.
The next series of blows came faster—faster than anything prior, faster than light or thought or will. Kyuketsu's chain-form whipped around Igor's sword like a snare, but the God Killer responded like a mind of its own, snapping through it with perfect timing and rerouting every trap.
Dark: (thinking) I can't push him with swordplay alone...
I need to start thinking like him.
He launched back. Spun mid-air. Twisted the chain around his waist and kicked himself forward using the very momentum of Kyuketsu's retracting link.
Igor welcomed it.
Their blades met once more—then again, again, again.
But each time, God Killer shifted. It was subtle—almost microscopic. Igor was teaching through motion. Every parry, every change of grip, every footstep—lessons.
Not in how to win.
But in how to endure.
How to learn while bleeding.
And Dark, without realizing, was evolving in real time. Reading the angles before they came. Failing faster. Reacting smarter. There was no mercy in Igor's strikes, but there was purpose.
A deep, ancient one.
Dark flipped to the side, barely avoiding a thrust that would've impaled his ribs.
He landed. Eyes narrow.
Dark: You're doing this on purpose.
Igor didn't answer.
Dark: You're sharpening me...
So that when I face him again—when I face Astaroth—I'll be able to keep up. Maybe even—
Igor: Survive.
Dark paused.
Igor: My Emperor. Your power is immense. Boundless. That is not the issue.
Igor: But Astaroth is not an opponent who measures strength.
Igor: He measures spirit. Your essence. What's underneath all the rage, all the noise.
Igor lowered God Killer to his side, his eyes locked on Dark.
Igor: When he fights you... he won't hold back like me.
Dark: ...I know.
The wind passed again—this time gentle. Cooling the burns that hadn't yet healed. The blood on the floor slowly crusting. The distant sound of villagers returning to work, whispering about what they had just seen. A boy who stood against a god. A man who held nothing back. And a shadow that had once ended nations... now training the very soul who wanted to rebuild them.
Dark looked at his arm. At the bruises forming.
At the cuts that stung deeper than any weapon ever could.
Then back at Igor.
Dark: Again.
Igor didn't hesitate.
He raised God Killer.
And the training resumed.
To be continued.
End Of Arc 6 Chapter 10.