The divine light off the Hero's blade still seared Azrael's severed forearm, refusing to let his body heal. Golden energy clung like chains, mocking his immense power. A billion soldiers of light stood motionless behind the Hero; their glow cast long shadows across the shattered battlefield.
Azrael fixed his gaze on the ruined limb before grasping his own shoulder with his remaining hand. Silent, he tore his entire arm off at the shoulder joint. Flesh ripped with a sickening crack as blackened blood sprayed forth, the corrupted arm falling to the ground and disintegrating into holy flames.
The Hero's eyes widened. "Not your first time, right?
Power coursed through Azrael's body. The shoulder wound was healed in less than an instant: muscle knitting, bone reforming, skin sealing. A new arm flexed, flawless.
The Hero clutched his sword more tightly. "This isn't your first time fighting someone with divine mana, is it?"
Azrael met his gaze calmly. "Of course not. I have fought many."
"You fought the Angel of Death, didn't you?" he pressed.
Azrael nodded. "I have."
The Hero's voice was bitter with envy. "You are so powerful. I would have died for this power."
Azrael's face clouded. "This is not something you should desire. I would have traded all for peace."
The Hero coldly laughed. "What do you know about being powerless?
His golden eyes went distant, swamped by memories.
"I was an orphan," he began, his tone raw. "Kingdom knights slaughtered my parents before my eyes-not for rebellion, but because we were poor, because we 'dirtied' their perfect world. They cut them down like animals."
The billion soldiers behind him flickered, as if echoing his pain.
"I grew up in extreme poverty," he said. "Mud floors. Days without food. Rats for company. No one saw me unless they wanted to kick me down further."
Azrael listened silently while his newly regenerated arm hung loose.
"I had three friends," said the Hero, his fists clenched. "Street kids like me. We survived together-shared stolen bread, dreamed of a better life. One day, a knight patrol came through our alley."
His aura trembled, gold streaked with shadow.
"My youngest friend slipped in the mud," he whispered. "He grabbed onto the knight's armor by accident, trying to steady himself. Just. touched him."
The Hero's voice broke. "The knight didn't hesitate. He drew his sword and butchered them. All three. Right there in the filth. For 'daring to touch' his sacred armor. I screamed, begged, clawed at them—but I was too weak. Powerless."
Holy soldiers flared brighter, their light pulsating with his rage.
"That's why I became this," he snarled. "The gods chose me because I refused to stay weak. I swore no one would ever feel that helplessness again-not while I could stop it."
Azrael's voice did not waver. "Power born from pain. I understand that wound. But strength without peace destroys what it tries to protect."
The Hero's aura exploded. "Don't lecture me! You were born perfect! You never knew hunger, loss, nothing!"
"I knew isolation," he said quietly. "Power that poisoned my own mother. A life where none could come near me without risk. Strength is no gift when it leaves you alone."
The Hero raised his blazing sword. "Then prove it. Fight me—show me this curse you claim!
Breseark, the black katana, hummed ominously as Azrael drew it. The air bent around them.
The billion-strong army stirred. Reality trembled.
Their clash was only moments away-but for now, two warriors scarred by fate stared each other down, one craving the power he hated and the other yearning for the peace that it denied him. Chapter 6 End The actual fight concludes in Chapter 7—perfect cliffhanger!