The reddish-black void was a suffocating canvas of stagnant mana, a place where the very concept of "ground" felt like a polite suggestion rather than a physical law. After Zaltraf asked me to go somewhere far to not get interrupted, we left while Sogha and Zarha stood still, looking at us to leave to continue fighting.
The transition across the dimension was instantaneous, a blurring of reality that deposited us in a desolate expanse of the same crimson-tinged nothingness. Here, there was no one to catch the stray shockwaves of our clash, no one to witness the fall of a king—or the ascension of a god.
We stood still, looking at each other.
The silence was heavy, thick enough to taste. Zaltraf stood with a terrifyingly calm posture, his presence alone warping the light around him. I didn't move. I didn't need to. I felt the golden radiance of my own power humming beneath my skin, an internal sun that refused to be dimmed by this hellish realm. I held my war axe on my shoulder, the weight of the massive, one-sided blade feeling familiar and right. It was an extension of my will, a tool of divine judgment waiting for the signal to fall.
The Demonking's eyes, ancient and filled with the wisdom of a thousand massacres, never left mine. There was no boastful talk, no waste of breath. Suddenly he dashed forward.
He didn't run; he simply existed in one space and then appeared in the next, a streak of absolute darkness tearing through the reddish mist. His speed was meant to be a finishing blow, a sudden erasure of my existence. And I just stepped to the side and swung my axe at him.
The motion was fluid, a singular arc of golden light that carved through the air. The edge of the war axe met the invisible boundary surrounding his form. There was a sharp, high-pitched screech of displaced energy—not the sound of metal hitting flesh, but of power grinding against power. His barrier only had a scratch.
I watched as a tiny, jagged fissure appeared in the translucent wall of dark mana protecting him. It was a mere hairline fracture, but in this dimension, it was a miracle. Zaltraf didn't continue his assault. He allowed the momentum to carry him past me, spinning gracefully in the air before landing softly. He went a yard away from me and he stood still looking fascinated.
The look on his face was one of genuine curiosity, the kind a scholar might give a manuscript that shouldn't exist. Zaltraf looks at me and said, "You managed to even scratch my barrier; you must be so strong."
I didn't answer. I didn't care for his praise. To a being like me, "strong" was an understatement; it was the natural state of my being. I just stood still looking at him, my golden aura flickering like a flame in a light breeze. The war axe remained steady on my shoulder, its edge reflecting the dull red glow of the sky.
I decided it was my turn to test the structural integrity of his defense. I charged forward and swung my war axe.
The impact was thunderous. The golden blade bit into the dark barrier with enough force to shatter a mountain range. The shockwave of the hit cleared the mist for miles in every direction, creating a temporary vacuum of pure power. Yet, when the light faded, the result was the same. My axe only scratched his barrier.
Another tiny, jagged line was added to the first. It was as if I were trying to chop down a world-tree with a pocketknife, yet the fact that the knife was cutting at all seemed to be the source of his amusement.
Zaltraf didn't retreat this time. He moved within the fraction of a second that followed my strike. He suddenly punched me.
It was a straight, honest strike aimed directly at my chest. I didn't raise my axe to block. I didn't flinch. But I stood still while he broke his fist.
The sound of his bones shattering was like the snap of dry timber. The force of his own blow had been so great, and my body so unyielding, that his hand had crumpled against me as if he had punched a wall of celestial diamond. His knuckles were crushed, the skin split, and the dark blood of a Demonking began to drip onto the invisible floor.
He didn't grimace. He didn't even blink at the sight of his ruined hand. He just laughed and he regenerated his arm.
The sound of his laughter was deep and melodic, a chilling sound in the emptiness of the void. I watched as the bones knitted together, the flesh sealing over the wounds in a reverse-flicker of time. In seconds, his arm was whole again, the skin unblemished. His demeanor shifted then. The fascination was still there, but it was now underscored by a lethal intent.
He suddenly pointed his finger at me.
The gesture was simple, almost casual, but the air in the dimension suddenly felt as though it were being drained of all life. The very atoms around us seemed to scream in protest. And he suddenly said, "Die."
The word wasn't a command; it was a fact. Suddenly an invisible blast of guaranteed death blasted.
I couldn't see the attack. There was no beam of light, no wave of shadow, no physical projectile. There was only a sudden, crushing void rushing toward me—a conceptual eraser designed to remove the "life" from my "body." I can't see it, but I can feel it. The sheer pressure of the coming annihilation pressed against my golden aura, a coldness that threatened to freeze my soul.
And I dodged.
I moved with a sudden, violent burst of speed, my body twisting through the air as the invisible death passed by. It struck the space where I had been standing a millisecond prior, and even though there was nothing there to hit, the dimension itself seemed to wither. The reddish mist turned black and dissolved into nothingness. If I took that shot, I'll die.
The realization didn't bring fear; it only brought a cold, sharp clarity. This was a battle where a single mistake meant total erasure. Zaltraf didn't give me time to process the near-miss. He just laughed and dashed forward.
He was on me in an instant. The air was filled with the rhythmic, sickening sound of impact after impact. And he kept punching me. His strikes were like cannon fire. Left hook, right jab, a relentless barrage of physical force aimed at my head, my ribs, my shoulders. Every time his fist connected with my body, his arms break. I could hear the snap of his radius, the shattering of his carpals against my divine defense. But he didn't stop. But they are getting stronger.
Each time he regenerated, the new limbs that grew back were denser, faster, and infused with a more concentrated form of his dark mana. It was an evolution occurring in real-time, a terrifying adaptation to the hardness of my body. The sound of breaking bone became less frequent, replaced by the heavy thud of power meeting power.
And suddenly his fist can hurt me.
A strike landed on my cheek, and for the first time, I felt the jarring vibration reach my brain. A second strike hit my ribs, and the air was forced from my lungs. The golden light of my aura flickered under the sheer volume of his assault. He was no longer just punching; he was hammering away at my very existence, his evolving strength finally starting to bridge the gap between his power and my divinity.
The arrogance I usually carried wasn't gone—it was simply being honed into a weapon. I started taking it seriously.
I no longer stood still to let him break himself against me. I shifted my stance, my boots gripping the invisible floor as I brought the war axe down from my shoulder. And I deflected his attacks with my war axe.
The golden blade moved in a blur of defensive arcs. Each of his punches now met the flat of my axe or the reinforced hilt. The sparks that flew from these collisions were blinding, each one a miniature sun exploding in the darkness of the void. The sound was a continuous, deafening roar of metal meeting flesh that had become harder than steel.
I watched him through the chaos, my eyes narrowed. He was smiling—a wide, terrifying expression of joy. He was enjoying the evolution, the struggle, the fact that he had finally found something that forced him to become more than what he was. And I, Euphyne, was no longer just watching a monster; I was fighting one.
The reddish-black sky began to crack under the pressure of our movements, the ripples of our battle traveling back toward the center of the dimension where the others fought. But here, in our private theater of death, the true war was only beginning.