Chapter 4: Battle Continues
I. The Price of Transgression
The artificial void of the Tomb Domain held Zenin City's outskirts in a vice grip of absolute, suffocating silence.
Within the pitch-black barrier, Black Shizugawa stood tall, but the illusion of his unyielding royalty was beginning to fracture. Beneath his shredded sleeves, his veins pulsed with a sickening, liquid-black hue. Pushing his mortal body past the tenth stage was no longer just draining his Eminence energy—it was actively liquefying his life force. Every breath he drew tasted like copper and old ash.
Opposite him, Doumar remained pinned to one knee, the localized gravity of the domain threatening to snap his collarbones. Yet, the ancient demon looked up through his tangled hair, a mocking, jagged grin slowly returning to his face as he noticed the trembling in the old man's limbs.
"Unbelievable… truly magnificent," Doumar rasped, his voice vibrating under the crushing weight of the domain. "You look sixty—no, seventy at least, human. Yet you force a child of Xaphan to bow. But your clock is ticking, isn't it?"
Doumar let out a low, gravelly chuckle as a thin line of black blood leaked from his own nose.
"If you were in your prime, I would already be dead. But your flesh is ancient. Your energy is dry. Using above the tenth stage is a death sentence for a mortal."
Black didn't grant the demon the satisfaction of a verbal reply. He simply tightened his bloodied fingers around the iron shaft of his weapon. He knew the demon was right. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, and the world at the edges of his vision was beginning to blur into a gray haze.
"Shut your mouth," Black whispered, his voice dangerously low.
He didn't just plant his feet; he locked his ankles, anchoring his entire soul to the earth.
"Then let us end this… here and now."
II. The Thirteenth Stage
The pitch-black void of the Tomb Domain began to collapse inward, condensing into the razor-thin edge of Black's scythe. The sudden concentration of death energy caused the surrounding reality to warp, the air turning so cold that the broken trees began to crack and split down the middle.
Then, a sound filled the ruined forest.
It wasn't the howling of the wind, nor was it the screech of clashing metal. It was a song.
A mournful, ancient, and hollow note vibrated from the crescent blade—a sound so deeply saturated with the concept of the grave that the very ambient light died. It was a funeral march for a world that had forgotten how to weep.
Black's lips parted, his voice carrying the finality of an executioner's axe.
"13th Stage… Void Requiem."
For the first time since he stepped through the gates of Zenin City, Doumar's expression completely shattered. The arrogant, lazy smirk vanished, replaced by an expression of raw, unadulterated terror. The ancient melody didn't just hurt his ears; it pierced through his demonic flesh, actively vibrating against his very soul.
"That… that sound…" Doumar stammered, his pupils shrinking to pinpricks as he desperately tried to raise his arms to form a defensive barrier. "Horror… absolute horror… even for a demon?!"
Black moved.
He didn't sprint. He didn't vanish in a flash of speed. His steps were slow, heavy, and unsteady—the gait of a dying man carrying a mountain. Yet, to Doumar's eyes, the approach was completely unavoidable, as if the old man was dragging the horizon along with him.
The crescent blade cut through the air.
There was no explosion upon impact. No thunderous shockwave. When the edge met Doumar's torso, it was a silent, undeniable tearing of existence.
The mournful song of the Void Requiem intensified, reaching a deafening crescendo. Doumar threw his head back, an agonizing, blood-curdling scream tearing from his throat as ninety percent of his colossal Eminence energy was violently ripped from his cells, vacuumed directly into the hungry, black iron of the scythe. His demonic aura shattered like glass, collapsing inward until he was left entirely hollow.
"N—No! Stop! Stop it—!"
The song abruptly stopped. The void dissolved.
The crimson moonlight returned to the forest, illuminating a scene of absolute devastation.
III. A Single Flash of Steel
Doumar staggered back, his knees buckling violently as he collapsed onto his hands and knees. He was trembling, gasping for air, his eyes wide and bloodshot. His power had been utterly decimated, his core left fractured and bleeding.
"So this… is the Reaper's end…" the demon murmured, his voice barely a wheeze, completely stripped of his former grandeur. He looked up, expecting the final strike.
But the final strike never came.
The great scythe slipped from Black Shizugawa's fingers, clattering dully against the frozen dirt.
The Lord of the Black Dynasty fell to one knee, his chest heaving in shallow, broken gasps. The black veins along his neck began to recede, leaving his skin a pale, deathly gray. Blood poured freely from his nose, his ears, and the corners of his eyes, soaking into the ruined earth beneath him.
The world was spinning. The crimson moon above began to fade into an endless, peaceful darkness.
No… Black thought, his mind desperately reaching backward through the fog of death. Not yet… just a little more time…
Doumar forced himself up onto trembling, unsteady legs. He wiped the blood from his eyes, looking down at the unmoving elder with a profound, newfound reverence. There was no mockery left in the demon's heart.
"You were stronger than me," Doumar admitted softly, his voice echoing in the dead quiet of the woods. "There is no doubt. If your body had held… I would be ash."
Black didn't hear him. He lifted his fading, glassy gaze toward the bloody sky, a single, final image forming in his mind—not of his legendary father, nor of his past victories.
He saw a young boy with stubborn eyes, holding a wooden practice sword in the palace courtyard, desperately wanting to be noticed.
"…I just wanted," Black whispered, his voice dropping into the silent rustle of the leaves, "to live long enough… to see my grandson… Rein… grow into a man."
A single flash of silver moonlight cut through the canopy, illuminating the old man's face as his eyes finally closed.
The crimson moon watched in absolute silence.
The Lord of the Black Dynasty sat perfectly still on one knee, his body transforming into an unbreakable statue of honor, as darkness finally fell over his world.
—END OF CHAPTER 4—