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"Who's there?!"
The unfamiliar voice sent Azril spinning, her body already coiled for battle. But the sight that met her eyes stopped her cold. The figure was clad in golden armor—a sight that triggered a flood of memories.
As Jibril's confidante, Azril knew all about her recent battle, how she had been forced to unleash her Heavenly Smite and had returned in a child-like form.
Jibril had been uncharacteristically sullen since then, and Azril had gone to console her, learning the details of her encounter with the golden-armored warrior, Alfia.
Unlike Jibril, who believed Alfia might still be alive, Azril had dismissed the idea. To survive a direct hit from Heavenly Smite—to escape without a trace—was, in Azril's mind, impossible.
But now, seeing Alfia standing before her, a seed of doubt was planted. The woman radiated an immense power, a pressure that was every bit as strong as her own.
And her mysterious appearance, so similar to the enemy Artosh was now facing... Azril knew there couldn't be two such women in the world.
"You're... Alfia?" she asked, her hand held up to stop the other Flügel from attacking.
Jibril's description of Alfia's defensive capabilities, combined with her unscathed appearance now, made Azril wary. A fight between them would be a protracted stalemate, and that would be a distraction they couldn't afford.
Not now.
Their Lord, Artosh, was facing his ultimate rival. As his weapons, they could not, would not, be drawn away from the true battlefield.
"Oh? You know of me?" Alfia's voice was laced with a light amusement.
"I thought Jibril would share the story, but I didn't expect to be recognized so quickly. This golden armor... it's a bit too conspicuous, isn't it?" She glanced down at her Gold Cloth, a fond smile playing on her lips. She loved this armor.
"It really is you!" Azril's guard went up. "What is your purpose here?"
"Simply to prevent you from interfering in their duel," Alfia replied, her tone casual. "Our leader is very much looking forward to this fight. He wouldn't want anyone to spoil his fun."
"I see... Then our goals are aligned," Azril responded, her own voice firm. "Our Lord, too, has been waiting for this battle. We have no intention of letting anyone interfere."
"Good. Then let us enjoy the show." Alfia nodded, satisfied.
"As we should."
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BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!
Their silent, intense standoff ended as quickly as it began. A cataclysmic battle erupted behind them.
In an instant, two terrifying auras enveloped the entire planet.
Every race, every being, felt a crushing pressure, as if the world was about to fall.
This was what it felt like to be in the presence of true power.
And this was merely the aftershock.
On the front lines, Alfia and the Flügel, led by Azril, felt it most acutely.
This was war.
Mika and Artosh, the two combatants, had wasted no time. They had unleashed their full power, their battle already at its climax.
Mika's light-speed punches were useless. At Artosh's level, such techniques no longer held any advantage. Lightspeed was something he could easily match.
Even in his God Cloth—Artosh's relentless barrage of blows forced him back. While he wasn't seriously injured, he was completely overwhelmed.
While Mika unleashed a dazzling array of Gold Saint techniques, Artosh's fighting style was brutally simple: a single, unadorned punch.
No mystical laws. No flashy special effects.
Just a perfect fusion of mind, body, and spirit, of power and technique, a single, devastating blow.
As the strongest of the Gods, Artosh was the very definition of power. He was in a league of his own. Every punch was his strongest.
And against this relentless onslaught, Mika was in serious trouble.
He was being completely dominated.
Artosh's style was the epitome of "less is more," the ultimate expression of raw power.
Mika's was a fusion of countless styles, the ultimate expression of technique.
But in this clash, Artosh was simply... better. The gap in their mastery was immense.
'This isn't working,' Mika thought, his attacks faltering, his mind racing.
'I can't let this continue.'
From their exchange, he had already discerned that Artosh, empowered by his God Essence, felt no fatigue. His power was constant, his stamina, like Mika's, seemingly limitless.
This was a problem. In a war of attrition, Mika would be the one to fall. His mind, still mortal, couldn't withstand an eternal battle.
He had to change his approach.
He could call for Athena's help, of course. With her, they could easily defeat Artosh. And he would still achieve the Great Feat required for his ascension. He had already defeated countless Gods; this one victory was not essential.
But it was to him.
He had to defeat Artosh himself.
"I have to change!"
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"HAAAAAH!"
A sword and spear of pure light materialized in Mika's hands, his eyes burning with a desperate resolve.
It had been a long time since he had been pushed to such a state.
But this time, he had pushed himself.
His pride demanded it.
Mika was a strategist. He never took unnecessary risks. This battle was no exception. Even now, with Athena waiting in the wings, his victory was assured.
He could ascend to Godhood at any moment.
But he was captivated by Artosh's God Essence, the essence of the strongest. And he had already declared that Artosh would be the final offering for his ascension. He would not go back on his word.
But Artosh was stronger than he had imagined. Not in terms of raw power, but in his... endurance.
If not for that, even if Artosh were stronger, Mika would have been confident in his ability to wear him down. After all, his God Cloth was practically indestructible.
But Artosh's endurance, a power that rivaled Mika's own Heaven's Feel, had turned the tables.
And Mika would not ask for Athena's help.
His pride wouldn't allow it.
He had been preparing for this battle since the moment he arrived in this world. Every action, every decision, had led to this moment.
And now, at the climax, he would turn tail and ask his strategist for help?
He couldn't bear the shame.
He had to win this himself.
"Remember... the warrior who charged headlong into a horde of monsters, who faced death without fear."
"Awaken... my fighting spirit!" he roared, his voice a low growl.
Memories of his past flooded his mind. A time when he had nothing but a trained body and a novice's swordsmanship. A time when he had been filled with a raw, untamed courage.
In the dungeon, there was no room for strategy, only strength, and the will to face death.
He had never lacked for either. But it had been a long time since he had felt that... fire.
What was that feeling?
It was... a flame.
A flame that burned everything.
As his old self resurfaced, his gaze fell upon the God Cloth he wore.
"To truly burn—this armor is in the way."
He finally understood. He understood why Shiryu, one of the five Bronze Saints, always cast off his armor in his most desperate moments.
It was an act of pure, unadulterated courage.
Without a safety net, without a path of retreat, how could one hope to surpass their limits?
"Then I will cast it off."
At his command, his God Cloth ignited, melting into a torrent of fire that flowed into his hand, coalescing into a single, divine sword.
The forging technique he had learned had not been for a God Cloth, but for a divine weapon that could change its form according to its wielder's will.
The armor had been its most basic, most powerful form. After all, as long as one could defend against an enemy's attacks, one could always find an opportunity to strike back. It was the perfect balance of offense and defense.
But that balance was no longer needed.
He no longer had the luxury of a protracted battle.
He needed pure, overwhelming power.
A Divine Sword.
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"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!"
Their next clash was an explosion of pure force. Artosh's fist met Mika's sword, and for the first time, they were evenly matched.
The shockwave from their impact tore across the planet's surface.
"Ugh!"
The force of the blow sent a tremor through Mika's body, and he coughed up a mouthful of blood.
But he was smiling.
He had finally matched Artosh's power.
He was still outmatched in terms of endurance, but now, he could see a path to victory.
"BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!"
Their battle raged on, the shockwaves from their blows growing more and more intense. And as they fought, a smile spread across both their faces. They were reveling in the glorious slaughter.
Even as his injuries mounted, Mika's smile never faltered.
He had finally rediscovered himself. Not just a memory, but a complete and utter resurrection of his mind, body, and spirit.
"KILL!"
He charged forward, his body wreathed in flames.
The world itself seemed to burn, the air thick with the scent of iron and fire. The other races, watching from afar, could have sworn they were witnessing a battle between two Gods of War. Their auras were so similar.
In the heart of the storm, Mika had exhausted his arsenal.
He was savoring this long-awaited moment.
Though his body was battered and broken, he didn't care.
He could feel it.
From the moment he had changed his strategy, he knew there was only one path to victory.
To surpass himself in the heat of battle. To finally cross the threshold he had been approaching for so long.
The True Ninth Sense.
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