When he dove, he plummeted into the depths of the waters — an endless abyss, a dimension only accessible to himself.
It was one of his many expansive spells. A quality nearly exclusive to his mastery over innate techniques. Normally, an experienced exorcist could command four to five variations — not due to any real limitation, but because it was difficult not to be bound by one's own imagination.
And from below, he saw the feet of his sworn killer moving atop the thin veil that separated the realms. He walked carefully through the salt desert, while the killer's eyes were slowly filled with the deep blue below. His hair floated around him, dancing in invisible currents of water.
Pain seized his chest…
The blood from his wounds danced with the flow of the water, until his aura surged through every inch of his body, glowing as brightly as morning light, sealing the injuries.
It was the awakening of his will, overpowering the anguish.
And in a matter of seconds, like an explosion, he burst from the water, casting droplets into the air, gasping, eyes locked forward — catching the attention of his destined opponent.
His wounds had barely closed — he had only managed to stop the bleeding… Regrowing limbs was impossible, even for one capable of simulating matter and rebuilding tissue.
"You just won't die, will you!?" he shouted, dragging his blade around and spinning it between his fingers. "Did you make a deal with the devil or something?"
Romero responded with an awkward smile, and determined to end the fight, looked from the hilt to the tip of the blade.
"It'll be you and that spear…" he said, raising his left hand near his face, his aura taking on a faint green glow. "It's frustrating trying to surprise you when you rely only on a single blade stuck to a handle… ugh…"
"Yeah, she'll be my only companion in battle! That way, your restrictive technique doesn't activate!" he replied, pointing the spear like an arrow over his palm, direct and confident.
"What!? Bastard!" In a swift move, he kicked up the crystal waters and wrapped his remaining arm in them. "Reflexio, Pulsatio Continua!" his voice echoed, and a pulse struck the droplets, intensifying like a shockwave, hitting him instantly.
"Luck, in the end. Just luck."
Each reflection amplified the spell's force — a mere expansion of his domain. And like a sonic blast, the strike created concentric ripples all around.
To reflect a utopian concept like perfection meant to grow stronger with each shimmer, becoming more vivid and intense with each manifestation — not weakening or fading with time.
"Shit!" he groaned the moment he was struck, feeling a pressure so crushing that, had it not been for the rigidity of his muscles, every bone in his body would've broken.
Blood spilled from his ears and lips.
"With the next move, you'll die!" he vowed, charging at him. In the blink of an eye, he was already there.
Hideki tried to land a direct hit, but he dodged, anticipating the next strike. He crouched with the spear and hurled it to the side — leftward.
Was the tide turning?
No! Taking advantage of the dodge, he evaded two, maybe three lateral arcs — insanely fast spins of the weapon — and ducked.
In a flash, he grabbed water with both hands and threw it upward, striking him — completely catching him off guard.
"Reflexio, Pulsatio Continua!" he pronounced again, unleashing another strike.
But this time, there would be no escape.
Another invisible pulse hit his face, and his head exploded instantly, blood and brain matter bursting into the air, staining the once-clear waters. The bones in his skull were crushed, pulverized in an instant; his organs ruptured, and blood vessels burst from the inside out.
It was so cold… and so real.
Such is death — it comes from nowhere.
Without pause, he placed his hands on the decapitated body, holding it to keep it from falling. With a calculated move, he crystallized the upper half of the corpse. Then, with a frontal kick shrouded in aura, shattered the figure as if it were made of thin ice.
Finished…
Half the body turned into a rain of frozen ground meat. From the waist up, the remains fell with a thud into the waters — now filthy and dyed red.
As if the soul's final breath, the spear dropped at his feet and vanished into the air, dissolving into black and purple shards.
The fight had finally ended…
No.
Silence took over, broken only by the sound of the agitated waters, now tainted by blood. The enlightened one breathed heavily, feeling the weight of the battle just fought.
His eyes, fixed on where the other had fallen, reflected a mixture of relief and exhaustion.
I thought it'd be harder…
Why so much confidence?
"At last…" he muttered, crossing his fingers and closing his innate domain. The dimensional veil separating that world from reality collapsed, and the rest of the body lay on the scarred battlefield.
Blood gushed, perfectly separated from the water, pooling at the feet of the dying man. He sighed, legs trembling under the brush of death. But that peace didn't last…
The air vibrated with residual energy. The veil between worlds wavered, weakened, dissolving slowly like mist. Reality, fragmented for a moment, began to reassemble, bringing with it a strange, almost unsettling calm after the storm. The shadows that had danced, screamed, and writhed during the battle now receded, swallowed by the rising dawn.
Then, he kneeled. His knees gave out without resistance, and his palm met the bloodstained ground. His trembling fingers left trails in the reddened sands, feeling their warmth and moisture. His mind, still drifting in the fog of the fight, wandered through the echoes of what had just passed.
Almost… I almost died…
The surrounding scene, once a suffocating chaos of darkness and ruin, now began to show hidden beauty. The rising dawn painted everything in ethereal, intense colors, while the mist of battle dissolved — as if the world itself sighed in relief at having survived the night.
And the celestial, convinced he had escaped by a thread of fate, rose slowly, feeling life return to his limbs, the solidity of the earth beneath him a quiet reminder that he was still there. His hand, stained with blood and sweat, trembled — not only from exhaustion, but from the release of everything he had endured — and yet, a new spark flickered in his eyes.
He raised his face to the sky, letting the cool breeze wash the remnants of battle from his skin — as if the very dawn offered redemption.
Slow steps led him around the corpse, now still, devoid of threat. The silence around him was absolute — almost reverent.
"At last…" A breath from a spirit refusing to yield.
The shadows, now faint, dissolved into the light of what was to come — a dawn not only of the world, but of the soul. And he walked on, carrying the weight and strength of a thousand battles, with the silent promise to endure, no matter what.
Even missing an arm, even with his remaining hand split to the bone. He bit his lip hard, holding back a scream rising in his throat. The pain was searing, each step an insult to his torn body — and yet, he moved forward.
It was almost heroic — if not for the tragedy. A worthy end after such a battle. But fate, cruel and relentless, hadn't yet closed its curtain.
Before his weary eyes, the impossible unfolded.
Shadows slithered around what remained of Hideki's body. Subtle at first, then ravenous, they enveloped the broken pieces with hunger. A black, pulsing aura erupted from the cracked ground — alive, starving. Then horror took shape: fragments of flesh and bone snapped, dragged, fused with violent spasms. Organs reformed, guided by invisible hands of darkness.
What was dust became structure, what was mud became life.
He returned. Shirtless, soaked in dried blood and shadows that still flowed like mist around his rebuilt frame. A nightmare reborn, forged at the border between worlds.
And then, he smiled.
A crooked, psychotic smile — as if something inside had shattered forever… or something else had taken its place. No sanity survived that crossing. One minute dead… one minute in the abyss between realms. There, time bends. Reality holds no law. There, nameless horrors whisper secrets no soul should ever hear.
The celestial felt the air grow heavy once again. Hope dissolved in his throat. But this time, something in him didn't waver.
Because if he returned from hell… he can be sent back again.
The enlightened one, standing, wounded, and swaying, watched wide-eyed as terror revealed itself.
From the resurrected's back, shadowy forms rose. Horns — twisted and sharp like blades — emerged from rebuilt flesh, as if hand-carved by some infernal sculptor. Every inch pulsed with demonic energy. Then, like a sculptor of darkness, he raised his palm — the shadows bent to his will, spiraling into crescent-shaped daggers, their blades jagged like a beast's teeth.
He was no longer human. No longer just a warrior. He was terror incarnate.
And he charged.
Time slowed — the shock, the inevitability froze the moment like a photograph.
His feet pounded the ground like hammers, cracking the earth with each step. The atmosphere rippled around him, distorted by a force so brutal that even light hesitated to touch him.
Sound bent. The world held its breath.
Feeling the crushing weight of fate ahead, the celestial planted his feet and steadied himself. The entire world seemed to press inward, waiting for the final blow. Everything pulsed — not with life, but with dread.
Death had already been decided. Or so it seemed.
It would've been his end… if HE hadn't intervened.
"Who are you!?" growled the resurrected, his voice rumbling like thunder, rough and guttural. His eyes — once devouring black flames — flickered, losing their grim glow. A cry of pain escaped when his arm, ready for the fatal blow, was suddenly stopped.
As if even darkness itself hesitated.
Between them, a presence. Silent. Absolute.
"A… demon?" whispered the celestial, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. The blade of shadow grazed his throat, leaving a burning trail, but did not cut.
The shadow died there. Dissolved. Vanished.
"That's enough, Bezeel!" came the voice. Not a shout. Not a whisper. An order, wrapped in unshakable calm.
Hideki — or what remained of that name — froze. Muscles clenched. The shadow around him trembled. For a moment, it felt like the world itself recoiled.
And then he appeared.
Asmael.
Emerging from the gloom as if born of it. Sharp, elegant features, eyes as old as the first dawn of this world. His red hair — like blood beneath twilight — fell around his impassive face like silent flames. A fatal beauty, almost ethereal, belonging to no known order.
The man stared at him, and in that instant of eye contact, something passed between them. A thread of memory? A revelation? He couldn't say. But he felt it.
"Per benedictionem abyssi, concede mihi potentiam mutandi realitatem, tempus!" the voice of the entity rang out, firm as a cathedral bell.
The words — cursed, arcane, impossible — reverberated through reality's fabric like blades cutting through veils that separate mind and soul.
Syllables time itself fears to utter. The earth shook. The air tore.
The Infernal Chronocracy had been summoned.
Revealing that this stage… was never meant for men alone.