The purple gas advanced.
Not like an ordinary mist, but like a living entity—crawling, heavy, saturated with divine poison. Wherever it touched, vegetation died instantly, reduced to blackened ash. The Battle Royale circle was closing in—too slow to allow escape, too fast to allow mistakes.
She was running.
The white-and-gold armor reflected the distorted light of the field, plates fitted perfectly to her body, elegant without sacrificing mobility. Her helt hung at her waist; her long hair, a pale lilac shade, stread behind her as she moved toward the permitted edges of the arena.
In her right hand, a long sword—silver blade etched with ancient inscriptions that did not glow—they watched.
On her left arm, a circular shield, adorned with a complex geotric symbol, older than any current pantheon.
She wasn’t breathing heavily.
Her focus was absolute.
Then, the ground ahead of her split open.
Two bodies erged like predators revealing their fangs.
"We found you."
The voice ca from the first: tall, broad, wrapped in dark pelts and runes carved directly into his flesh. A double-bladed axe rested on his shoulder, pulsing with icy energy.
The second did not speak. He only smiled.
More slender, clad in blue-gray armor, he wielded two short spears made of black ice. His eyes shone like dead stars.
Envoys of the Norse gods.
Hunters.
She stopped running.
Turned slowly.
The purple gas continued advancing behind her, closing the space. There was no escape route. They knew it.
"You arrived too late," she said, her voice calm, steady, without arrogance.
The axe wielder laughed.
"The goddess you serve won’t save you here."
She raised her shield.
"I don’t need saving."
The first charged like an avalanche.
The axe ca down in a brutal arc, loaded with enough force to split mountains. She didn’t block it head-on. She twisted her body, angling the shield just right, deflecting the blade by re centiters.
Even so, the impact hurled her several ters back, her feet tearing into the ground.
Before she could regain her balance, the second was already airborne.
The spears were thrown in perfect sequence, their trajectories crossing, freezing the space they passed through.
She raised her sword.
Not to cut.
To decide.
The blade traced a clean arc. The air vibrated. One spear shattered into fragnts of ice. The other was deflected by the shield, ricocheting away.
She advanced.
The spear-wielding warrior tried to retreat—fatal mistake.
She appeared in front of him in the blink of an eye, the shield slamming into his chest with focused, non-explosive force. The impact shattered ribs, crushed internal organs, halted any attempt at defense.
The sword pierced his neck in the sa motion.
Without hesitation.
Without emotion.
The body fell before it could even understand it was dead.
The axe wielder roared.
His aura exploded in primal fury. Rune after rune ignited on his skin, releasing ancestral energy. The ground froze beneath his feet as he charged again—faster, heavier.
She took a deep breath.
And waited.
At the last instant, when the axe descended with full force, she turned the shield upward.
The geotric symbol glowed.
Not with light.
With authority.
The axe stopped.
Literally.
The blade hovered just centiters from the shield, trembling, as if caught in sothing invisible. The warrior’s eyes widened.
"What—"
Her sword pierced straight through his chest.
Direct.
Precise.
Lethal.
She twisted the blade and pulled it free. The body dropped to its knees, then fell forward, dead before it touched the ground.
Silence.
The purple gas was now dangerously close.
She wiped the blade clean in a single motion and resud running.
Then... she felt it.
She stopped again.
It wasn’t an attack.
It wasn’t a sound.
It was a presence.
A colossal aura spread across the field like a delayed impact. It didn’t co from a single point—it ca from all directions at once, as if space itself were being pressed by sothing that didn’t fit within it.
She felt the weight on her chest.
Not fear.
Assessnt.
Strategy.
Instinct.
She raised her gaze.
And then she saw it.
The sky tore open.
A body appeared, flying at extre speed, spinning uncontrollably, wrapped in residual red-and-black energy. It crossed the field like a divine projectile, slamming into the ground hundreds of ters away.
The impact was devastating.
Earth, rock, and enchanted fragnts were hurled into the air like a delayed explosion. The ground split into a deep furrow as the body continued to be dragged by absurd inertia.
Her eyes widened slightly.
The body slid.
Scraped.
Shattered.
Until it nearly reached the edge of the purple gas.
It stopped just ters from the poisonous mist.
It was Shura.
The son of Shiva was unrecognizable.
His body was covered in deep wounds, muscles torn, blood spread across the ground. The energy that once exploded from him now leaked irregularly, like embers on the verge of going out.
And yet...
He moved.
Laughed.
Even while coughing up blood.
"Heh..." the voice ca out hoarse, broken, but alive. "Almost..."
She remained still.
Watching.
Calculating.
Behind her, the purple gas advanced. Ahead, a demigod who had been thrown like trash by sothing even worse.
And above all...
That aura.
That pressure.
She tightened her grip on the shield.
She planted her feet firmly on the ground.
The purple gas crept along the edges of her vision as a constant reminder that ti was not on her side. Still, for a brief instant, everything around her seed to slow down. The suspended dust. The distant echoes of battle. The weight of that monstrous aura still reverberating through the field.
She brought the shield forward, the sword aligned with her body.
Perfect posture.
Prepared for the worst.
Shura moved.
The demigod rose with a dry crack of bones rearranging themselves. He ran a hand over his blood-covered arms, wiping them clean as if brushing off dirt after a heavy workout. His smile was crooked, tired... and genuinely excited.
"Heh..." he spat to the side, dark blood staining the ground. "That guy really is a monster."
He looked toward the distant direction from which he’d been launched, as if he could see through kiloters of destruction.
"It’s been a long ti since I’ve been thrown like that."
Then, without even glancing at her, Shura bent his legs.
The air exploded beneath his feet.
He flew.
He didn’t jump. He didn’t run. He was launched into the sky like a missile, his body wrapped in pulsing red energy as he vanished into the horizon toward the center of the chaos—back to the presence that had crushed him.
She remained still for a few seconds.
Then... she sighed.
Her shoulders relaxed just slightly.
"Fighting the son of Shiva..." she murmured to herself. "That would be suicide."
For a rare instant, she allowed the tension to ease.
Mistake.
The whistle sliced through the air.
Pure instinct.
She turned her head and raised her hand in the sa motion.
CLACK.
The arrow stopped just centiters from her face, caught between two fingers. The shaft vibrated violently, still charged with divine energy. Had it advanced one more inch, it would have pierced her skull.
She narrowed her eyes.
Turned slowly toward the direction the attack had co from.
Without saying a word, she twisted her wrist and hurled the arrow back.
The projectile crossed the field in a perfect line.
A distant scream was abruptly cut off.
Then ca the response.
The sky darkened.
Not with clouds.
But with arrows.
Dozens. Hundreds. A black swarm descending in deadly arcs, each one loaded with killing intent—so wreathed in fire, others in poison, others warping the air around them.
She didn’t run.
Didn’t dodge.
She raised the shield.
The geotric symbol glowed again—not with light, but with order.
The arrows collided.
The sound was deafening.
Projectiles shattered, ricocheted, exploded into dispersed energy. The impact drove her feet into the ground, carving deep grooves as she held her ground, the shield absorbing, denying, nullifying.
When the last arrow fell harmlessly around her, silence returned.
Slow.
Heavy.
Then... slow applause echoed.
"Impressive..." said a male voice, drawn out, laced with amusent. "Very impressive."
He appeared before her like a mirage solidifying.
Egyptian garnts adorned his body: dark linen, golden jewelry, ancient symbols etched into his skin. His eyes were feline, golden, examining every detail with predatory pleasure.
"The goddess Bastet would be delighted with you," he continued, flashing a sharp smile. "Playing with Athena’s body before that demon arrives... would be a delicious gift."
His aura changed.
His body warped.
Bones cracked, flesh stretched, and in the blink of an eye, where a man had stood was now a colossal black panther, muscles rippling beneath dark skin, eyes glowing with divine hunger.
She adjusted her stance.
The sword lowered by a centiter.
"Step away," she said firmly.
The panther laughed.
"Too late—"
He never finished the sentence.
There was a dry sound.
Singular.
Like wet cloth being torn apart by absurd force.
The panther’s head simply... separated from its body.
There was no fight.
No reaction.
The colossal body fell to the side, still mid-transformation, blood gushing as life drained away before it could even comprehend what had happened.
Her eyes widened.
Her heart pounded violently.
Soone was behind her.
She felt it before she saw it.
She turned slowly.
A man stood there.
A long coat in tatters, stains of dried blood scattered across the fabric. Silver hair slightly disheveled. Intense blue eyes—cold... and curious.
He held the severed head of the Egyptian creature for a mont, as if evaluating sothing insignificant.
Then he let it drop.
The sound of impact echoed heavily.
She felt her body tremble.
Not from pain.
From pure fear.
The man smiled.
A small smile. Restrained. Predatory.
"I found you, Athena."
Vergil tilted his head slightly, like soone who had finally found sothing he had been searching for a very long ti.
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