Maelkris moved first, and the battlefield bent around that decision.
There was no warning, no shift in posture to signal intent—only a sudden distortion in space as he closed the distance between himself and Asura.
His abyssal wings surged forward, their feathered edges sharpening into lethal blades as they drove straight toward Asura's chest, aiming to pierce through him in a single, decisive strike.
Asura's thoughts sharpened instantly.
There was no panic in him, only calculation.
His body responded as both of his arms twisted and shifted, bones cracking beneath his skin as his hands transformed into three-fingered, knife-like talons.
The claws curved inward like hooked blades, built to shred flesh and tear through bone with brutal efficiency.
The strike came fast.
But Asura met it.
His claws intercepted the incoming wing, catching the attack at an angle and forcing it away from his chest.
The force still pushed him backward, his feet dragging against the ground as sparks rose beneath him, but the killing blow was avoided.
For a fraction of a second, Maelkris' balance shifted.
That was all Asura needed.
He surged forward, launching himself into the air with explosive force, his claws carving downward in a savage arc aimed at Maelkris' upper body.
The attack carried pure killing intent.
Maelkris responded instantly.
Their attacks collided mid-motion, claw striking against wing in a violent clash that sent a shockwave rippling outward.
Embers scattered into the night as the ground beneath them cracked from the force of impact.
They moved as if they understood each other—each strike anticipated, each reaction immediate, their bodies flowing through combat with unnatural precision.
Then Maelkris broke the rhythm.
His wings slammed forward with overwhelming force, crashing into Asura and throwing him off balance. In the same motion, he pivoted and drove a devastating side kick into Asura's stomach.
The impact was brutal.
Asura's body folded slightly as the force struck him, a sharp cry escaping his throat before he was launched backward.
He tore through burning debris and vanished into the flames of a collapsing structure, swallowed by fire and smoke.
Maelkris straightened slowly, exhaling as though the exchange had barely required effort.
His gaze shifted toward the others, calm and indifferent.
"Ah… one down," he said, his voice low and steady. "Six more heads to cut off."
He began to raise his wings, preparing to strike again—
When something cut through the air.
A sharp, slicing force lashed across his face.
A whip-like blade.
It struck cleanly, carving a thin line across his cheek before snapping back.
Maelkris' head tilted slightly from the impact, a visible cut marked his skin.
He reached up, touching the blood with quiet curiosity as his gaze slowly lifted toward the source.
From within the flames—
Asura emerged.
Fire clung to his silhouette as he stepped forward, his body burned but standing firm.
One of his arms had shifted, extended outward into a long, flexible, whip-like blade lined with razor edges, still swaying slightly from the strike he had just delivered.
His other hand moved quickly, reaching inside his clothing and pulling out a small blood-filled sachet hidden against his body.
Without hesitation, he crushed it in his grip and brought it to his mouth, consuming the contents as dark liquid spilled across his lips.
The effect was immediate.
The burns across his body began to close, flesh knitting itself back together as regeneration surged through him.
Asura lowered his arm, the whip-blade retracting slightly as his eyes locked onto Maelkris once more.
"Tch… don't look down on me," he muttered, his voice low but steady. "We're not done yet."
Before Maelkris could respond, movement surged from the side.
Louis charged forward with full intent, his presence commanding and unwavering. Behind him, Rook and Omen followed in perfect synchronization, their formation tight and disciplined as they advanced together. There was no hesitation only resolve.
Maelkris' eyes darkened as his wings flared outward.
With a subtle motion, dozens of feathered blades detached and shot forward, cutting through the air toward the three Spartans.
They reacted instantly.
Rook raised his shield, deflecting several with heavy impact.
Omen twisted his body, narrowly avoiding others as they sliced past him.
Louis pushed forward through the assault, his focus unbroken despite the danger.
Still—
They were not untouched.
Thin cuts appeared across their bodies as the feathered blades grazed and struck them, drawing blood.
Yet they did not stop.
Louis stepped in and threw his spear with full force, the weapon slicing through the air toward Maelkris.
Maelkris caught it mid-air.
Effortlessly.
That moment—
Was enough.
Louis closed the distance instantly and drove a punch straight into Maelkris' face at close range, the impact snapping his head slightly to the side.
"…Why you—"
Before Louis could follow up, Maelkris' wings burst outward violently, releasing a powerful gust of wind that blasted the three Spartans backward. Dust and debris surged into the air, blinding their vision as the battlefield turned chaotic.
Within that chaos—
Maelkris moved.
Fast.
Precise.
Unseen.
Cuts appeared across their bodies before they even realized what had happened, deeper and more deliberate this time.
"Agh—!"
The three staggered back, their formation breaking as they struggled to regain footing.
Unseen to them—
The wounds were not ordinary.
They were consuming.
Maelkris tossed Louis' spear aside as if it were nothing, his attention already shifting as his servants surged forward.
Lightning cracked through the air, followed by bursts of fire magic that forced the others back, preventing any immediate support.
The cut on Maelkris' face—
Was already healing.
The flesh reformed slowly, leaving no trace behind.
"You beings…" he said quietly, his voice calm and cold, "cannot defeat a demon."
His wings slowly retracted into his body.
Then—
Something new emerged.
From his back, two massive centipede-like tails erupted outward, their segmented forms twitching unnaturally as they extended downward.
Razor-sharp edges lined each segment, glinting under the firelight as a faint, ominous energy pulsed through them.
This was his false form.
The air grew heavier.
More oppressive.
Then—
He vanished.
His speed surged beyond what it had been before, doubling, tripling, until his movements became nearly impossible to track.
He moved like something crawling through space itself, unnatural and unpredictable.
Rook barely had time to react.
One of the centipede tails lashed out with violent force.
A loud crack echoed across the battlefield.
The strike shattered through his defense, snapping his dominant arm as the force launched him sideward.
His body slammed into the stone wall with devastating impact before collapsing to the ground.
Unmoving.
Unconscious.
The battlefield faltered.
And just like that—
The first Spartan had fallen.
The fight had only just begun.