The sound of steel cutting through air echoed across the empty expanse.
SHING—
Aethon moved like flowing water, his body twisting, feet sliding across ancient stone as his blade traced a perfect arc. The strike didn't aim to kill—there was nothing here to kill—but to refine. Every swing was measured. Every breath controlled.
Haa… haa…
Sweat rolled down his neck, vanishing into the faint glow of celestial runes etched into the ground beneath him. This place existed far from any world, a solitary training ground granted to him alone. No demons. No humans. No watching eyes.
At least… that was what most believed.
Aethon exhaled slowly and shifted his stance, blade angled downward, posture relaxed but ready. He closed his eyes, letting his senses expand.
The void responded.
Energy rippled outward from him, brushing against the distant fabric of existence. Planets. Realms. Life. Death. He felt them all faintly, like stars barely visible through mist.
Then—
A pressure pressed down on his consciousness.
Not hostile.
Not gentle.
Familiar.
Aethon's eyes opened.
"…So," he murmured, lowering his blade slightly. "It seems my rest is over."
The space before him distorted. Light twisted inward, folding like silk being drawn through a ring. From the distortion emerged a sigil—ancient, radiant, and unmistakable.
The mark of the Ancient Ones.
Aethon didn't kneel.
He simply turned his sword and drove it into the stone beside him. The blade slid in effortlessly, humming as if displeased at being separated from his hand.
"I hear you," he said calmly.
The sigil pulsed, and a voice echoed from all directions at once—old, heavy, layered with authority.
"Aethon."
He acknowledged it with a slight tilt of his head.
Another voice joined the first. Then another. Soon, several spoke in unison.
"A God Slayer has appeared."
Aethon's brow furrowed just slightly.
"…Another one?" he asked, his tone unreadable. "They are becoming frequent."
Silence followed. Not denial. Not surprise.
That told him enough.
He stepped away from the embedded sword and rolled his shoulders, muscles still warm from training. His gaze drifted—not toward the sigil—but beyond it, toward a distant blue world barely visible through the void.
Earth.
"For a time," Aethon said, "humans were too busy killing one another to grow this dangerous."
One of the voices answered, slower than the rest.
"That era is ending."
Aethon let out a quiet breath through his nose.
"I suppose it was inevitable."
The sigil brightened.
"This one cannot be ignored."
"None of them can," Aethon replied. "That is why you send me."
The Ancient Ones did not deny it.
"You will eliminate the target."
"Where?"
The sigil shifted, projecting an image into the void—jagged terrain drenched in crimson skies. Demonic architecture rose like twisted spires, etched with symbols of conquest and slaughter.
Aethon's eyes sharpened.
"…Demon territory."
A pause followed.
Then—
"The Third Demon General."
The air itself seemed to tense.
Aethon stared at the projection, unmoving. He felt no fear—only recognition. The Third Demon General stood just beneath the Demon King himself, a creature said to have survived wars that wiped entire civilizations from existence.
"So," Aethon said quietly, "they finally show their hand."
"This being has slaughtered three God Slayers already," one Ancient One added.
"And two celestials."
That last part drew Aethon's attention.
His fingers curled slightly.
"Then this is no mere hunt," he said. "It's a test."
The sigil flickered.
Somewhere among the Ancient Ones, unease stirred.
"You have never failed."
"That does not mean I am invincible."
Aethon turned back toward his sword. He grasped the hilt and pulled it free from the stone in one smooth motion.
SHING—
The blade sang softly, as if pleased to return to his grasp.
"I will go alone," he said.
There was hesitation now. Subtle, but present.
"Would you require assistance?"
Aethon paused.
For a moment—just a moment—his thoughts drifted elsewhere. To an ancient prison hidden beyond the layers of existence. To a celestial sealed away long before Aethon ever raised his first blade.
A being even the Ancient Ones feared.
"…No," Aethon said at last. "If I require help, then I am already dead."
The sigil dimmed slightly.
Another voice—one that had remained silent until now—spoke up, cautious.
"There are those who believe you may already rival him."
Aethon didn't ask who.
He already knew.
"If that were true," Aethon said calmly, "you would not still be watching me so closely."
Silence answered him.
That silence confirmed more than words ever could.
Aethon sheathed his sword.
The sound echoed like a final decision.
"You are cleared to depart."
The sigil began to fade.
But before it vanished completely, Aethon spoke again.
"One question."
The Ancient Ones paused.
"Why now?" he asked. "Why send me instead of erasing the threat yourselves?"
The answer came slowly.
"Because the worlds still believe in balance."
Aethon's lips curved—not into a smile, but something sharper.
"Then let us see," he said, "how much balance remains."
The sigil disappeared.
The void grew silent once more.
Aethon stood alone.
For a brief moment, he looked down at his hands—hands stained with the blood of demons, humans, and those who had dared call themselves god Slayer's.
"I'll return," he said to no one.
Then space folded.
Far away, in a realm beyond worlds, a gathering watched.
Celestials clustered around crystalline platforms, their gazes fixed on a vast projection of the battlefield Aethon was heading toward.
Whispers spread.
"That's him…"
"The youngest."
"The strongest."
Some watched with awe.
Others with fear.
One celestial clenched his fists.
"We're lucky," he said quietly, "that he stands with us."
High above them, the Ancient Ones observed in silence.
Five of them exchanged glances.
None spoke.
But for the first time in ages—
They wondered