Chapter 41 - Thrones of Ruin

  The sky cracked.

  Not thunder. Not war.

  Just the clanging of two swords colliding in a way, the earth was never meant to hear.

  Satan stood alone. Blade drawn. His cloak fluttered in a silence that dared not speak his name.

  And before him—the Red-Haired Soldier.

  No title. No origin. Just the golden blade in hand and the pressure of a still world.

  They clashed.

  Once— A shockwave.

  An entire ridge of ice gone. Evaporated.

  Twice— The aurora itself shattered, colors broke apart like glass.

  Three times— The wind died.

  The ocean paused. Reality curled inwards to hide.

  Then it began. A blur.

  Blades howled. Twenty-two strikes in a blink, each one carving valleys into the land.

  Satan stepped, rotated, spun—every move a sentence, every parry a sermon.

  His opponent responded with elegance, with fury.

  No wasted motion. No hesitation.

  Step. Slice. Parry. Strike.

  Glaciers fell. Mountains in the far distance shattered.

  The battlefield had become a graveyard of the continent’s former beauty.

  There was no fire, yet everything burnt.

  At the 16th clash, their swords locked.

  The soldier grunted. Satan just smiled.

  " This isn’t even my style," he muttered. And then broke the stalemate. With his fist.

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  The punch tore through air. Through armor. Through dignity.

  The soldier flew, skidding across frozen terrain for miles.

  Satan followed. Blade drawn. Expression unchanged.

  Far above the bleeding ground, Belzeebub hovered like a devil with nowhere left to fall.

  His saber: melted. His coat: gone. His skin? Warped.

  Insects crawled from under it, wings folded in reverence.

  Below, the dragon-turtle would bleed.

  Two heads gone. The other three screached.

  Regeneration began—but Belzeebub was faster.

  He tore open the sky again. The bug legions screamed downward.

  The regenerating stumps were consumed by thousands of gnashing mandibles.

  The dragon fired back—beams incinerating hundreds.

  Belzeebub didn’t flinch.

  Every dead bug was a gain.

  Every beam missed or redirected was a celebration.

  Then he changed. He transformed.

  His body cracked, split open.

  Mandibles jutted from his jaw. Extra arms tore from his sides. His wings molted into black silk dripping with venom.

  He didn’t fly now. He swam through the sky.

  The beams came again—wild, sporadic, uncontrollable.

  Belzeebub laughed like a maniac across the sky.

  Spun through them. Dodged one.

  Caught another. Redirected the third into the creature’s spine.

  He landed on the beast’s shell.

  And began to feast.

  He cut. And tore. And ripped.

  The monster shrieked—each head screaming like a dying city.

  The wildlife in the distance fled. Even the clouds parted.

  The turtle-beast tried to roll. Tried to fly. Tried to beg.

  But Belzeebub wouldn’t let it. This wasn’t a fight any longer. This was a feast.

  Ash landed from the sky like regret.

  The tornado had tossed her, but she recovered mid-air.

  Hit the ice without breaking momentum.

  The man—twin-bladed chain in hand—descended behind her.

  His impact shattered the ice again.

  He moved first.

  Swing—vertical, aimed for the neck. Ash ducked. Slid. Came up spinning, daggers out.

  Slash. Parry. Step.

  They clashed—five moves in three seconds.

  Ash bled from her cheek. He bled from his thigh.

  Ten more strikes. She dodged two. Blocked six. Got hit by two. One to the ribs. One to the throat.

  She dropped. Broken. Bleeding. Dead.

  The man exhaled. Then blinked.

  He was... back. At base. On the massive carrier chopper—blades whirring.

  The mission was over. The dragon was dead. The sword retrieved. No casualties.

  He walked the metal corridors. Found the archer.

  She smiled. Soft. Tired. They talked. About battle. About home. About their futures.

  She leaned close. He froze. Then let her.

  Her hands traced his chest. His mind spun.

  It didn’t make sense. But he didn’t stop.

  Clothes hit the floor. Voices filled the small cabin.

  Desire, raw and unfiltered.

  Then—

  “Wait,” he whispered. Something’s off. Something wrong.

  This wasn’t her smile. Not her scent. Not her eyes.

  He looked down. Ice.

  He looked up—

  And saw Ash.

  Crouching in front of him. Her daggers red. Her face calm and smiling at him.

  His vision blurred.

  He was dying.

  “Oh, not so quick~”

  She leaned in, whispering, “Funny how easy it is. To show a man what he wants most. And let him ruin himself chasing it.”

  He choked. “I... I saw... her...”

  Ash smiled wider. “You saw you.”

  And let him feel it. The shame. The illusion. The death.

  End of Chapter 41 - Thrones of Ruin