The Second North God considered himself a skilled warrior.
Even a very talented one.
Being the son of the Immortal Demon King Atoferatofe and the First North God, Kalman I, also contributed to that conviction.
Being the son of both, it was only natural that he had grown up believing his own path should also be grand.
That was why, in his youth, he wanted to be a hero.
A hero greater than all others.
One who would raise the name of the North God to heights not even the Laplace War had been able to reach.
Throughout all his youth, he devoted himself to that goal with all his heart. He traveled the world, faced monsters, defeated criminals, saved people, gathered companions, and made his name echo in every corner.
Relying mainly on his remarkable abilities as a swordsman, Sándor advanced from feat to feat until he was acclaimed as the thing he had always wished to be.
A true hero.
But those were different times.
Sándor left behind the glory his title brought. And he also left behind the need to be seen that way.
After everything he had lived through, he began dedicating himself to something simpler in theory, but far more difficult in practice.
Becoming a true warrior.
Even so, while recognizing that he was not as powerful as the great heroes, he had a certain confidence in himself.
His techniques preceded him, and his talent was undeniable.
And even against enemies who surpassed him in pure power, Sándor believed he could still find a way to fight.
That confidence, however, was being tested on that battlefield, as he watched two anomalies collide.
The Martial God.
And Saint Milis.
In Sándor's opinion, both of them fully demonstrated the meaning of human potential.
Not only because of their strength or their techniques. What was truly impressive was the way they adapted.
A technique was used once, and by the second time, it already began to lose its effect. A trick of perception deceived for an instant, and immediately afterward, the opponent's body was already reacting as though it had known that move for years.
Rhythm, distance, angle, intention, posture, breathing, feint, retreat, entry.
Everything was observed, everything was absorbed, and everything was adjusted in the middle of the fight.
To Sándor, that was humanity's greatest strength.
The main reason they had survived and prospered for so long in a world filled with danger.
Adaptability.
And, while that thought crossed his mind, he tried to defend against another punch coming from Saint Milis.
Sándor executed a footwork technique from the North God Style.
His body seemed to retreat to the left, but the image remained in place. The afterimages overlapped with his real movement, breaking the perception of distance and confusing the target of the attack.
It was a technique made to steal only a fraction of a second.
Against most opponents, that would be enough.
Against Saint Milis, it was no longer enough.
The fist of the Strongest Human passed through the false images without hesitation.
Sándor saw that from behind his helmet and smiled bitterly.
The blow struck his face with the force of a cannon.
He activated a retreat technique in the same instant, relaxing his body, releasing his resistance at the exact moment, and allowing part of the force to pass through him instead of receiving it entirely head-on.
Even so, his skull shook.
The impact exploded inside the helmet, and for a fraction of a second, Sándor felt as though his head would be crushed.
In the next instant, he was thrown away.
Like the good training dummy he had become, he rolled across the white sand and the fragments of rock beneath the Ever-White Desert.
His body rolled across the ground once, then again, then again, and then finally tore a long trench through the terrain before stopping amid dust and sand.
Internally, Sándor thanked his fighting companion once again for having disarmed that monster.
He could not even say how many times he would have died already if Milis had still been wielding Ascalon from the beginning of that exchange.
Saint Milis floated a few centimeters above the ground.
His cape fluttered behind him, because of the gale crossing the desert. The white aura around his body remained, as if all the destruction around him was incapable of staining him.
Upon seeing that Sándor was still alive, Milis stared at him with contempt.
"Filthy half-breed. If you were merely human, you would be a raw talent. Unfortunately, in addition to possessing disgusting blood, you have also chosen to serve the Dragon God."
Before he could continue, nine whitish cuts covered the desert in a white-silver glow.
The blades of aura advanced from different directions, freely drawing across the terrain as they crossed the sand.
But Saint Milis was not standing still during that combat either.
He raised only his left hand.
A Red Barrier appeared before him.
"Nullification."
The cuts passed through, destroying everything.
The desert was torn open in deep lines. The ground behind Milis was carved, as if an invisible hand had scratched the world with nine giant swords.
But at the center, wrapped by the Barrier, the Saint remained unchanged.
He merely looked toward the source of the attack.
Then he frowned.
There was a visible fracture in his Red Barrier.
And also...
On his cheek.
A thin cut had crossed his face.
Dark red blood slowly ran down his skin.
Sándor, still getting up, saw that and was astonished once again.
Then he laughed.
Meanwhile, the immortal regeneration factor was working to heal him.
Soon, an amused voice sounded from the other side of the field.
"I almost thought your blood would be shining gold, man! Or maybe divine white? You talk so much nonsense like you're so incredible, but you bleed like any ordinary demon or beast!"
Jino Britz, the Martial God, was sitting on a rock.
His posture was relaxed, and his sword rested against his shoulder. Despite the wounds, the dirt, and the dried blood on his clothes, he did not look especially injured.
After all, unlike Sándor, he still had several abilities to show. That was his greatest strength, versatility.
Milis touched his own cheek.
He looked at the blood on his fingers.
Then he smiled.
"Indeed... but not all of us possess precious human blood, young man. I truly underestimated your potential... But take note that, even with all my power, I am, despite everything, still only a herald of the Human God."
Milis's smile deepened.
"The more you manage to impress me, the more I will want to show you where you are mistaken. Do not worry, I am a very patient teacher."
Jino raised an eyebrow.
Milis was not easy to shake.
Since the beginning of the fight, Jino had been trying to convince him, manipulate him, or even irritate him. Provocations, insults, questions, comments about Hitogami, about races, about fanaticism. Anything that might create an opening.
But Saint Milis remained unshaken. His faith and his beliefs did not yield.
He did not see Jino as an enemy.
In the Saint's eyes, Jino was a junior who had strayed from the correct path. An extraordinary human talent, contaminated by a corrupted society, but still recoverable.
If it was not possible to shake his loyalty, then only subjugating him through force remained.
Despite everything, Milis had not managed to unravel him in battle. Even though he was far more powerful, he still had not managed to decipher Jino.
And while Milis tried to unravel Jino, Jino was doing exactly the same to him.
The two were adapting to each other in real time.
The fight escalated without stopping.
Jino resumed a more serious stance.
His ordinary face and simple appearance could still make someone mistake him for any wandering swordsman.
He spat out the blood accumulated in his mouth.
Then he spoke:
"Antiquated thoughts, really. Worthy of a mummy thousands of years old."
Milis merely observed him.
Jino continued:
"I do not accept the idea that race should decide social hierarchy. In fact, that is not even something to be discussed. Things are no longer like that. Your race of birth, of course, can determine your future to a certain extent..."
He gripped his sword better.
"But in the end, purpose, effort, and talent are what truly matter during life. Race, belief, or culture do not matter. Potential and individual will are the only things that matter in my view."
As he said that, the Martial God jumped again, and his body disappeared in midair.
Or, at least, that was how it seemed to Milis.
Saint Milis brought a hand to his temples.
"Oh! How depraved and filthy our civilization has become! As if an animal ruling the sacred lands were not enough, the vile dragons control the greatest kingdom in the world!"
Saying that, Saint Milis landed softly.
The white sand barely moved beneath his feet.
He extended his hand and recovered Ascalon, which had been disarmed by Jino using a Secret Technique that mixed the Water and North God Style.
Sándor understood that the Saint was referring to the Asura Kingdom.
Considering that Orsted had a certain "control" over Queen Ariel, those words were not exactly wrong.
Even so, they sounded wrong.
Sándor finally finished healing.
The bones of his face returned to place with a dry crack.
Fortunately, Milis was trying to recruit Jino Britz, not kill him.
This kind of conversation had already happened more than once during the fight. Whenever Jino impressed him, Milis seemed to grow even more interested in "correcting" that lost human talent.
If not for that, Sándor had little confidence in surviving under the Saint's direct scrutiny.
The three combatants continued fighting, with ever greater intensity.
And the Second North God began to fall behind.
More and more.
Jino Britz was evolving in real time. Sándor could perceive that clearly.
When facing an opponent more powerful, more experienced, and with more spells at his disposal, the Martial God adapted his fighting style second by second.
A genius of the sword arts, without a shadow of a doubt. Possibly comparable to legends such as Al Farion and Saint Milis himself.
People like Sándor, the former Sword God Gall, or even the Death God could not compare to that.
But the Strongest Human was equally abnormal.
Even when seeing secret techniques for the first time, Milis was capable of adapting and learning from them at a speed Sándor could not keep up with.
At this point, his techniques were completely exposed to Milis.
Just as he was thinking that, Sándor saw Ascalon cut toward him.
The strike threatened to reduce him to ashes.
White and golden light concentrated on the blade.
Sándor prepared his defense.
But he knew he would not be able to block.
'If only I had Kajakut...'
The thought appeared in his mind.
He had decided not to depend on the Gravity Sword after abandoning the title of North God.
But at that moment, before that fanatic who constantly called him a filthy half-breed, Sándor felt a strange urge to teach him a lesson.
But he would not have that chance.
Or at least, that was what he thought.
Before Ascalon could release all its power, something suddenly appeared through Saint Milis's open flank.
It came from the air like an arrow, a woman with blue skin.
Sándor recognized her immediately.
Demon wings, long white hair. An enormous sword in her hands.
It was his mother, Atoferatofe.
With both feet, she kicked Milis squarely in the face.
The impact sounded like an explosion.
The ground beneath the Saint collapsed. Sand and stone sank in a circle. The pressure pushed dust in every direction, and the blow diverted Ascalon's trajectory before the blade finished releasing all its power.
But... just as it had been with him, despite the direct blow, Milis did not seem truly injured. His Battle Aura was simply monstrous.
Instead, he seemed furious.
His hand grabbed Atoferatofe by the leg.
In the next instant, he threw her far away.
The Immortal Demon King spun through the air, but laughed before even falling properly.
"GWAHAHAHA! WHAT KIND OF HUMAN IS THIS?! WHAT IS HE MADE OF?! GWAHAHAHA!"
Being grabbed by the leg and casually thrown away like that was a first in thousands of years.
As soon as she spoke, other people revealed themselves at the same time.
Arriving to help Sándor was an enormous Magic Armor, equipped with a machine gun and a blade on each arm.
Beside him, a swordsman with a black sword observed Milis with interest.
And, appearing beside Jino, a young woman with reddish-brown hair emerged, wearing silver armor and wielding a short golden sword.
She was also observing Milis.
Analyzing him.
Saint Milis suddenly found himself surrounded by the greatest forces of the two factions he was supposed to observe.
But the disgust in his gaze as he looked at Atoferatofe was the most evident.
----
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