The golden wall held.
It humd in the silence, light pulsing outward like breath. phisto's scythe pressed against it, grinding sparks into the air, but it didn't break.
Alan stepped forward through the fla.
His boots hit the glass floor without a sound. The sword in his right hand glowed, faint but constant—an older light, quiet and clean, born from a ti before gods bled into monsters.
phisto stared at him, unreadable.
"Another fool," he said, voice split in two.
Alan didn't answer. He raised his blade and slid into stance, one foot back, knees low. No aura flared. No war cry sounded. He simply waited.
phisto moved.
Faster than thought. A blur of black light and divine pressure.
Alan t him.
Their blades clashed—scythe against sword—and golden sparks scattered like fireflies across the dead sky. The force of impact shattered the space beneath them, sending waves across the glass surface. But Alan held his ground. He didn't push. He redirected.
The next strike ca faster. Then another. Then five more, all in less than a second. phisto's movents weren't elegant now. They were furious, broken things—rage given motion. And Alan weaved through them with tight, efficient steps, blade turning aside death with angles too precise to be instinct.
He didn't overpower phisto.
He endured him.
And still, with every parried blow, phisto's scythe ca closer. Closer to tearing him open.
Then the edge scraped Alan's shoulder.
The golden fla around his body sparked—flickered—and he gritted his teeth as divine energy sank into his skin. Pain blood through his arm.
But phisto hissed too.
A thin line of black split across his forearm where Alan's mana had made contact.
The golden aura had left a burn.
It was shallow.
But it hurt him.
Alan stepped back, sword raised in both hands, breathing hard now. Blood soaked into his sleeve. His stance didn't waver.
"You're not divine," he said quietly. "Not anymore."
phisto laughed—a broken, screeching sound with no joy behind it.
"Then what am I?"
"A mistake."
The scythe spun again.
It ca down in a savage arc, and Alan blocked it—barely. He slid five ters back from the force alone, knees scraping against the floor, jaw clenched.
phisto didn't stop.
He surged forward, wild now. Spells poured from his body like a storm—black light, rotting symbols, fragnts of law torn from the fabric of reality itself. The world twisted under each step.
Alan took another hit.
This ti to the ribs.
His golden aura cracked under the weight of it, the light flickering violently, but he didn't fall. He ducked under the next strike, blade rising to slash phisto's hip—another wound, but a real one.
It slowed him.
Not by much. But enough.
Alan exhaled, eyes narrowed, sword lowered just a breath. His shoulder bled freely now, golden mana flickering around the wound like a dying candle. His breathing was ragged. phisto lood before him—body steaming, aura bleeding darkness—but didn't advance.
Alan coughed, spat blood to the side, then straightened. His voice was quiet, not strained, just tired in that old, familiar way.
"You always did sleep through the good parts," he muttered without looking back.
A few ters away, sothing shifted.
A hand moved.
Then a breath.
Then a voice, cracked and dry.
"Said the idiot fighting a death god with a toothpick."
Alan's smile twitched in the corner of his mouth. He didn't take his eyes off phisto.
"I've fought worse."
"No, you haven't."
Alan let out a low chuckle.
"Fair. But you looked worse."
Footsteps behind him. Slow, solid, familiar.
Asmodeus stepped into view, shoulders squared, half his body still sared with blood and divine burns. In his right hand, he held the reforged weapon—not an axe, but a greatsword, thick, jagged, with red sigils burning along its blackened blade.
Alan glanced sideways, finally eting his eyes.
"Nice sword."
"Better than that glorified letter opener you're waving around."
"You're welco," Alan said, raising an eyebrow. "Saved your life again, didn't I?"
"I was getting up."
"Sure you were."
Their eyes t.
Not as warriors.
Not even as allies.
But as two n who had been alone for far too long, until the other ca into their lives and refused to let go. One born in shadows. The other in light. Neither truly belonging to either.
Asmodeus's grip tightened around the hilt.
"Don't Die. I still need to kick your ass." Asmodeus huffed, stepping forward.
"Haha, you damn fool."
"Together?"
Alan nodded.
"Always."
Behind them, phisto's expression shifted—no longer amused, not angry, just tired of waiting. He raised his scythe, and the void around them bent in response.
Alan adjusted his stance.
Asmodeus lowered his centre of gravity.
Two blades lifted.
One golden, one black.
And when phisto charged, they t him together.
phisto moved first.
His scythe cleaved the air in a wide arc, a tidal wave of force and death magic tearing forward like a storm. The void itself recoiled, the air imploding around the strike.
Alan stepped in.
His golden blade caught the blow—not directly, but with a soft angle, guiding the scythe's curve past his ribs. Even so, the weight of it slamd into him like a hamr. His boots skidded backwards, glass floor cracking underfoot.
But he held.
And as phisto followed through—
Asmodeus was already in motion.
The mont the scythe was committed, the Demon Emperor lunged in low. His greatsword swung upward, black and red fla trailing behind it in a savage crescent.
phisto pivoted.
The blade scraped across his ribs, opening a deep gouge. Black ichor sprayed.
He scread—but not in pain, in fury.
His hand snapped forward. Fingers curled into a claw. Divine runes flared around his wrist—a death seal, ant to unmake anything it touched.
It shot toward Asmodeus.
Alan cut it in half mid-air.
Golden fire surged as his blade passed through the spell, and the runes disintegrated into dust. Alan didn't stop. He stepped through the magic's remains and slashed across phisto's thigh.
Another wound. Shallow. But real.
phisto snarled and backhanded him.
The force sent Alan flying into a pillar of bone. It shattered on impact. He hit the ground hard, but rolled with it, ca up coughing blood, sword still in hand.
Asmodeus took the opening.
He crashed his greatsword down like an executioner's blade. phisto raised the scythe horizontally, blocking it—but his knees buckled, one foot driving backwards.
"You break," Asmodeus growled, pressing in. "You just haven't realised it yet."
phisto roared and twisted, wings spreading wide.
He kicked Asmodeus in the chest with enough force to lift him off his feet.
The Demon Emperor flew backwards, smashing through a spire of inverted light.
But Alan was already on the move again.
He didn't attack this ti—he blocked.
phisto's next blow ca fast, wild, divine and unclean. Alan caught it on the flat of his sword. His arms scread. He slid again, boots carving molten lines through the ground.
Then, Asmodeus appeared beside him.
No warning. No signal.
Just presence.
He swung wide and low—phisto stepped back, deflected the strike—but that one move gave Alan the half-second he needed.
He lunged forward and stabbed.
The golden blade sank into phisto's shoulder.
The god howled. His third eye flared open, bleeding light.
He retaliated with a brutal overhead strike.
Alan raised his blade—
Too late.
The scythe slamd into his ribs. Bone cracked. He was thrown across the battlefield, skidding into a heap. His golden aura flickered violently, almost gone.
Asmodeus didn't wait.
He grabbed phisto by the throat with his bare hand and slamd him into the ground hard enough to shatter the space beneath them.
"You don't get to kill him."
phisto laughed—blood on his lips, teeth red, eyes wide.
"You don't get to stop ."
The god surged upward, wings flaring—he headbutted Asmodeus, then drove his knee into the demon's stomach. Asmodeus doubled over. phisto grabbed his hair, dragged him upright, and ramd an elbow into his jaw.
Blood flew. A tooth hit the floor.
But the sword didn't drop.
Asmodeus caught the next swing with the edge of his blade and twisted. The scythe shrieked as it scraped against the obsidian greatsword.
Then Alan's voice ca from behind.
"Duck."
Asmodeus dropped low without hesitation.
Alan's golden sword passed over his head and plunged into phisto's back, sliding between two ribs.
Both of them moved in the sa second.
Alan yanked the blade free.
Asmodeus stood and slashed upward with a brutal roar.
The greatsword struck phisto's chest and sent him flying across the battlefield in a storm of smoke and blood.
He smashed into the distant throne, crushing and destroying the wall.
Glass shattered. Bone cracked. The citadel groaned under the force.
phisto lay still for a mont, smoke rising from the wounds.
Alan limped over to Asmodeus.
He looked like hell—blood down his side, left arm shaking, sword tip dragging.
So did Asmodeus.
The Demon Emperor's left eye was nearly swollen shut. One horn cracked. His armour was broken in three places.
Neither said anything for a mont.
Then Alan glanced over, breath sharp through clenched teeth.
"You good?"
Asmodeus snorted. "I've had worse."
"That's a lie."
"Yeah."
Alan smiled, just a little. "Still with ?"
"Always."
Behind them, phisto rose slowly.
His wings were shredded.
His robes were torn.
His aura now raging—not steady, not cold. Chaotic. Corrupted.
His voice ca low, reverberating from everywhere.
"Two blades… two lives… even so, you will kneel."
Asmodeus stepped forward again, sword raised.
"No."
Alan joined him, golden light flickering behind his blade.
"Not now."
They advanced together.
Two brothers.
Two blades.
One final strike left to give.
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