Chapter 39 – The War at World's Edge

  The blade lay still, humming.

  It wasn’t humming like sound—it was humming like presence.

  Its aura bled into the world, so thick it coated the lungs.

  A scarlet mist of power, of death, of godless wonder.

  This wasn’t a weapon.

  This was purpose forged into steel.

  Even the demons stood still.

  For a breath.

  For a beat.

  For the first time in eons, they paused.

  And then—

  Mammon broke the silence.

  “We have acquired the Ancient Weapon.”

  His voice was calm, too calm.

  “Now all that remains… is for us to use it.”

  No one replied.

  They didn’t need to.

  Because all of them knew. It had begun.

  Ash stepped forward.

  Her boots cracked the shattered ice beneath her feet, shards grinding like bones. The red-tinted glow of the blade reflected in her golden eyes.

  She reached.

  The moment her fingers came within inches of it—

  CRACK.

  A beam of light—fast as thought, heavy as fate—slammed into her side.

  She was launched off her feet like a ragdoll, flung across the frozen plain, skidding through ice and shadow.

  She twisted, flipped midair, and dug her heels into the ice—finally finding balance with a sharp gasp.

  A second passed.

  Then five more beams followed—like falling stars, crashing into the remaining demons.

  Lazaro gritted his teeth. “What is this?”

  He dodged sideways, cloak flaring behind him.

  “How the hell did they get here?! Who leaked the coordinates?!”

  But no one answered.

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  Because now—

  The battlefield was full.

  In front of Ash, steam billowed from a crater of crushed frost.

  From within it emerged a man.

  Massive.

  His frame was carved like a fortress, his skin dark, almost stone.

  Strapped across his back were chains—ending in curved blades, rusted and singing with bloodlust.

  He didn’t say a word.

  Ash breathed hard. Her fingers twitched. That wasn’t a weapon. That was an executioner.

  Mammon raised his hand, blocking a sudden twin impact that shook the very air.

  He staggered—staggered—and dropped into a low stance.

  Before him stood two women. Twins. Identical. Smiling.

  Cards floated around them in slow orbit—dozens, hundreds—each one charged with impossible energy.

  One card sliced into the ice with a hiss.

  “Pick a game, demon,” one of them said.

  “Let’s see if you’re lucky,” said the other.

  Lazaro leapt back onto higher ground, his body weightless in midair.

  A streak of silver-lightning followed.

  It struck the platform he had just been on—obliterating it. The explosion lit the sky, white and furious.

  As the steam cleared, she was already drawing again.

  An archer. Pale-skinned, black-cloaked. Her bow wasn’t wood or steel—it shifted, part-mechanical, part-divine.

  Her next arrow shimmered with electricity that danced along her arms, her face blank and unreadable.

  She didn’t aim for him.

  She aimed at the air.

  And lightning answered.

  Belzeebub’s wings burst open in a flurry of feathers and smoke, launching him skyward, just as the glacier beneath him cracked.

  From the hole emerged—something.

  Not a man. Not a beast.

  A body like a turtle’s shell, plated and ancient.

  But its heads—four, no, five—serpentine dragons, all hissing, all snarling, all with teeth like knives and eyes like suns.

  It roared—and the sound froze the air.

  Satan did not flinch.

  A single young man approached him. No wings. No aura.

  He looked...human. Almost radiant.

  His armor was polished gold and silver, his sword refined and clean.

  “You’re not of this world,” Satan said, his tone unreadable.

  The boy only smiled.

  “Neither are you.”

  Behind him, a shadow flickered—but Satan didn’t look away.

  He was focused. Curious. Waiting.

  But Levi—Levi staggered.

  A small slash appeared across his chest. Thin. Shallow. But it was there.

  He hovered midair, brow furrowed. And then—

  Two more descended.

  From above.

  Fast.

  He turned, just in time to see their reflections—two figures with daggers, cloaked in speed and silence.

  He caught their strikes—barehanded. His palms burned, split.

  He crashed to the ground, skidding back. The snow exploded.

  As he looked up—another blade pierced him in the gut.

  The figure in front had moved.

  That same, soft, delicate smile.

  Levi coughed—something black and thick spilled down his chin.

  Demon blood.

  And now—

  The six demons stood, surrounded.

  Each face-to-face with warriors who shouldn’t exist.

  The sky above cracked with color—blues, violets, greens—aurora spiraling like veins across the heavens.

  The ice below rumbled.

  The shadows of the demons stretched long. Warped.

  But the enemy—their light—burned just as strong.

  Ash gritted her teeth.

  “Of course it was a trap,” she muttered, raising her daggers.

  Belzeebub’s wings unfurled wider.

  Mammon grinned, his golden skin glowing.

  Lazaro sighed, slipping a black vial into his palm.

  Satan looked on, curious.

  Levi just stood, unfazed.

  And then—

  They moved.

  The world cracked.

  Welcome to the battlefield.

  End of Chapter 39