phisto's scythe curved low. Asmodeus twisted sideways, parried with the haft of his axe—
And the god's elbow slamd into his jaw.
The crack echoed like thunder against hollow stone.
Asmodeus reeled, boots dragging through molten dust. The mont he found footing, phisto was already there—already swinging again.
A fist drove into his ribs.
Another hit his shoulder—dislocated.
A roundhouse kick caught his temple and hurled him into a pillar.
Stone shattered.
The world reeled sideways as the black marble column crumbled over him. Rubble collapsed in his wake.
But the Demon Emperor launched from the ruin before it finished falling. With a savage roar, he brought his axe down in a vicious overhead cleave—
phisto caught it.
Bare-handed.
The weapon hissed and scread. Red runes flared across its edge, biting deep into divine flesh—but phisto didn't flinch.
He t Asmodeus's eyes.
"I've killed kings with less effort."
And threw him.
Asmodeus flew backwards like a broken teor, smashing through wall after wall, stone flying, lightning sparking through the fractures of the citadel. He crashed into the far side of the throne hall, a deep crater forming at his back.
He coughed blood.
Then stood.
No hesitation.
His shoulder snapped back into place with a sickening pop. Fla erupted from his spine again, his aura burning the air around him black.
He didn't speak.
He charged.
phisto t him halfway.
The collision wasn't clean—it was explosive. Their fists t midair, a flash of red and silver light bursting outward like a sonic bomb. The floor buckled beneath them.
They traded blows too fast to track—axe clanging against divine bone, scythe shrieking as it glanced off burning flesh. Fist to face. Boot to chest. Elbow to spine.
phisto drove him to a knee, and Asmodeus punched upward into his gut.
phisto staggered.
Asmodeus grabbed him by the robes, headbutted him—twice—then twisted his grip and hurled him like a ragdoll into the throne itself.
The obsidian seat cracked down the centre.
But phisto didn't stay down.
He erged from the dust, robes torn, ribs visible beneath cracked skin that bled pure light.
He smiled.
"Asmodeus."
His voice was calm, mocking.
"You're... close."
Asmodeus was breathing hard now.
Blood ran down his neck. His left arm hung to the side, burned, twitching.
But his eyes—those burning sapphire eyes—did not yield.
"I don't need to be stronger than you," he said, voice low.
"I just need to survive long enough."
"Long enough for what?" phisto asked as he lifted his scythe once more.
The Demon Emperor's lips curled.
"For you to make a mistake."
He rushed again.
But this ti, phisto braced.
And this ti—
Asmodeus was slower.
The scythe ca low, reversed, and slashed through his side.
The wound was deep.
The magic-laced edge bit through demonic armour, through fla, through sinew.
He didn't cry out.
But his knees nearly gave.
He dropped the axe.
Caught it mid-fall.
Then spun, axe dragging a crescent of blood through the air—
And missed.
phisto moved behind him.
Whispered:
"You're breaking."
And drove the hilt of the scythe into the centre of his back.
Asmodeus hit the ground hard.
But didn't stay there.
He rolled, flipped, and threw the axe one-handed—
phisto batted it aside.
Then blinked—
Asmodeus was already behind him.
Uppercut.
The god reeled.
Axe recalled to his grip with a burst of crimson fla.
He swung.
Contact.
The force flung phisto backwards, slamming into a column with enough force to crater it.
The two stood again.
Breathing.
Cracked.
Wounded.
Equal, and not.
And deep beneath the castle floor—
Sothing howled.
A sound of distant bells.
A crack in the divine chains of fate.
Their clash wasn't over.
But sothing was changing.
The room trembled beneath them.
Ancient columns groaned as dust sifted down from the fractured ceiling, each impact from their duel shaking loose centuries of stillness. Magic swirled like a storm without wind—radiant and black, thickening the air until even the sound of their breaths felt muffled.
Asmodeus wiped blood from his cheek.
It dripped from the black scales, hissing from the hot, fiery aura of magic that evaporated it. He cracked his fingers before grasping his axe, the blood-red tal pulsing faintly, as it filled with his aura.
phisto straightened slowly, dust sifting off his shoulders like ash shaken from cloth. Cracks ran across his right forearm where the last blow had landed—a deep, diagonal fracture glowing faintly with internal light as if created with divine quartz.
Still, his expression didn't change.
That unnerving calmness never wavered.
"You hit harder than most," phisto admitted, brushing a fragnt of stone from his robe with careless ease. "But you still fight like a mortal."
"Peh—! I am one."
And with that, he moved.
Not in a sprint—but a smooth acceleration, like a blade sliding from a sheath. Asmodeus struck stone once, twice—then his form vanished into a blur, his axe rising high.
The arc of his strike was devastating—full-body, drawn from his hips through his shoulders, bringing the crimson blade down in a burning diagonal ant to split phisto clean in half.
But the god didn't dodge.
He stepped into it.
His scythe rose in a smooth vertical spiral, not clashing with the blow, but guiding it, diverting the power at the last mont. Steel t steel in a reverberating scream that cracked nearby columns and warped the air. The heat from Asmodeus's weapon bled into phisto's robes, searing the edge into threads.
Then phisto spun his scythe, twisted, redirected, and cut low with a snap of his wrists.
It approached like a reaper's kiss.
The blade kissed Asmodeus's thigh, just deep enough to draw blood. A slow, sweeping wound that hissed with divine recoil. The Demon Emperor staggered back one step, weight shifting automatically to his other leg. His eyes narrowed. Focused.
No pause.
He pounced again.
This ti, their exchange beca more brutal. Less like warriors. More like monsters.
Asmodeus spun his axe in a wild horizontal cleave—phisto ducked, struck upward with the haft of his scythe into Asmodeus's jaw. The Demon Emperor's head snapped back, teeth bared—but he retaliated mid-motion, slamming his foot into phisto's chest with enough force to lift the god off the ground.
The impact dented his robes inward, shattered ribs beneath.
phisto coughed once, then smiled.
His scythe vanished.
Not dismissed. Absorbed.
It twisted into his arm like a strand of light, and then his hands closed into fists.
No weapon now.
Just force.
And in that mont, he struck—not with magic or grace, but raw physical might.
A single punch caught Asmodeus in the gut.
It shattered his exoskeleton. It bent the Emperor in half, lifting him off the ground and into the air as Asmodeus vomited.
Then a brutal elbow ca into his back, driving him down.
Asmodeus hit the ground on both knees, coughing blood across the stone. His hands planted instinctively, and the axe half-slid from his grip.
The pain rang through his spine like a gong, dull and rising.
But he didn't submit.
His right hand closed around the axe again.
He stood.
Slowly. But Asmodeus stood.
phisto's expression finally shifted—mild surprise.
Then sothing colder.
Respect?
Fear?
The god's jaw clenched.
"You're still moving. Even now."
Asmodeus's voice ca low.
"I didn't co here to survive."
He straightened his back. Raised his axe again.
"I ca to end you."
The golden sigil across his chest blazed once more—this ti less like a fla, more like a sun igniting in miniature.
A blaze of blood-red fire lit the chamber.
Not from his weapon.
But from the cracks spreading beneath their feet.
Magic ran wild now.
Reality thinned.
And sowhere beyond the far walls, faint as a whisper in winter air—
He could feel them.
Vinea. Levia. Asmodea. Lumina.
Still alive.
Still fighting.
Still believing.
He exhaled once more.
And stepped forward.
"Co on, phisto! Let's Fight!"
"You will die."
The floor split beneath Asmodeus's boots. Magic, pressure, sheer kinetic force—none of it slowed phisto's next strike.
The scythe howled.
Asmodeus caught it mid-arc, axe twisting in both hands as his muscles scread. Sparks burst. tal shrieked. Their locked blades carved a crater beneath their feet, stone turning molten at the edges.
phisto's breath was steady. asured.
"You are impressive," he said, almost sincerely. "But not enough."
Asmodeus drove his foot forward. The impact shattered the floor tiles, a straight thrust ant to break the lock and follow with a vertical cleave.
But phisto vanished.
A flicker—behind him.
The scythe ca down.
Asmodeus turned too late.
A burst of crimson blood sprayed from his back as the curved blade bit deep across his shoulder. He staggered. His body struggled to recover, but phisto was already there.
Two strikes. Three.
Each blow chipped away at the aura surrounding the Demon Emperor. The very air groaned beneath their movents.
Outside the throne room, the Empresses reached the final archway, staring in horror through shattered pillars as their king was pushed back again.
Levia's voice cracked. "No…"
phisto stood tall, casting his long shadow over Asmodeus, who now knelt on one knee.
"You've played your part well," the god murmured, lifting his scythe for the final ti. "But it ends here."
Asmodeus's hand trembled.
Not from fear.
But from the feeling behind him.
Soft. Familiar.
Small fingers pressed against his back.
"Don't you dare lose!"
Her eyes were glowing again, brighter than ever.
"Because if you fall, I'll drag your soul back myself."
The chamber froze.
"Ah... that's right, Serena... I can't lose. Not like this."
And then Asmodeus—
Smiled.
As a black fla surged.
User Comments
0 comments from readers