The air over Zerathis collapsed.
Not bent.
Not distorted.
Collapsed.
A presence tore through space with such violence that the atmosphere screamed in protest. The sky split into burning seams, clouds vaporizing as something descended—not falling, not teleporting, but arriving, as if reality itself had been forced to make room.
Kaelven felt it first.
The shade beneath his tree evaporated into steam.
"…Ah," he muttered, standing slowly. "So that's Hell."
Black fire ignited mid-air.
From within it stepped a humanoid figure—tall, broad-shouldered, posture regal and cruel. His body was sculpted like obsidian given muscle and intent. Two curved horns arched backward from his head, glowing faintly red at the edges, as if heat leaked constantly from his very bones.
His eyes were furnaces.
Not red.
Not orange.
Black.
Fire without light.
Ifrit, Demon Lord of the Sixth Hell.
The moment his feet touched the ground, the battlefield began to melt.
Stone softened. Sand fused into glass. The air itself became toxic, heavy with invisible poison as hellfire radiation intoxicated everything it touched. Even breathing became dangerous for anything weaker than a god.
Ifrit inhaled slowly.
"…Lucifer's stench," he said, voice low, layered, carrying echoes of screaming furnaces.
Then his gaze locked onto Alzwalt.
"And your light."
Alzwalt stood calmly within the ruined crater, six golden wings unfurled, sword resting loosely at his side. His expression didn't change—but the light around him sharpened, becoming cleaner, purer, like a blade honed to conceptual perfection.
"You're late," Alzwalt said.
Ifrit smiled.
And vanished.
The impact came before the sound.
Ifrit appeared directly in front of Alzwalt, fist already moving—faster than light, compressed into a single moment of annihilation. The punch carried not just force, but erasure—black hellfire coiling around his arm, consuming space as it traveled.
Alzwalt reacted instantly.
He crossed his forearms.
BOOM.
The collision detonated outward, a shockwave ripping across the land like a tidal wave. Mountains in the distance cracked. The ground beneath Alzwalt's feet disintegrated into molten glass.
Alzwalt slid backward.
One step.
Then another.
Then a third.
He stopped himself mid-slide, wings flaring.
That alone said everything.
Kaelven's eyes widened slightly.
"…Oh," he murmured. "He made him move."
Ifrit straightened, rolling his neck once, black fire dripping from his knuckles and evaporating before it hit the ground.
"You blocked," Ifrit said approvingly.
"Impressive. Most concepts don't."
Alzwalt lowered his arms.
"You hit harder than Lucifer," he replied calmly.
Ifrit's smile vanished.
In its place—rage.
The temperature spiked.
Hellfire erupted from Ifrit's body, black flames spiraling outward in a storm that devoured matter, erased energy, and poisoned reality itself. Trees miles away combusted into nothingness. Even light warped as it passed through the inferno.
"If you were a double count user," Ifrit said, stepping forward, each step liquefying the ground,
"you'd already be dead."
Alzwalt raised his sword.
"Fortunately for me," he said, voice steady,
"I'm worse."
Ifrit lunged.
No theatrics.
No wasted motion.
Pure martial dominance.
His strikes came in blinding sequences—hooks, elbows, knees, spinning kicks—each movement layered with hellfire erasure, each blow capable of deleting concepts rather than damaging flesh. Alzwalt met him head-on, sword and body moving in perfect synchronization.
Steel met flame.
Light met hell.
Alzwalt parried a downward hammerfist, twisted inside Ifrit's guard, drove an elbow into his ribs—only for the impact to spark uselessly against near-indestructible demonic flesh. Ifrit countered with a knee aimed at Alzwalt's core.
Alzwalt twisted, letting it graze past, wing snapping forward like a shield.
They exchanged hundreds of blows in seconds.
Kaelven could barely track them—afterimages overlapping, shockwaves colliding mid-air, each clash detonating like artillery fire. Hellfire erased space; light stitched it back together.
Ifrit grabbed Alzwalt mid-exchange, fingers sinking into his shoulder.
"Burn."
Black hellfire surged inward.
Alzwalt didn't scream.
Instead, the fire recoiled.
Light flared from within his body, flooding outward, rejecting erasure with absolute authority. Ifrit hissed, releasing him and leaping back as his own flames were purified into harmless sparks.
"…Circuit," Ifrit growled.
"No."
His eyes narrowed.
"You're not a circuit user."
Alzwalt straightened, rolling his shoulder as light repaired the damage.
"No," he agreed.
"I'm the archetype."
Ifrit's laughter boomed across the battlefield.
"A manifested persona," he said.
"Of him."
The name wasn't spoken—but the weight of it pressed down on the world.
Arata Kurogane.
The Creator's shadow.
Ifrit spread his arms.
"Good," he said, flames roaring higher.
"Then this will be worth my time."
The battlefield became hell.
Ifrit raised one hand—and the sky ignited.
Black suns formed overhead, raining pillars of erasure fire that annihilated everything they touched. Alzwalt moved through the storm, wings slicing through descending infernos, sword carving paths of absolute light.
Ifrit appeared behind him, heel crashing downward.
Alzwalt caught it.
The ground shattered beneath them.
They grappled—strength against strength—Ifrit's demonic physique pressing forward, muscles coiled with hellfire power. Alzwalt held firm, feet digging into molten ground, light reinforcing every fiber of his being.
"You cannot destroy me," Ifrit snarled.
"Only conceptual attacks can harm my kind."
Alzwalt's eyes glowed faintly gold.
"Who said I was attacking your body?"
He released the grip—and vanished.
Ifrit barely had time to turn before Alzwalt reappeared above him, sword raised.
"Judgment."
The blade descended—not cutting flesh, but identity.
Ifrit crossed his arms just in time. The strike landed, releasing a vertical beam of light that split the battlefield and carved a glowing scar across the horizon.
Ifrit was driven to one knee.
Smoke rose from his crossed forearms.
For the first time—
He was injured.
Not bleeding.
But burned.
Conceptually.
Ifrit laughed again, darker now.
"…So that's how it is."
He stood, black fire roaring violently.
"Then let me answer in kind."
He slammed his fists together.
The Sixth Hell answered.
A massive sigil formed beneath his feet, burning into existence—ancient, infernal, absolute. The air screamed as hellfire condensed, not as flame but as law.
Ifrit pointed at Alzwalt.
"Oblivion Pyre."
The world turned black.
A column of hellfire descended—not heat, not energy, but erasure given form. It swallowed Alzwalt completely, space itself screaming as it was consumed.
Kaelven shielded his eyes, the pressure alone threatening to crush him.
"…Is he—"
The pillar split.
Light erupted from within.
Alzwalt emerged, wings blazing brighter than ever, sword humming with authority. The erasure fire peeled away from him, unable to overwrite what was defined by something higher.
Ifrit stared.
Then smiled slowly.
"…Magnificent."
They moved again.
Faster.
Harder.
The fight transcended spectacle, becoming a clash of principles—Hell's destruction versus Creation's order. Fists, blades, wings, flames—each exchange rewrote the battlefield, scars of light and darkness etching themselves into Zerathis forever.
Minutes passed.
Then hours.
Neither yielded.
Finally, they separated, hovering mid-air.
Ifrit's flames flickered—but still burned.
Alzwalt's light remained steady.
Ifrit exhaled slowly.
"…You are not my enemy," he said.
"You are a message."
Alzwalt inclined his head slightly.
"Tell your ruler," he replied,
"that Hell has crossed a line."
Ifrit laughed softly.
"Oh, he already knows."
He turned, black fire consuming his form.
"But understand this, angel," his voice echoed as he vanished.
"Hell remembers its grudges."
Silence returned.
The battlefield smoldered.
Kaelven finally exhaled.
"…Yeah," he muttered.
"Unmeasurable really does mean unmeasurable."
Alzwalt lowered his sword, wings folding slowly.
Far away—
Something vast stirred.
And this time—
It was watching back.