"Goodness me, that fellow was truly foolish. Possessing god-like power and status is one thing, but did he really believe his demonic beasts could escape my eyes?"
Merlin sat leisurely on a high perch overlooking the battlefield, staff balanced across his knees, his usual playful smile in place.
"Besides, no matter how powerful he might be, hiding my presence is child's play. Deception is my specialty, after all."
The words were destined for no one—another of his habits, commenting idly to an audience that didn't exist.
But by the time he finished, that smile had begun to fade. His eyes, still dreamy and violet, darkened with unease.
With a sigh, he rose.
"Oh dear, oh dear… I hardly had time to rest."
"You noticed me? As expected of someone who's perfected cowardice into an art form."
The cold voice came from behind. Merlin didn't turn; his gaze merely drifted slightly backward.
"You, as my opponent, hm…? That's rather troublesome."
Before him stood a figure wrapped in contradiction—an outer robe of pure, immaculate white, concealing the darkness beneath.
...
Steel clashed against chitin again and again. The tri-colored sword and twin cleavers carved luminous trails through the air, every collision birthing a shockwave that sent ripples through the ground. Yet the two at the center of that storm seemed untouched, locked in their furious exchange.
Girtablilu clicked his tongue as the sword twisted like a living serpent, forcing him back whenever he tried to retreat.
As a veteran scorpion, he was no stranger to weapons—long or short, hard or pliant—but this weapon that changed length and shape at will demanded constant adaptation.
Scorpion Men were hunters by nature, their deadliest strike the venom in their tails. To fight effectively, they needed distance.
But Altera refused him even that. She stayed close, her relentless assault leaving him no chance to retreat or aim properly.
…Though truth be told, the fight wasn't comfortable for her either. Altera's style flowed best between mid and close range, exploiting her weapon's versatility. Being forced into pure close-quarters combat, all while accounting for that tail, made her movements slightly stiff.
Whoever adapted first—whoever broke the rhythm—would seize control.
Then, as Girtablilu's blade came down diagonally, Altera did not dodge or parry. Instead, she thrust her sword straight toward him.
The unexpected decision startled him. For an instant, he hesitated—but then he remembered the strength of his shell, sneered, and brought his cleaver down with full force.
Clang—!
Two sharp sounds rang almost as one.
One from Altera's sword scraping across his armor—
The other from Girtablilu's blade sliding harmlessly off Altera's bare skin.
For a heartbeat, both froze.
Altera wasn't reckless. Despite being called the Scourge of God, she wasn't one who fought mindlessly for destruction's sake.
Her body, inscribed from birth with the Crest of the Star, radiated magical energy that amplified her resilience beyond mortal measure. Combined with her Natural Body skill, ordinary weapons couldn't harm her.
After calculating the blow, she'd chosen to trade hits, knowing she could endure his strike.
But the outcome defied expectation.
Her divine weapon had bitten less than a centimeter into his armor—stopped cold.
Her tri-colored sword was a relic tied to a god of war, an armament of divine class. For it to fail to pierce completely…
"Can it reinforce itself through energy?" Altera recalled Merlin's earlier words.
In such a duel, a moment's hesitation was fatal—but Girtablilu hesitated, too.
He had intended to let her strike, confident in his shell. Yet now his own blade had failed to cut her flesh, while her sword had pierced him, however slightly.
He could sense faint divinity from her—origin unknown—but as one crafted by the Mother Goddess to slay gods, his attacks should have carried divine bane. And still, she stood unscathed.
The realization unsettled him.
But both were veterans. Their hesitation lasted less than an instant before battle resumed—Girtablilu moving first, his tail lashing in a vicious arc that forced her back.
"—!?"
Altera leapt aside, but the tail's momentum opened distance between them. Girtablilu tried to press his advantage—only for her sword to begin spinning like a turbine.
The next instant, she thrust.
A tricolored beam flashed forth, grazing his flank before tearing through the forest beyond.
Girtablilu's reaction came too late; a portion of his abdomen was simply gone, sizzling at the edges.
He didn't falter. Sneering through the pain, he swung his tail high. Dozens of crimson lances split from it—some aimed straight at her, others sealing every path of escape.
Wounded or not, once range returned, the girl was prey again.
Altera didn't flinch. Her sword whirled, releasing a horizontal arc that intercepted the barrage. The blood-red spears shattered into clouds of poisonous energy, exploding in bursts that swallowed her in smoke.
Altera frowned. The miasma tried to corrode her body, but such poisons were meaningless against her natural resistance.
Then—a sharp whistle.
Clang!
Relying purely on reflex, she raised her sword just in time to deflect a tail strike from above. The smoke blew apart, revealing Girtablilu lunging in with twin blades crackling with violent energy—both aimed straight for her neck.
Victory.
It was a perfect kill formation; she had no room to evade.
The mana pulsing through those blades was sharper than anything before, enough to guarantee a clean decapitation.
Girtablilu's lips twisted in triumph.
This prey had resisted well—but this was the end.
Even Altera hadn't predicted the sudden shift in speed and angle.
For an instant, she sighed faintly—then swung. Her sword knocked the tail aside, but there was no time to bring it back to guard.
Girtablilu's grin widened.
Checkmate.
Yet her next motion stopped him cold.
Using the recoil of her swing, she inverted her grip—aiming not the blade, but the hilt, straight at his chest.
What nonsense is this?
Had she gone mad?
He almost laughed.
Then he saw the lights.
"Destroy…"
The whisper came soft as a breath, followed by a crisp, metallic pew.
Three beams of light—red, blue, and yellow—burst from the sword's hilt, piercing through his chest before he could react.
His blades froze mid-swing.
Silence swallowed the clearing.
"You…"
His voice was barely audible. His body began to crumble from the point of impact outward, black armor flaking away like ash.
He could accept defeat—but not understanding. How could mere light erase his existence so utterly?
His final thought was disbelief.
And then, the Scorpion Man—Girtablilu, one of Tiamat's Eleven Children—perished once again.
Watching his remains scatter into dust, Altera exhaled slowly.
"Destruction… complete."
Honestly, she hadn't wanted to use that final attack. But there had been no other way.
Around her, the surviving beasts had already fled, their minds freed from illusion and their courage broken by the battle's aftermath.
The illusion itself had dissipated—the caster no longer sustaining it.
And as Altera's vigilance eased for the briefest moment, the forest fell eerily still.
Then—
A sharp whoosh cut through the air behind her.
Her instincts screamed, but too late. As she turned, all she saw was a blur of white—a figure whose hand, sharpened like a blade, drove mercilessly toward her back.
---
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