Satoru stepped into the clearing with the same serenity one would use to walk down an empty corridor. His cloak brushed against the wet grass, scattering droplets of dew with each step.
"Good evening," he said softly, his voice calm and controlled. "My name is Satoru." He gave a slight bow, the kind one would offer in a noble hall. "May I know yours?"
The young woman's silence was more eloquent than any answer. Her sword lowered slightly, ready to rise again in a heartbeat.
Satoru tilted his head, maintaining perfect composure.
"I see."
For a second, their eyes met in the still air. Time seemed to stretch. Mito felt the forest's humidity cling to her skin, the weight of the air pressing on her shoulders, and yet she held his gaze.
"How curious…" Satoru continued, his voice little more than a whisper. "I've gone through my memories, but none of them lead to you. It seems we've never met before."
Mito's lips parted slightly, just enough to let a murmur escape.
"You…"
The world exploded.
[Silent Magic: Explosion]
The blast swallowed the clearing whole. The grass vanished in an instant, the ground rose in a smoking crater, and the air itself warped with the force of the shockwave. It wasn't the fire that made the difference, but the sheer violence of the recoil—an invisible whip that tore through everything nearby.
Mito had foreseen it. Her muscles tensed at the precise moment, and with a sharp twist of her sword, she summoned a barrier like a wall before her. The spell shattered instantly, but it bought her the fraction of a second she needed to push off to the side. She used the wave itself to slide across the scorched ground and brace her feet firmly.
The heat still gnawed at her skin, yet her breathing remained steady. It wasn't the first time she had faced a power capable of erasing everything in its path.
"Tch…" she hissed through her teeth, adjusting her stance.
With a flick of her free hand, new roots shot forward like spears, tearing through the soil in their advance.
Satoru raised one hand calmly. Magic gathered in an instant, expanding beyond the norm.
"[Widen Magic: Fire Storm]."
The air ignited. Flames burst outward in concentric circles, covering an impossible radius for a spell of that level. The widening technique doubled the spell's natural range, and within seconds, the entire clearing became a sea of fire.
The roots split apart and burned like torches, reduced to ash before they could reach him. The heat rose in columns, and the ground itself cracked under the spell's pressure.
Mito narrowed her eyes, feeling the heat lick at her skin. The air scorched her lungs, yet she stood firm. She took a step back—the ground soft beneath her boots—and extended her free hand.
The earth responded instantly. Thick vines erupted beneath Satoru's feet, wrapping around his legs with the strength of iron chains. At the same time, roots as tall as he was burst from the soil around him, forming a circular trap ready to crush inward.
Satoru looked down at the tightening bindings without a hint of urgency on his face.
"[Frozen Aura]."
The fiery inferno vanished in a breath. A wave of freezing air radiated from his body, expanding in steady pulses. The flames died as though they had never existed, the charred ground was covered in frost, and the lingering humidity turned into a white mist that obscured everything around them.
The vines that sought to bind him hardened instantly, frozen to their core, and shattered into brittle fragments. The roots surrounding him froze mid-motion, transformed into crystalline pillars of ice that collapsed under their own weight.
Silence followed. The heat, the light—everything had vanished in a single heartbeat. Only the cold remained.
A crack broke the stillness.
Satoru raised his eyes. A massive root descended from above, thick as a ship's mast, carrying the force of a divine hammer.
He raised one finger.
"[Explosion]."
The blast pulverized the wood into a rain of burning splinters that extinguished before touching the frozen ground. The shockwave scattered the mist, revealing for a moment Mito's silhouette on the far end of the clearing.
Her eyes narrowed, frost gathering on her lashes. The earlier heat was gone, replaced by air that bit at the skin. She tightened her grip on the sword, the blade trembling slightly as if mirroring her tension.
Satoru tilted his head faintly, studying the young woman.
Was she a pure mage? Or a magic swordswoman? The sword in her right hand was far too refined to be a mere ornament, yet beyond that, she wore nothing else of note. Her outfit, though evidently enchanted, couldn't even be classified as light armor. Or perhaps… it was meant to deceive?
"I could find out."
He lifted a hand, and the air distorted. From nothing, a dark-bladed halberd appeared, its edge reflecting the cold gleam of their surroundings.
Mito reacted instantly. Roots burst from the ground in swarms—thick, fast, converging on him from every direction in an attempt to crush him.
Satoru spun the halberd in a wide arc.
"[Crimson Whip]."
From the edge burst a crimson lash of fire that extended into the air like a living serpent. Each time he swung the weapon, the whip responded, striking with violent precision. The ground filled with glowing scars as the roots were disintegrated one after another before they could reach him.
Mito moved in circles, sword steady in her right hand, sending waves of roots in succession while dodging the fiery lashes that tore through the clearing. The heat rose again with each clash, yet her footing remained solid, her eyes locked on him.
The whip burned fiercely for several more seconds… until the glow faltered and the flames vanished, leaving only the halberd in his grasp.
Satoru lowered the weapon.
"Enough."
With a cold motion, he cast a new spell.
"[Anti-Magic Field]."
An invisible sphere expanded in concentric waves. The natural magic rising from the ground weakened instantly; the roots withered and crumbled into dry fragments before they could take form.
"Anti-magic!?" Mito exclaimed, disbelief cutting through her voice as she felt the forest's power unravel around her. Her outrage barely gave her time to react—the halberd's blade was already upon her.
Satoru adjusted his grip and lunged forward.
Dark Wisdom had given him more than just arcane theory. It held fragments of other beings' experiences: memories of battle, gestures with weapons, borrowed instincts that weren't his own. They weren't true abilities or classes, and he didn't know how much of it he could truly use.
But this was the perfect chance to test those fragments.
The halberd rose in an upward slash that Mito barely blocked with her sword at the last instant. The impact was harsh, brutal—the recoil numbed her hand up to the shoulder, forcing her to grit her teeth.
"Tch…"
Satoru didn't stop. The first strike flowed into a flurry of thrusts, the halberd moving with impossible speed for such a heavy weapon. The blade aimed for her chest, her throat, even her legs—each blow carrying the strength to split her in two.
Mito barely managed to deflect them, stepping back once, twice, her sword clashing in bursts of sparks that lit the frost. For a moment, the pressure felt unbearable, as if every second might be her last.
Then, in a flash of steel, she shifted distance. A twist of her wrist and a precise step put her just within reach. Their weapons met at close quarters—halberd against sword—in a storm of strikes that shook the frozen ground. The air vibrated with each impact, shards of ice scattering in every direction, and for long seconds, neither yielded.
To an outside observer, it was an even match. Perhaps Satoru even held the advantage with his overwhelming strength and relentless offense.
But Satoru knew better. In every clash, every exchange, one truth was clear: none of his blows had reached flesh. His cloak was torn in several places, Mito's sword still quivered in her hand, yet she bore not a single wound.
His gaze sharpened.
Mito took a step back, her breathing steady, eyes narrowing. The tension in her body suddenly melted away, as if the previous struggle had been mere warm-up. Her stance changed—not defensive now, but the poised calm of a warrior who had decided to fight seriously.
She looked at him with a calm laced with venom, and her voice cut the silence like a blade.
"Is that all you've got?"
The next movement was different. Her sword sliced through the air in a horizontal arc, from left to right, so fast that the whistle split the frozen quiet.
The blade tore through Satoru's abdomen, carving a clean wound that burned with the holy energy infused in the metal.
For the first time, Satoru's expression shifted as the edge cut through his body. The wound seared like liquid fire; the sacred energy within the sword spread through him, as if intent on burning him from the inside out. His lips pressed into a hard line, and his eyes flashed beneath the shadow of his hood.
Mito gave him no respite.
What followed was an avalanche of strikes that carried nothing reckless about them. Every slash, every thrust, came with the lethal precision of a seasoned warrior and the dark weight of unconstrained hatred. Her sword carved through the air seeking not just to defeat, but to destroy. She aimed for the most vital spots—the throat, the heart, the abdomen again and again. The blade traced cuts across his shoulder, ribs, and thigh.
The halberd spun, blocked, countered—but it was like swimming against a raging current. Satoru deflected blow after blow with monstrous strength, yet Mito's sword always found a gap.
Blood began to mark the frozen ground.
The final strike of the sequence was surgical. The edge came down on his left wrist, grazing the bone, forcing him to loosen his grip. In the same motion, she pivoted and slashed at his right leg, slicing behind the ankle.
Satoru dropped to one knee.
It wasn't chance. Mito wasn't just a mage with a blessed blade in her hand. She had once been the greatest Hero of her age—raised by war and hardened by loss. She had fought without divine gifts or the blessings of another world; only with steel, will, and pain. The title of Great Hero had branded her with a strength that surpassed human limits, and that same experience now guided her—strike after strike—as the huntress who had waited centuries for this moment.
Satoru knelt, cloak torn to shreds, his body marked by dozens of wounds. Blood slid down the blackened fabric, dripping onto the frost below. His breathing was steady, but his shoulders trembled faintly, as if the weight of the cuts was finally catching up.
Mito saw it—her opening.
She clenched her teeth, eyes blazing with hatred, and raised her sword in a clean arc toward his neck. It was the final blow, the one meant to end the monster before her.
The blade cut through the air. A gleam crossed the dim light, tracing a shining line across Satoru's throat. Silence fell absolute.
And then, the blood didn't come from him.
A diagonal slash appeared across Mito's torso, as if an invisible shadow had returned the strike with surgical precision. The force staggered her, air leaving her lungs in a shocked gasp.
"Wh—what…!?" she managed before the world exploded.
[Maximize Magic: Shockblast]
The blast erupted from Satoru's core like a hammer of pure energy. The shockwave struck Mito head-on, tearing her from the ground and hurling her several meters away. A thin line of blood trailed from her mouth as her body twisted midair, crashing against the hardened frost with a dull, echoing thud.
The counterattack had been deliberate. [BackSlash] returned more than half the damage received to the attacker, and he had taken it head-on, accepting it without hesitation.
For him, wounds that would kill any human were little more than an inconvenience.
Satoru rose slowly. Blood ran down his torn neck and stained the ruined cloth of his outfit, yet he paid it no mind. He raised one hand to stretch his neck with a casual motion, as though nothing had happened. With the other, he flexed his fingers, dismissing the summoned halberd without ceremony.
The multiple cuts certainly hurt, but not as much as they appeared. His body was a wreck, covered in bleeding gashes, and yet none of it could truly hinder him. As an Undead—more specifically, as an Overlord King—the rules governing him were different.
The edge of that divine sword burned in his flesh with genuine pain, for [Good, Light and Holy Vulnerability IV] amplified any holy damage that reached him. That much he couldn't deny.
But as for physical harm, the truth was another matter entirely. [Slashing and Piercing Damage Resistance VI] drastically reduced the force of every blow, turning what should have cleaved him in half into surface-level wounds. His immunity to biological penalties nullified the bleeding effect, and in an artificial body like his, the absence of tendons or ligaments rendered such attacks meaningless—there were no joints to sever, no muscles to cripple.
Even the strikes aimed at his throat or heart carried no true consequence. [Critical Hit Immunity] turned any wound to his neck into damage no different from that of an arm or a leg.
And while such injuries should, in theory, have been excruciating—since Mito wasn't attacking merely to win, but to make him suffer—it never broke his composure. [Mind-affecting Immunity] guarded him from more than spells or enchantments; it dulled any emotion that could cloud his judgment.
In truth, the pain had been so intense that the skill had triggered immediately, reducing it to little more than an itch against his skin.
Satoru remained upright, eyes glowing with the same icy calm as ever.
Mito, on the other hand, lay on the ground, her body wracked with pain that kept her still. The impact of the counterattack had left invisible cracks within her, and though she was still breathing, her movements were weak. Gasping, she lifted her sword. The blade vibrated with a gentle light, bathing her in a glow that slowly closed her wounds and eased the pressure tearing her apart from within.
"Reckless…" Akon's voice resounded in her mind, firm like a father's reproach. "You knew what you were facing and still charged in blindly. Did you forget what kind of being you're fighting?"
Mito's lips twisted into a pained smile.
"I know…" she whispered honestly.
She raised her gaze. Before her, Satoru stood surrounded by frost and blood, as though the open wounds across his body were mere details. The unshakable calm with which he remained upright was a brutal reminder that this being possessed nothing human.
"I let myself get carried away…" she said, gripping her sword tighter. "I forgot that thing isn't even close to human."
The light of the sword completed its work, sealing her deeper cuts and returning movement to her limbs. Mito slowly pushed herself up, planting one foot firmly on the frozen ground. Her eyes locked onto Satoru's, burning with renewed fire.
"But that's fine. Now it's my turn to return the favor."
Satoru remained motionless, watching as the woman recovered after her healing. His breathing was calm, but in silence he acknowledged an uncomfortable truth: in close combat, he still had much to refine. Dark Wisdom had granted him fragments of foreign martial experience, memories of fighting styles he had never practiced in life—but reproducing them in a real battle was another matter entirely.
And that woman was proving it.
Even so, her power wasn't negligible. By his estimation, the pressure she exerted was roughly equivalent to that of a Doom Lord—though still below what Hans had reported.
That led him to a single conclusion: she was still holding back.
He raised his gaze to his opponent, and a question struck him. Not once had he heard a chant in her spells.
"Is it a Skill?" he pondered silently. "Or is her mastery over nature magic so high that she no longer needs one?"
He remembered the demons. Their power was so vast that, though they used chants, they had reduced them to brief formulas—nothing like the lengthy verses of human mages. He also recalled a detail from the original story: Arisa, a reincarnated girl, possessed [Silent Chant], an ability that allowed her to cast spells without uttering a word.
His eyes narrowed. That woman—with distinctly Japanese features—could she be a reincarnated one? Or a direct descendant of one? The thought pierced his mind like an intuition too sharp to ignore. And in that fleeting but vivid moment, the image of Satou surfaced in his thoughts.
"Is it because of him?"
He had no proof. No evidence. Yet something in his instinct told him that her hostility was born from a connection to that man.
Before him, Mito raised her arm, and a staff materialized in her free hand. The wood—dark, refined, and alive with energy—vibrated the moment it appeared. At once, her entire body was illuminated with a green glow that coursed through her veins like liquid fire. The holy radiance of her sword intensified, becoming denser, almost tangible, and the way she gripped it with both hands made it clear: she was done holding back.
She struck the base of the staff against the ground, and immediately, a series of massive roots—thick as carriages—burst upward in clusters, towering and twisting, closing in from every direction like a forest come to life.
Satoru lifted a hand and once again unleashed fire.
"[Widen Magic: Fire Storm]."
Flames erupted in a massive circle, engulfing the towering roots as they rose like twisted spires. The heat devoured bark and sap alike, yet even scorched, the massive growths continued to move, forcing their way toward him as though fire itself wasn't enough to stop them.
Satoru arched a brow, faintly surprised, and immediately changed the affinity of his magic.
"[Ice Stalagmite]."
A cold mantle spread across the ground, launching jagged spikes of ice that pierced and froze the advancing roots mid-motion. The cracking of breaking wood echoed through the clearing, but before calm could return, new branches erupted from below—thick vines twisting around his legs in an attempt to restrain him.
From the earth, more colossal roots surged upward, trying to crush him from above.
Satoru didn't resist. He simply flexed his body and leapt with overwhelming force, ignoring the bindings entirely. [Physical Penalty Resistance III] nullified any restriction that could hinder his movement—chains, roots, biological traps—none of it could stop him.
The air tensed. As his figure rose into the air, hundreds of magical projectiles materialized around him—arrows of energy, surrounding him from every direction.
Satoru raised one hand, and the darkness responded.
"[Negative Burst]."
A translucent dome enveloped him in an instant. The air distorted, and in a brutal pulse, the sphere erupted outward as a dark shockwave that obliterated every arrow in a single resounding roar.
Silence fell abruptly. Smoke and frost-laden mist mingled in the air, and beneath his hood, Satoru's glowing eyes scanned the clearing.
She was no longer in sight.
Hidden among the undergrowth, Mito watched with narrowed eyes. Her breathing was still heavy, but a thin, resolved line formed on her lips.
"I see now…" she whispered.
The ground began to tremble again as massive roots clawed their way to the surface once more.
The air turned cold in an instant. Satoru extended an arm, and his power spilled outward in a devouring blizzard.
"[Extend Magic: Frozen Aura]."
A frozen circle spread around him, covering dozens of meters. Razor-sharp winds spiraled in relentless waves, and the roots that emerged were struck by the cold, stiffening and cracking under the constant, freezing damage.
But the advance didn't stop.
From within the shadows came Mito's voice—clear, firm, unwavering:
"[Frost Damage Reduction: 99%]."
Satoru paused for a brief second, watching as the roots resisted the cold and continued pressing toward him, driven by the will of the young woman sprinting among them, sword raised high. The sound of that chant lingered in the air—a reminder that she was far from one-dimensional.
A low sound escaped his lips.
"Oh…"
Interest flashed in his eyes.
He raised both hands.
"[Twin Magic: Crimson Whip]."
Two crimson whips erupted from nothing, blazing with serpentine flames that illuminated the storm in red glints. Satoru moved them with inhuman precision: one lashed out at the roots surrounding him, scorching them to brittle ash; the other snapped toward Mito.
She didn't retreat. The divine sword rose, deflecting the first strike in a burst of sparks. The second forced her to spin, narrowly avoiding it before countering with a wide horizontal slash that split the air.
The duel unfolded again between fire and steel.
The flaming whips danced like living tongues of fire, carving incandescent arcs through the air. Satoru moved them in precise patterns—each crack of flame burning through roots, each swing carving glowing scars into the frozen ground. The contrast was violent: red and blue crossing in a dance of destruction, the blizzard of [Frozen Aura] forming a constant background of biting cold.
Mito dashed through that inferno of elements. Her sword, gripped in both hands, deflected the lashes that threatened to ensnare her. Sparks and fragments of flame scattered with every clash. Again and again she dodged by an impossible margin—leaning, spinning, her robe billowing under the pressure of fire and wind alike.
The roots didn't relent. New pillars of wood erupted from the ground, climbing like serpents to seal the space, forcing Satoru to divide his focus. One whip shattered the columns rising around him, while the other sought to cut off the woman's advance. Yet she seemed always a half-step ahead.
The ground quaked with every lash, the blizzard howled with every move, and still Mito's figure didn't falter. She leapt over one root, slid under another, and with a strangled shout, deflected another whip that threatened to cleave her in two. The impact shook her, making her arms tremble, but she stayed standing.
Satoru followed her under his hood, his eyes glowing like embers. The whips crossed in the air, weaving a lattice of flame that forced her to step back. The ground erupted beneath her feet in a surge of fire and frost intermingled.
It was a battle of rhythm and precision. One mistake, one hesitation, and either could fall.
The entire clearing shook with every clash. The fiery whips carved glowing scars into the earth while roots continued to rise endlessly, and amidst that chaos, Mito lunged forward.
It was a reckless move—direct, desperate—as if she meant to force an end to the fight regardless of consequence.
Satoru brought his arm down sharply, snapping the whip in a vertical strike that should have split her in half. The air roared with the crack—
And in that instant, the crimson flames vanished.
The whip dissipated mid-swing, leaving only an empty arc in the air. And through that gap, Mito charged.
The sword plunged into his abdomen in a burst of blinding light. The impact tore through him violently, ripping flesh and scorched fabric as sacred energy spread within him like luminous poison.
"From the beginning, I noticed something strange about you…" Mito's voice was low and venomous as she gripped the sword with both hands, forcing it deeper. "Even your language isn't well disguised. That 'English' you chant… it doesn't exist here."
Satoru raised a hand and clamped it around her wrist. His fingers closed like iron shackles. Mito pushed with her entire body, but the sword didn't move an inch.
"Your spells… they always last the same. As if you're chained to a pattern. They don't flow, they don't change, they don't improvise. It's like a game."
A faint light began to pulse inside the sword, glowing stronger with every word. Satoru noticed it from the corner of his eye, but Mito continued, sharp and merciless:
"You're strong, yes… but hollow. Like those pathetic fools who arrive in another world with powers handed to them, pretending that defines who they are."
A small, cold smile formed on her lips.
"I wonder… how pathetic were you in your former life?"
The crack of bone echoed as Satoru's grip tightened. Mito gasped in pain but grabbed her own wrist with her free hand in a desperate attempt to stop him. The light within the sword intensified, running along the blade in green and blue waves.
The pain on her face twisted into determination.
"Ten-chan!"
"Ready!" answered a clear voice from within the sword.
The weapon imploded in a burst of blue-green light. A brutal wave tore through the clearing, scattering frost, soil, and splinters of wood. Satoru's body was thrown like a rag doll, crashing through trees before vanishing into the thicket with an impact that shook the forest.
Mito breathed heavily, her injured wrist hanging limp, the bone clearly damaged—but she still held the sword firmly in her other hand. The blade's light continued to pulse like a triumphant heartbeat.
Akon was the first to break the silence after the explosion. Her voice was bright, almost exultant.
"You did it, Mito! At this rate, it's only a matter of time!"
The young woman's breathing was ragged, her wrist twisted at an unnatural angle as the rest of her body mended under the sword's healing glow.
"But don't lower your guard," Akon added, her tone suddenly severe. "That thing won't fall so easily… though I must ask—how did you know what to say to him?"
Mito smiled faintly, exhausted yet proud.
"[Friendship] lets me know what to say to make anyone like me." She shrugged. "So I just did the opposite."
***
Several meters away, among the shattered trees, Satoru lay on his back upon the torn earth. The explosion had hurled him like a doll, shredding his cloak and armor alike; his bare torso was pale, covered in cuts and burn marks.
His blue eyes stared at the night sky, as if studying it with a calm completely detached from the devastation. He stayed like that for several seconds, motionless, before letting out a slow, deep sigh.
"I truly… have much to learn."
He sat up slowly, lowering his gaze to his own body. The skin was blackened in several places—fire always dealt him double the damage due to his undead nature. Yet none of that concerned him. What caught his attention was the wound in his abdomen.
It didn't bleed. There were no entrails, no bone—only light. A steady white radiance shone from within the cut, spreading outward like a sealed brilliance that hid what lay inside.
Satoru watched it in silence, his lips tightening slightly. He felt no abnormalities within himself, yet that light irritated him in a way he couldn't quite describe.
He stood up calmly. His shoulders straight, his gaze firm—but in his blue eyes lingered a subtle change: restrained annoyance.
"That woman…" he muttered, adjusting the shredded cloak to one side. "She's taught me quite a lot."
He raised his hand slightly, magic stirring in the air around him.
"…I should thank her properly."
***
Mito was rising at the same time, her sword glowing as it sealed the last of her wounds. She flexed her uninjured wrist and asked quietly, with a trace of relief,
"Did it really work?"
"Yes," Akon replied. "But be careful. Everything now depends on—"
Her voice broke.
"Mito!"
The young woman looked up to the sky just in time to see it: a star descending at impossible speed, trailing behind it a blazing radiance that lit up the entire forest.