Previously:
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.
—
Present:
Igor stood tall—back straight, blade lowered, unwavering. His breathing was slow. Controlled. As if what had just happened hadn't cost him a single ounce of strength.
But Dark—
Dark was on his knees, his hand pressed into the cracked floor, coughing thick globs of blood onto the stone. The red was darker now—mixed with the black of bruised organs and internal rot, his body folding in on itself from the countless impacts he'd endured.
His hair clung to his face, soaked in sweat, blood, and dust. His arms trembled beneath the weight of exhaustion and raw damage. But his eyes—half-lidded, twitching—burned. Not with rage.
With focus.
Dark: (low) Awaken...
A soundless pulse escaped from him.
Not heard.
Felt.
The ground around him didn't shake—it bent. Tiles bulged upward, cracking apart as a windless force began to bleed from his skin like ink in water. Thin wisps at first. Then tendrils. Then whole rivers of shadow and crimson.
Ryo Magic.
The unspoken, forbidden magic.
The magic of the Devourer of All.
And it answered him.
Dark's body began to rise—not with grace, but like a corpse being puppeteered. Joints grinding. Muscles twitching. Veins glowing black from under his skin like demonic branches wrapping his flesh. His eyes rolled back once before snapping forward again—clearer. Sharper.
Igor: (thinking) Ryo... Magic... Again.
Dark's feet touched the floor fully, and in that exact moment, the entire battlefield became... quieter. Not peaceful. Just quieter. Like the air itself didn't want to make a sound.
Dark exhaled once—just once—and from his mouth poured vapor. Cold, like winter's breath, rising from warm blood.
Then he reached out his hand.
Kyuketsu responded.
Not summoned. Not called.
It arrived.
Materializing from the spiral of Ryo magic like it was born of it—long, jagged, beautiful. The black katana throbbed once in his hand. A pulse of energy shot from the tip and split the air open for a microsecond.
Dark didn't adjust his stance.
Didn't posture.
He just stared at Igor.
Dark: One more.
Igor slowly raised God Killer again—two hands gripping its ancient handle, the blade gleaming blood-red in the sunlight filtering through the cracks in the ruined roof.
Igor: As many as it takes, my Emperor.
The words had weight. No sarcasm. No training-room banter.
Just reverence.
And so they moved.
No signal. No shout.
Dark blurred from view. The floor beneath where he stood shattered into a crater of ash and debris. He came low—sliding, almost gliding—his katana held in a reverse grip, trailing Ryo behind it like a comet tail of pure chaos.
Igor responded instantly. His blade came down with impossible precision, intercepting Dark mid-dash. The clash—no longer a clash. It was a conversion. The impact didn't make sound—it displaced air. Light bent. Shadows flickered violently.
Dark pivoted mid-air, twisting his torso, knees scraping the floor as he avoided a downward arc from God Killer. Sparks—not from metal—erupted as Kyuketsu's edge cut through the pressure Igor's swing created. A visible crescent wave erupted behind them both, carving the wall in half.
The villagers watching ducked instinctively, shielding themselves from an attack that wasn't aimed at them—but still felt like it could erase them.
Igor's body spun once, fluid and calm, his cape of blood-stained shadows following in motion. He twirled God Killer in one hand mid-strike and brought it down again with the other, this time at Dark's head.
But Dark had already vanished—he reappeared just behind Igor, upside down, mid-flip.
Dark: (grinning, blood in his teeth) I'm still here.
Kyuketsu rotated with his body, and for a moment—just a moment—it turned into a dual-blade form, twin black katana edges locked together by threads of red aura.
He slashed once—twice—then once more, a triangle of motion so fast it left behind a burning shape in the air.
Igor ducked under the first, leaned back from the second, and caught the third with the flat of his blade, holding it mere inches from his face.
Igor: (low) Your form's cleaner now.
Dark: (grinning) Yours was always untouchable.
The words left his mouth as he planted a foot in the air—yes, in the air—and used it as leverage. The moment bent physics around it. With Ryo swirling around his body like a living entity, he launched himself forward again, but this time—
This time, he didn't aim for Igor.
He vanished mid-lunge.
Not teleported. Not stepped.
Erased.
The air snapped back like a vacuum had just been undone.
Igor turned slightly, sensing him behind.
But Dark came from the side.
Not his right. Not his left.
The side between sides. The space where perception thins and reality takes a breath.
Kyuketsu wasn't a blade anymore.
It was a lash.
A curved arch of condensed chaos, attached to his arm but moving like a whip—alive, howling, hunting.
Igor raised God Killer and blocked—but it wasn't a physical clash this time.
The Ryo in Kyuketsu's swing burned through the steel of sound itself, creating silence around the collision. A silence so thick, it felt like drowning in stillness.
Dark: (thinking) He's still following me. Even now...
Igor's feet dug into the ground as he held back the lash. He gritted his teeth—not out of effort, but out of exhilaration.
Igor: (thinking) Good. He's adjusting between each strike. Learning. Feeling. Not relying on instinct—but on discipline.
Then—
Dark suddenly let go of the blade.
Kyuketsu spun wildly into the air, losing form for a moment as if confused.
Igor: (thinking) What is he—
Dark's fists clenched. His nails dug into his palms.
He stepped into Igor's guard.
And punched.
A clean, straight blow to the sternum—not laced with Ryo. Not reinforced by magic. Just a raw, fast, well-timed punch.
It didn't move Igor, but it echoed.
A ripple went out—not visible, but undeniable.
Dark: (low) ...You said he'll test my spirit.
Dark: (gritting) Then let it be known—
Dark slammed his forehead against Igor's helmet.
Dark: I've got more than enough left to burn.
Kyuketsu returned to him instantly—reshaped, reborn. A short dagger now. Black. Buzzing. Ready.
He spun it once in his palm, reversed the grip, and kicked off Igor's chest into a backflip, landing in a crouch five meters away.
The villagers watching gasped again—not at the power, but at the madness of it. The sheer determination pouring out of every motion.
Even Igor lowered God Killer slightly.
Igor: (thinking) No... his fighting style isn't the same anymore.
Igor: (thinking) It's not the chaos of instinct... nor the coldness of logic...
Igor: (thinking) It's identity.
Igor stepped forward now, dragging the tip of God Killer along the ground, carving a thin scar into the stone beneath him.
Igor: (loud) My Emperor.
Dark: (standing tall again) I'm listening.
Igor raised God Killer—not in challenge, but in respect.
Igor: Then show me what's left when the world is against you.
Igor: Show me who Dark really is.
Dark stayed quiet for a moment, closing his eyes as he inhales deeply then exhales.
Dark: (low) ... Fine.
He exhales.
Boom.
Not a sound.
An absence.
The space Dark had occupied burst inward, collapsing like a crushed skull, and before even the sound of that void could echo—he was already behind Igor.
Kyuketsu, mid-form—part blade, part claw, part bleeding thought—came down like a decree from a god without mercy.
Igor turned—but it wasn't enough.
Not to stop it. Not anymore.
The strike cleaved straight across his shoulder and chestplate, not breaking armor—but erasing its logic. The very concept of "defense" was peeled away like the skin of a dead god, and behind it, pain—real, undeniable, earned—bloomed across Igor's body like fire laced with memory.
Igor: (thinking) He's no longer fighting to improve...
Igor: (thinking) ...he's fighting to destroy.
Dark didn't stop.
He surged again.
No chant. No charge-up. No pause.
Ryo Magic exploded out of him with no form, no permission. It devoured the air and replaced it with something denser than space, darker than death.
Dark's skin cracked—not from injury, but from sheer speed. Friction carved through his flesh, vapor trails of his own blood searing off his body. His eyes were glowing—not lit, but ignited. His movements went beyond instinct—he was pre-writing the fight before it happened.
He appeared above Igor, below him, behind, beside—within the same instant.
Not a blur. Not a flash.
Just presence—multiplied.
Dark: (low) No more limits.
The next strike didn't come from Kyuketsu.
It came from Dark's heel.
He drove it into Igor's temple, cracking the armor—not through force, but weight. Not mass, but will. The pressure behind it was suffocating.
Igor was sent flying.
But as he hit the air—
He vanished.
Because Dark was already there.
A fist to Igor's jaw.
A knee to Igor's ribs.
Elbow. Slash. Palm. Scream.
A combination not of technique, but expression—a fury born from decades of death, silence, rebirth, betrayal, hope, failure, and purpose.
The ground beneath them shattered, vaporizing into powder that never had time to fall.
Dark: (roaring) I WON'T BE MEASURED!!
His voice cracked reality—literally. The sky split open. The sun blinked.
Villagers were now being pushed back miles just by the aftershocks.
Raz, Malik, and Brak—already shielding the innocents.
Leona and Tier trying to stabilize the Dome.
Gilmuar... frozen.
Gilmuar: (low) If this keeps going, he'll destroy it all...
But then—
Dark blinked.
Once.
And teleported.
Not blink step. Not movement.
Just... relocation.
He grabbed Igor mid-blow and dragged them both into the sky—and then further.
—
The scene changed.
No clouds.
No stone.
No sky.
Just a plateau of blackened sand, somewhere far, far beyond the Empire. A ruin from a forgotten world, scorched into shape by wars older than memory. A crescent moon hung upside-down above them. Bones of extinct beasts scattered like leaves in a storm.
Igor landed on his feet, sliding across the scorched ground.
Dark stood still.
Ryo surrounded him like arms, shifting and reshaping like armor. His breathing was steady now, but his body was ruined. Torn skin. Fractured ribs. One eye closing.
And still—
He grinned.
Dark: Now we can go all out.
Igor lifted his greatsword slowly.
God Killer trembled—not in fear.
In anticipation.
Igor: (softly) As you command... my Emperor.
Their bodies vanished.
No dash, no blur—just gone.
Then—impact.
Somewhere behind the veil of time and space, sand exploded into molten glass, the temperature spiking past measurable physics as the first collision rippled through the plateau. The land didn't crack—it recoiled. The ground buckled upward in a desperate attempt to escape the clash taking place upon it, and for a moment, even the dead things buried beneath stirred.
Dark spun mid-air, caught Igor's blade mid-swing with the edge of his forearm. Blood erupted, but it wasn't retreat—it was payment. He used the momentum to rotate, legs twisting like a drill, and drove a vicious, soul-rattling kick into Igor's spine.
Igor staggered—half a step.
That was all.
Igor: (low) Not bad.
He rotated, swinging God Killer in a wide arc so fast it sang—cutting not just the wind, but gravity. The swing was slow to the eyes—but only because it bent the laws around it, making time feel slower.
Dark ducked under it, dropping into a sliding crouch. His hands scraped the stone, leaving trails of blood-ink behind him as Kyuketsu morphed—again. From scythe, to greatsword, to something... unfamiliar. Something crude. A massive hunk of jagged black metal—like a broken prison gate melded into a cleaver.
Dark: (grinning) You're adapting.
Igor: (steadily) I always have.
They met again.
This time, no holding back. No angles. No styles.
Just power.
Kyuketsu met God Killer in a vertical clash so vicious it shattered the surrounding landscape. Waves of raw force erupted with every strike—like lightning screaming. Each time their weapons met, a different part of the terrain vanished—not destroyed, but unmade. As if the battle itself rewrote the map around them, second by second.
Igor twisted, sweeping Dark off his feet with a low, impossible arc. But Dark caught himself mid-fall, flipped, and threw Kyuketsu at Igor.
Igor raised God Killer.
But that wasn't the attack.
Dark blinked again—appearing above him with another Kyuketsu.
Igor's eyes narrowed.
Igor: (thinking) Two?
Clang.
Blade met blade.
But this Kyuketsu was heavier. Denser. Forged not from will or energy—but consequence. Every battle Dark ever lost. Every friend he ever failed. Every life he couldn't save—inside the strike.
Igor slid back. Just a few inches.
Enough.
Enough to show even he was impressed.
Dark: (growling) Not enough. I'm not done!
Ryo Magic exploded again—this time, not as aura.
But as limbs.
Tendrils of chaos erupted from Dark's back like wings made of crawling void, slamming into the ground and launching him forward like a meteor. The air behind him folded inward—imploding as he moved.
Igor didn't retreat.
He stood.
Then stepped in.
Their fists met—not blades. Just raw fists. One laced with chaos, the other with legacy.
The shockwave split the sky.
A storm formed instantly.
Lightning cracked the crescent moon.
Neither of them blinked.
Igor: (thinking) This... this is no longer training.
Igor: (thinking) He is, changing.
Dark's aura cracked the surface beneath him. With every step forward, the ground distorted, reality folding inward like it couldn't bear his weight. The remnants of his Ryo Magic twisted behind him in a vortex of burning shadows, fireless and lightless. Igor adjusted his stance. He had seen Dark go all out before—he thought. But this wasn't just power.
This was rejection. Rejection of every limit he ever knew.
Igor: (thinking) If I don't end this... without killing him... I might not walk away. Not whole.
Dark's lips peeled back into a vicious grin, veins surging through his neck and arms like coiled snakes. His feet cracked the earth with every inch he moved. He wasn't walking anymore—he was charging, slow and deliberate. Like a beast with no concept of retreat.
Dark: (roaring) COMMEEE ATTT MEEE IGGOORR!!!!
Igor raised God Killer—not to block, but to accept.
Igor: (thinking) He is turning himself into a monster... no, into something even monsters run from.
He walked slowly. Every footstep brought silence. The wind died. The clouds halted. Time itself seemed to honor the duel between Emperor and Knight. Villagers backed far away, hiding behind shattered structures and watching in awe as a legend tried to tame another in the making.
Igor: My Emperor...
And then they vanished from sight.
A deafening boom.
Igor's blade swung. Dark ducked, and his elbow tore through the stone landscape behind him, shattering mountains in the distance. Igor pivoted and brought his knee up—Dark caught it with both arms, bones in his forearm snapping instantly. Dark retaliated, headbutting Igor straight in the chest. Igor skidded backward, only to leap forward again—
They collided mid-air. Fist against blade. Blade against claw. Neither giving an inch.
Igor spun in a spiral, swinging God Killer overhead. Dark summoned Kyuketsu mid-motion, clashing it upward—sparks? No. Shards of broken space flared outward.
The world couldn't hold them anymore.
And then it happened.
Their fists were about to meet again—cloaked in chaos and legend, one forged from sovereign might, the other from sharpened fate—
When a single hand appeared between them.
Not a blur.
Not a flash.
A hand.
Weathered. Tanned. Worn with salt and storm. Fingers curled just slightly—one gripping Igor's knuckle, the other halting Dark's strike by the wrist.
Everything stopped.
Not frozen. Not paused.
Silenced.
The impact that should've collapsed the horizon was absorbed entirely. The hand took both strikes—Dark's chaos-infused punch and Igor's transcendent sword-arm—and ground them to a halt.
The veins in Dark's arm bulged. Igor's stance quivered. But that hand? That hand didn't move.
It didn't need to.
A voice followed. Calm. Thunderous without being loud.
Kaelion: Children... are you trying to kill each other?
His boots pressed gently into the cracked terrain, cloak billowing behind him like the sails of an ancient pirate warship. He stood between them as if the concept of danger had never been born. His dark hair was slicked back, tied behind his head, sea-winds woven into each strand. His left eye shimmered like a sapphire drowned in centuries of war.
And his blade, was sheathed at his back, untouched. Because he didn't need it. It's too powerful.
Kaelion: My apologies for the intrusion. But when the sky splits and the moon cries thunder... I tend to notice.
Dark pulled back his arm. Slowly. Breathing heavily. Blood still dripping, bones still mending.
Igor lowered God Killer. Eyes narrowed slightly, remember his past with Kaelion.
Igor: K-Kaelion. Draegor.
Dark: Kaelion Draegor.
Kaelion: Greetings, Dark and Igor.
He turned to Igor.
Kaelion: You. Blood-Red Knight. The Greatest Swordsman in Existence.
Igor: My blade was almost released. I apologize.
Kaelion: Hah. "Almost." That's the scary part.
Then he turned to Dark.
Kaelion: And you. Dark, Emperor of your little multiverse. You've grown into quite the storm, haven't you?
Dark stayed quiet. Chest heaving. Ryo Magic slowly fading away.
Kaelion: You're not ready for Astaroth.
Silence again.
Dark: Then what am I supposed to do?
Kaelion walked forward, finally releasing both arms. The force lifted sent tremors through the entire area. But still—he was calm.
Kaelion: Do not train. You must fight.
Kaelion stood tall between them. The wind bent around his presence like it had memory. The ground beneath his boots didn't dare crack—even though it should have, from the pressure alone.
Kaelion: Just now, you were both pretending.
His gaze locked on Dark, unblinking. The crescent moon, split moments ago by their clash, reformed silently behind him.
Kaelion: Dark, you wouldn't last a single breath against Astaroth. Not the real him. Not the Throne of Embers.
Dark: (clenching fists) What? What do you mean? I fought him three days ago. He was testing me. Four percent, then ten... I stood my ground!
Kaelion gave a smirk that didn't belong on a mortal man. It wasn't amusement—it was pity disguised as restraint.
Kaelion: Oh, Dark. You stood in the shallow end of a drowning ocean.
Kaelion took a single step forward. The clouds split again. The trees in the far distance bowed slightly, pulled toward him.
Kaelion: But... do as you wish. If you truly believe you can stand against him...
He raised his arm.
Kaelion: Then strike me. With everything. All of it.
Dark: (blinking) What?
His body jolted. Instantly. Entirely.
The pain vanished. The bruises, the torn skin, the shredded muscles—all healed in an instant.
Dark: (shocked) The pain... it's gone. The injuries—gone. What the hell?
Kaelion: That's the difference between me and him. I don't need time to heal you. I allow it.
Dark narrowed his eyes. A crooked smile formed.
Dark: Then I guess we're doing this.
He raised his hand.
Dark: Igor—return.
In a spiral of black ash, Igor dissolved into Dark's palm like a dying constellation. The shadow trails burned across the ground, sinking into Dark's aura.
Dark: Awaken.
His skin began to darken.
Dark: Korosu.
The horns burst from his skull—twisting, ragged, cracked. His eyes flared wide open—except the left. The left eye stayed closed, glowing faintly through the lid.
A white scar tore through it—one that hadn't been there before.
Dark: Linguard... Korosu.
Time slowed. Not for the world. For him.
Every motion. Every breath. Every heartbeat.
The dust frozen in the air moved like drifting stars.
Kaelion: So, you're pulling it all out now?
Dark: I have no choice. I'm not letting you win.
Kaelion: Win?
He smiled again, colder this time.
Kaelion: I'm not here to win.
Kaelion: I'm here to sharpen the future Emperor of the Multiverse.
Dark vanished.
BOOM.
The crater that was once a gym exploded into oblivion. Dust ripped into the sky like volcanic ash. Dark reappeared behind Kaelion—mid-punch, left arm coated in Ryo Magic.
His fist never landed.
Kaelion hadn't moved.
Yet...
Dark's knuckles were already pressing against something.
Kaelion's sheathed blade.
Without drawing it. Without touching it. Kaelion's sheathed sword somehow blocked Dark's sneak attack.
Dark: (gritting teeth) The hell...?
Kaelion turned his head slightly. The reflection of Dark's demon face flickered in his eye.
Then—
SMACK.
A light backhand. From Kaelion's bare hand.
But the result wasn't light.
Dark was sent flying.
His body tore through the air like a cannonball on fire. The sky cracked open behind him—veins of white lightning erupting without thunder. His scream echoed through mountain ranges.
CRACK.
He hit the ground. And didn't bounce.
His back bent wrong. Blood exploded from his mouth before he even registered the pain.
Dark: (thinking) What the... what the hell was that...?
He tried to move. Nothing.
He forced his right hand to twitch. It did. But the bones didn't agree. Something inside snapped again.
Kaelion didn't move from his spot.
Kaelion: That was one strike. Still breathing?
Dark didn't respond.
He couldn't.
But then—
He vanished again.
Not with speed. But instinct.
He had to hit him.
Dark reappeared in front of Kaelion. Broken. Bleeding. Still burning with refusal.
He dragged his fist forward—slow. Too slow.
Kaelion tilted his head.
Kaelion: Is this how you plan to survive Astaroth?
The moment Dark's fist got within an inch—
Kaelion raised two fingers.
Just two.
And placed them in front of the punch.
The contact didn't make a sound.
It made everything else stop.
Dark's punch halted. Muscles froze. His Ryo Magic coiled backward like it was ashamed.
Dark: (breathing) How...?
Kaelion's leg was already in motion.
BOOM.
A kick to the face.
But not just any kick.
The air itself shattered. Like a sheet of reinforced glass had been kicked in from the inside.
The shockwave didn't blow the trees back—it uprooted them. Uprooted history.
Dark's head snapped sideways, his neck jerking unnaturally. The earth under him left him. His body was gone before his blood had time to splash.
Kaelion stood there, unmoved.
He looked at his fingers. The ones that blocked Dark's punch.
There was no scratch.
Kaelion: I told you, Dark. You're not ready.
He took another step.
Kaelion: But you're close.
Dark's body twitched. Not from pain—but defiance. He lay in the crater like a corpse lit aflame from within, shadows dancing across his skin as his regeneration kicked in. Muscle reknit over bone. His jaw realigned with a grotesque snap. The blood that poured from his nose evaporated before it reached the dirt.
He didn't rise yet.
He breathed.
A breath soaked in fury. In shame. In need.
Dark: (low, hoarse) ...Close isn't enough.
The sky above churned again—this time, not from Kaelion.
From him.
Dark's fingers scraped into the earth beneath him, carving trenches as he forced himself up.
Dark: (teeth clenched) I wasn't born to be close. I wasn't built to almost make it.
Each word was a hammer. Each breath, molten metal.
Dark: If I fall here, then I was never meant to be Emperor.
Kaelion: (watching carefully) Hm.
Kaelion shifted slightly, lowering his stance—not in caution, but curiosity. For the first time, his fingers slid toward the hilt of his blade. Still sheathed. Still untouched. But now, it waited.
Kaelion: Then get up, Hope That Dismantles Evil.
The ground cracked around Dark's feet.
Dark: Don't call me that right now.
Kaelion: Why not?
Dark: Because there's no hope left in me.
The temperature dropped. Frost curled over broken stones. A second heartbeat emerged beneath Dark's skin—a rhythm not his own. The scar across his closed left eye flared. Not red. Not white.
Gold.
Dark: (growling) You wanna see what Astaroth will face?
Dark's body began to shake—not from pain. From containment.
Dark: Then I'll show you what's underneath my skin.
His aura erupted again—but this time, not Ryo Magic. Not demon flame. Not even shadow.
Something older.
Something not bound by category or color.
It was the same energy that filled the skies the day Sukojo devoured the 12th Moon God. The same pulse that cracked the air when Dark killed his own brother in a frozen Domain.
Kaelion narrowed his eyes for the first time.
Kaelion: ...You're calling on that?
Dark: I didn't want to.
He opened his left eye.
Dark: But you left me no choice.
His eye was no longer his own.
A vertical slit, curved with ancient chaos, blinked outward. The scar didn't vanish—it deepened, like it had always been a gate. And now it was open.
The world darkened.
Noon turned to dusk.
The sun blinked.
Kaelion reached for his blade.
Not to draw it.
But to remind it that the war it once faced... might be returning.
Kaelion: Then come, Emperor of the Multiverse. Show me if you're worthy to climb past your stars.
Dark didn't roar.
He didn't vanish.
He walked.
Slow.
One footstep at a time.
Each step bent the laws of gravity around him. Water in the air began to rise instead of fall. The trees behind him bowed—not out of fear, but obligation.
Even the shadows aligned behind him—forming wings of pitch black that flared out like a crown.
He passed Kaelion's warning gaze.
And swung his first punch.
Kaelion didn't block.
He stepped into it.
Dark's fist crashed into Kaelion's chest—not armor, not sword, not aura. Just him. But instead of the eruption that should've followed, the moment froze. The force behind the punch—the rage, the chaos, the power meant to crack gods—did nothing.
No wind.
No sound.
Just Kaelion, standing, eyes closed.
Kaelion: (softly) You're still afraid to kill.
Dark's body locked mid-motion. His eyes twitched, uncertain.
Kaelion: I can feel it in your bones. In your knuckles. You're hesitating. Even now.
He placed a hand gently on Dark's wrist and twisted—not hard, not painfully, but like a parent guiding a child away from a flame.
Kaelion: Astaroth will not hesitate. He will not wonder if you live or die. He'll erase you like a smudge on glass.
Dark growled, forcing his other arm to move, sending a wild claw swipe toward Kaelion's face—
Kaelion vanished.
No flash. No light trail. No teleport.
Gone.
And then—
Kaelion: (above) What's holding you back, Dark?
He stood on a shattered pillar high above the battlefield, cloak flapping as if catching winds that didn't exist. His eyes looked down—not in arrogance, but disappointment.
Kaelion: You wear all these titles like they mean something. Shadow Monarch. Ruler of Hope. Emperor of the Multiverse. But do you even believe in them?
Dark appeared behind him in a burst of distortion, Kyuketsu drawn, glowing with layered magic.
Dark: You think I don't?! THEN I'LL SHOW YOU!!
He slashed upward—
And his blade was caught between Kaelion's fingers.
Two fingers.
Again.
Kaelion: No... you'll show you.
He twisted his wrist—Kyuketsu cracked.
Dark's eyes widened. His mind screamed. But then—
Kaelion let go.
Kaelion: Break your blade. Break your bones. Break this world if you must.
He turned away.
Kaelion: But if you can't even break your own fear, Dark...
He looked back one last time.
Kaelion: ...then you were never ready to wear the name Emperor.
Dark didn't react at first. Not visibly. He stood there, blood running down the side of his mouth, his body trembling—not from fear, not even pain, but from something deeper. Something more personal. Something Kaelion had just touched.
It wasn't the insult. It was the truth behind it.
Dark took a step forward, slow and deliberate. The broken ground beneath his feet cracked further, flaking off into fine dust as if it no longer wished to support him. His body was shaking from within—fractures spreading through his muscles like they were trying to contain something they were never meant to. He raised his arm, pulled his hand into a fist, and for the first time since Kaelion arrived, there was no power-up. No dramatic transformation. No screams or fire or flashing lights.
He simply swung his punch.
Kaelion met it—not with his own punch, not with a block, not even with effort. He stepped into it, caught Dark's wrist with his left hand, and stopped it entirely. No shake. No pushback. Kaelion's body didn't even shift under the force. He stared into Dark's eyes like he was staring through a wall, searching for the part that hadn't broken yet.
Dark gritted his teeth and pushed harder. His other arm came around, aiming low, fast, aimed at Kaelion's ribcage—but Kaelion's knee met it mid-way. The impact should have thrown him back, but again, it was as if Kaelion's body didn't acknowledge physics.
It didn't end there.
Dark pushed forward anyway—head-first into Kaelion's shoulder, trying to wrap around and take him down by force. He clawed at his side, twisted, stepped behind him in an instant and aimed a short elbow at the back of Kaelion's skull—
Blocked.
Kaelion turned, grabbed Dark's arm mid-motion, and twisted—not enough to break it, but enough for Dark's legs to give out from the pressure. Before he hit the ground, Kaelion pulled him back up, only to slam him across the broken arena wall.
The stone cracked behind Dark's spine. His head bounced once before slumping forward.
Kaelion stepped in close. Close enough that Dark could feel his breath. Close enough that neither of them needed to say anything to feel the gap between them.
Kaelion: You call yourself Emperor, but you don't even know what kind of world you're building.
Dark spat blood. His hands trembled as he pushed himself off the wall.
Dark: I'm not building anything.
Dark: I'm tearing it all down first.
He came at Kaelion again.
No plan. No rhythm.
Just raw instinct and purpose.
And Kaelion welcomed it.
This time, he didn't block.
He dodged.
And for the first time since arriving, Kaelion struck back.
His palm hit Dark in the chest—not hard, not with weight, but with precision. A ripple of pressure shot through Dark's body, up his spine, down to his knees. Every nerve fired at once. His legs collapsed and his lungs forgot how to breathe.
Kaelion: There's a difference between defiance... and direction.
Kaelion: You have power, Dark. But you have no aim.
Dark coughed, eyes hazy, but he refused to fall.
Kaelion turned away and started walking.
Kaelion: Fix that.
Kaelion: Or next time, I won't stop the attack. I'll return it.
And without another word, he vanished.
The wind returned.
The silence broke.
And Dark finally dropped to one knee, hand on the shattered ground, eyes wide—not from fear.
But understanding.
To be continued
End Of Arc 6 Chapter 11.