The white radiance faded among the growing anticipation among the devils, as the Bael Stadium crowd leaned forward in their plush seats as collective murmurs rippled through the stands.
"Is that it?"
Someone shouted from the upper tier in utter disappointment.
"Nothing changed at all!" Another spectator squinted, then jabbed a finger toward the battlefield "Wait—look at his hand! The boy's got himself a blade!"
The whispers transformed into a whirlpool of speculations, each devil's voice layering atop another until the stadium buzzed like an overturned beehive. Nobody could predict what fresh hell was about to break loose, and that uncertainty tasted sweeter than any vintage wine the noble devils had been sipping until now.
Motohama tightened his fingers around Nothung's golden grip, feeling the demon sword's weight settle in his palm like he was finally recognized as a worthy one.
'It's a shame I can't drain the essence of Ultimate Class bloods' he mused, lips twitching into something between a grimace and a smirk 'Their essence would've been the jackpot against every powerful opponent than me,...but Kiba's blood? That's primo stuff right here. Not only can I move with the speed of a knight, but also can wield the demon sword with ease'
The magical barrier dissolved around him with a snap of his fingers, particles scattering like broken glass around him. He shifted into a swordsman's stance, and every devil sword user in attendance recognized the body language of someone who had the body of a swordsman, but skills of an amateur.
WHOOOOSH!
Flames erupted skyward as Riser's magnificent phoenix form spread its wings that blotted out sections of the barrier-protected dome above. Orange and crimson feathers blazed with demonic fire, each plume crackling with enough heat to melt ground beneath. The phoenix's eyes, still recognizably Riser's, locked onto Motohama with undisguised contempt.
"Does this pitiful human truly believe a mere sword can challenge Riser in his legendary Phoenix form?" Riser's voice boomed across the stadium, blazing with the superiority that came from never knowing real defeat. He continued to speak about himself in third person like some delusional emperor, wings flaring wider as if size alone would crush his opposition "It's over for you! You're Done! You cannot possibly claim victory against Riser now!"
FWOOOSH!
A single flap of those massive wings generated gale-force winds that scattered debris across the ruined battlefield. Hundreds—no, thousands—of flame arrows materialized in the air above the phoenix, each arrow burning white-hot at its core, edges flickering in bright orange. They hung suspended for one moment, two, before Riser launched them in a barrage that would reduce any high class devil to ashes and regrets.
Motohama drew a lungful of air deep into his chest, then swung Nothung in a clean horizontal slash. The blue blade sliced through reality itself, as a spatial tear ripped open in front of him, giving a peek at swirling void that hurted to look at directly. The tear gaped wide, like a hungry mouth eager to swallow everything in its path.
FWOOOOOM!*
Every single flame arrow vanished into the void as if they'd never existed at all. The spatial tear sealed itself shut with a sound like lock on forbidden door, leaving no trace it had ever opened.
"..."
The Bael Stadium went silent as a lamb. Riser in the air, had his wings frozen mid-flap, his massive phoenix form suddenly looking less like a legendary immortal bird and more like a confused turkey wondering where it's dinner went. Even the crowd had stopped talking, ten thousand devils processing what their eyes just witnessed but their brains refused to accept.
But then.
"YEEEAAAAAHHHHH!"
The roar of approval shook the stadium, nobles and commoners alike leaping from their seats in a unison as if they agreed on a peace pact.
"I KNEW IT! I KNEW HE'D PULL SOMETHING!" one devil screamed, pumping both fists.
"That human bastard's got tricks for days!" another howled with the kind of manic glee usually reserved for watching your worst enemy on their knees.
The cheers built upon themselves, crashing over the battlefield, each louder than the last.
---
- In Satan's private section -
Ajuka Beelzebub's eyebrows rose slightly, practically a parade of shock for someone as composed as him. His lips curved into something approaching amusement, though his voice stayed calm "Did you know the demon sword Nothung, was in his possession?"
Sirzechs Lucifer never shifted his gaze from the battlefield below. He replied, refusing to take his eyes off the live event "Serafall submitted her report several days back. She mentioned a group calling themselves the Hero Faction tried to recruit him" He paused, watching Motohama lower his sword "One of their members lost an arm to that young boy down there. I'd wager the arm wasn't the only trophy he secured from the encounter"
"I've decided!" Serafall Leviathan announced with the enthusiasm of someone discovering free dessert, eyes sparkling like a teenage girl who'd just met her favorite idol. Both male Satans turned toward her, expressions sliding into cautious confusion.
They knew well enough that her decision never tends to be a good one, especially for them.
"Mo-tan is going to be in the lead role in my new Magical Girl movie!" She clasped both hands together, stars practically radiating from her pupils "He's got the look, the power, the mysterious vibe—absolutely perfect for casting!"
Ajuka and Sirzechs exchanged glances that communicated entire conversations without words. A bead of sweat traced down Sirzechs' temple.
'Poor boy has no idea what storm's coming his way'
Both Satans thought in unison, already mentally composing condolence messages for Motohama's unknown fate at the hands of Serafall's entertainment empire.
---
*SCREEEEE!*
The phoenix's shriek tore across the battlefield like nails on a chalkboard amplified through concert speakers. Riser's trump card, the supposedly unstoppable flames, had been put out like a matchstick on fire, his brain struggled to process the humiliation. Rage flooded through every part of his being, rational thought drowning under waves of pure fury.
"So what if you countered Riser's flames!" The phoenix's beak snapped open and closed with each word, embers flying "Riser's regeneration is absolute! ABSOLUTE! You think one lowly trick with your sword makes you special? Riser is immortal! IMMORTAL! You're still just a lowly weak human!"
He went berserk, fire erupting from every feather like a sun on its villain arc. The battlefield trembled under the sheer weight of demonic power he was emanating into the air.
Motohama's eyes narrowed as he bent both knees, gathering power in his legs, then channeled the Tremor-Tremor Fruit's devastating force into the ground beneath his feet.
BOOOOOM!
The battlefield ground beneath him exploded! Tremors radiated outward in circles, chunks of stone launching skyward as Motohama shot toward the massive phoenix like a missile with murderous intent, Nothung held in both hands, his eyes colder than antarctic ice.
Riser saw him as a tiny human speck growing larger, blade raised, death written across features that belonged to a weakling but wore the expression of an executioner.
"DIEEE!" Riser opened his beak and unleashed a colossal wave of flames that turned the air itself into plasma. Orange, red, blue, and white fire merged into a destruction wide enough to swallow everything in its path. The heat signature alone should've vaporized Motohama before the actual flames touched him.
But, Motohama sliced through it all like it wasn't even there. Nothung's blade parted the inferno with the same ease you'd push aside low level problems with bigger ones in hand. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, suspended in midair above Riser's massive form, and then his form blurred.
SLASH!
SLASH!
SLASH!
Each swing of Nothung drew lines across the phoenix's body—deep gouges that severed muscle and bone, feathers scattering like autumn leaves in a hurricane.
The demon sword's legendary sharpness continued to give wounds to the Phoenix, the wounds that reality itself struggled to heal. Seeing the damage it dealt, along with time that it took to heal, Motohama moved with the skills of a surgeon and the speed of a madman, every strike calculated to inflict maximum damage.
*SCREEEEEEE!*
Riser's phoenix screech turned agonized, wings flailing as pain receptors that hadn't fired in years suddenly remembered their job. The wounds began knitting themselves closed immediately—flesh crawling back together, bones reconnecting with wet snapping sounds.
But something was wrong.
The regeneration happened slowly. Painfully slowly. Where normally Riser healed instantaneously, now he watched his body struggle to repair itself at a crawl that would make a snail look like flash.
"This is the end"
Motohama said, still airborne above the writhing phoenix.
He gathered every ounce of the Tremor-Tremor Fruit's power, channeling it through his arms, into his shoulders, down through both hands gripping Nothung's handle. The demon sword began vibrating with contained earthquakes, space around the blade distorting with a visible glow. Motohama raised the weapon above his head, muscles corded tight, veins standing out on his forearms.
"RAAAAAAHHHHH!"
He drove Nothung straight down with both hands, combining spatial cutting with concentrated seismic devastation in one apocalyptic strike.
*CCCCRRRRAAAAAACCCCKKKK!*
The sound that followed would make thunder sound like a polite cough. The Bael Stadium shook like the planet itself was having a seizure. Barriers erected by Grayfia Lucifuge flared brilliant silver-white as they absorbed impact forces that would've turned the entire audience into a bloody mess. The magical protections groaned under the overwhelming strain, fracture lines across their surfaces before stabilizing through sheer durability of Grayfia's defense.
The battlefield was long gone. Completely obliterated. Where there'd been molten ground, now there existed a crater deep enough to hide a dragon in it. Smoke rose in clouds that blocked visibility, ash raining down like nuclear winter, small fires burning around the scattered debris.
The crowd pressed against the barriers, nobles and servants alike craning necks to see through the smoke. They needed confirmation their eyes could trust.
The smoke cleared gradually, revealing the crater's bottom in agonizing remains of aftermath.
Motohama stood in the center, both hands gripping Nothung's handle like it was the only thing keeping him stable—because it was. Blood streamed from his nose, his ears, the corners of his eyes. His arms shook with muscle fatigue that went bone-deep. Breathing came in ragged gasps that seemed painful.
But he was the only one who stood upright, & conscious.
Few meters away, Riser lay sprawled in his original form, blazer shredded, white shirt soaked crimson, blond hair matted with blood and dirt. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths—alive, but unconscious, regeneration finally tapping out after taking damage it couldn't process fast enough.
*FWIP!*
Grayfia appeared out of the magic circle, beside Riser. She gave a glance at him, her eyebrows rising momentarily, then turned her gaze toward Motohama, and assessed his condition.
'It seems he pushed the demon sword too far' she concluded instantly, recognizing the symptoms of someone who'd burned through their life force like rocket fuel 'He sustained a critical damage to his essence. But, he is going to be alright'
Grayfia walked toward Motohama with measured steps, heels clicking against shattered ground. She stopped three paces away, raised one hand to point directly at him, and her voice carried across the entire stadium with perfect clarity despite not shouting.
"I, hereby, declare him the winner of this duel"
*ROOOOOAAAAAARRRRR!*
The crowd detonated into celebration that made the previous cheering sound like library whispers. The majority of female devils jumped on their seats, dignity abandoned in favor of pure exhilaration, as the rest of the devils joined in as well.
"I CAN'T BELEIVE MY EYES, A MORTAL DEFEATED AN IMMORTAL!"
"DID YOU SEE THAT FINAL STRIKE?!"
"I'M TELLING EVERYONE ABOUT THIS FOR THE NEXT CENTURY!"
'I won'
Motohama thought, consciousness already sliding sideways 'Pulled it off by defeating the flaming chicken bastard. I did it, I..."
It was at this moment, his legs remembered they'd been supporting his weight through borrowed time and divine stubbornness. Darkness rushed in from the edges of his vision like curtains closing on a stage.
Before he could collapse forward, Grayfia caught him before his face could leave a victory mark on the rubble. She cradled his unconscious form with the ease of someone who'd handled too many exhausted fighters to count, then raised her free hand to signal for medical personnel.
The Bael Stadium continued its celebration, ten thousand voices chanting Motohama's name, nobles already composing stories they'd tell for generations. The match concluded exactly as impossible as it started—with a mortal human standing victorious over an immortal devil phoenix, defying everything they knew about power between a devil and human.
In the crater's center, Grayfia held an unconscious teenager who'd just rewritten the underworld's understanding of what humans could accomplish, while nearby an equally unconscious devil noble learned that immortality was nothing more than a curtain put upon mortality.
The Age of Devils had just received a very rude wake-up call.
. . .
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