Damian's body hovered slightly above the fractured ground.
But something was wrong.
It wasn't Damian anymore.
His eyes didn't feel empty.
They felt… alive in a dangerous way.
Unstable.
Sharp.
Like something laughing behind thought itself.
He looked at his hands slowly.
Turned them over.
Flexed his fingers.
Studied his own body like it belonged to someone else.
Then he tilted his head.
"…what a pathetic body I have."
A pause.
A faint grin formed.
"…though it's me… I find it pitiful."
His gaze shifted slightly.
The Spirit of Death stood ahead.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then the voice changed again.
Calm.
Measured.
Still Damian's body—but no longer Damian's tone.
"I'll just do things my way from now on."
Silence fell.
Death narrowed its eyes.
"…have you finally awakened to your true power, Damian?"
The being tilted its head.
A laugh escaped—low, unstable, almost amused.
"…Damian?"
He took a step forward.
"No."
A pressure shifted in the air.
A name formed—heavy, ancient, wrong in a way reality disliked.
"Listen up, Spirit of Death."
The air trembled.
"I am the one who walks with the dead and feeds on their remnants."
The ground cracked slightly beneath his feet.
"I am the will of the abyss."
A pause.
"The Fallen Sovereign."
His eyes sharpened.
"Call me…"
The miasma around him thickened.
"…Achlys — The Primordial Mist."
Death stared.
Then—
"…so it's true."
A faint shift in tone.
"The Black Crown carries a split existence."
Achlys smiled slightly.
"You know nothing then, Spirit of Death."
A tilt of the head.
"It was always supposed to be like this."
Death raised its scythe slowly.
"…then let's end this."
The world vanished from perception.
Not speed.
Not movement.
Something beyond sight.
Death moved.
The air itself lagged behind it.
A strike came—
Achlys didn't move.
Not even slightly.
The scythe stopped at his neck—
He barely leaned back.
A fraction.
A hair's width.
Then—
A kick.
BOOM.
Death blocked instantly.
But the impact still sent it sliding back through the ground.
Dust exploded.
Trees shattered in a straight line.
Death stabilized mid-air.
"…interesting."
Achlys clicked his tongue.
"…tch. I need proper martial training."
And then—
He moved.
Black Mamba daggers appeared.
The battlefield exploded into motion.
Blows collided faster than sound could register.
Faster than perception could process.
Faster than logic could label.
Light fractured.
Space bent slightly.
Achlys and Death traded strikes at a level where reality itself struggled to interpret cause and effect.
A slash.
A counter.
A feint.
A reversal.
But slowly—
Achlys began losing ground.
Not due to weakness.
But experience.
Death didn't just fight.
It understood movement itself.
A scythe arc came down—
Achlys twisted into mist.
The attack passed through.
Death paused.
"…hm."
Then it struck again.
This time—clean.
Achlys's body split—
But it was mist.
Black mist dispersed instantly.
Death's eyes narrowed.
"…conceptual avoidance."
Behind it—
Achlys appeared.
Kick aimed at the spine.
Death blocked mid-thought.
Still—he was sent flying.
Death landed softly.
"…even I cannot let that mist touch me."
A pause.
"The Black Crown is not just power."
"…it is corruption of structure itself."
Achlys rolled his shoulders.
"…you're slow when you think."
Death vanished again.
A scythe cut downward—
Achlys dodged—but barely.
A thin line appeared on his shoulder.
Black mist hissed.
Death narrowed its gaze.
"…that wound didn't heal."
Achlys smiled.
"…good observation."
A thought flickered in his mind.
If that touches him fully… even Death might destabilize.
A shift.
His tone lowered internally.
This body… this version of me… isn't fully controlled.
Damian is still inside.
And if I lose too much control… he disappears completely.
His eyes sharpened.
"I can't allow that."
Death's presence changed.
For the first time—
It stopped holding back.
"…Deaths Touch."
The air froze.
A single finger extended slightly.
"If I touch even a strand of your existence…"
Silence.
"…you will die."
Achlys immediately shifted stance.
For the first time—
Defense.
He stopped attacking.
Black mist gathered around him.
His breathing steadied.
"…so that's your rule."
He smiled faintly.
"…then I'll just avoid being touched."
Death moved.
And the battlefield became survival itself.
Inside the consciousness—
A fracture existed.
Damian.
Watching.
Fading.
"…I need control."
Achlys responded mentally.
Control is irrelevant.
Damian tightened.
"…if you erase me completely, Isabell stays dead."
A pause.
That name—
It lingered.
Something subtle shifted in Achlys's expression.
"…shut up."
But it wasn't anger.
It was restriction.
Control slipping.
Achlys exhaled.
Black mist began radiating outward.
Not chaotic.
Structured.
Expanding in rings.
Death noticed instantly.
"…so you chose area corruption."
Achlys smiled.
"…I chose advantage."
The mist spread across the battlefield.
Trees decayed slightly.
Ground warped.
Reality felt heavier.
Death stepped back slightly.
"…you are forcing me to restrict movement."
Achlys vanished into mist.
Reappeared behind Death.
Strike—
Blocked.
Counter—
Dodged.
But now—
The mist was everywhere.
Not attacking.
Observing.
Learning.
Death stopped moving.
For a moment.
"…this is becoming dangerous."
Its voice lowered.
Then it spoke—not to Achlys.
But to existence itself.
"…when death calls…"
The sky darkened slightly.
The ground began to tremble.
"…multiple beings rose from the earth."
The mist reacted.
Spreading faster.
Expanding outward toward something unseen.
Towards—
An army.
And Achlys smiled.
"…good."
Black miasma expanded further.
Covering the horizon.
Approaching something awakening beneath the land.
Not spirits.
Not contractors.
Something older.
Something that obeyed Death.
And even Death itself… had just called it.
The battlefield fell silent.
Because now—
This was no longer a duel.
It was an awakening war.
And Achlys' black mist—
Was the first to touch the rising army of Death.