Fine, whatever. It doesn’t matter. What matters is me—Birand Aste—returning with a storm of wrath.
His laughter cracked like dry thunder, and he drove a fist like a falling meteor at the first statue.
The punch never touched stone; the air rippled like heat above desert sand.
Birand squinted, a frost-edged smile lifting as a masked girl rose before him like a sudden moon.
Oh? Didn’t expect anyone here to stop me. You caught my punch without backlash. You’ve got some skill.
Her mask was winter steel; her voice bit like sleet. Bastard. You really came.
Oh? What right do you have to curse me? Birand’s snort was a knife on glass as he wrenched free, then shot a straight punch at her face like a hammer.
She dipped her head like a swift sparrow, and the fist howled past.
Birand raised his leg; she mirrored him; two kicks slammed together like clashing antlers.
They both skidded back, soles hissing over dust like river skates on ice.
The girl thumped a nearby statue, steadied herself with a trembling willow grace, and a thin red thread blossomed at her lip.
Birand flew dozens of meters; he landed laughing, and one stomp crunched several skeleton monsters like brittle driftwood.
His face was cold and mocking, a moon over winter water—untouched by harm.
She grit her teeth, shame burning like a rash, and she almost slapped herself.
Damn it. I forgot the statue attacks anything that touches it, no favorites.
Birand caught the detail, a faint smile rippling like a cat’s tail in sun.
Looks like…
Tsk tsk. Not bad. Let’s see how many times you can stall me. He blurred, a hawk’s shadow streaking forward with eerie speed.
She wiped the blood like rain from her lip and barked, You wish!
She sprinted, a wave cresting to meet the storm.
They collided again; the impact boomed like a drum under thunder.
This time Birand’s whole form spun backward; his soul-body shuddered like a bell struck hard.
The girl’s eyes widened, surprise bright as dawn on dew.
Birand’s grunt was gravel. So, there’s help. He looked at the old man behind her, hands clasped behind his back like a tranquil mountain.
Ugillian patted her shoulder, a spring breeze on frost. Little lass, you’re still too green.
Her mouth parted like a startled koi. Dean!
The old man’s glow rose like sunrise, youth poured over him by invisible rain.
Birand only curled his lip, an ash-gray sneer. A last flare before the lamp dies.
Damn it. I still underestimated the Abyss’s preparations.
Hmmmm… I really was dumb. A place like this never goes undefended.
Soul-body, huh? You’re really impatient. Ugillian’s glance swept Birand like a calm tide, and he shook his head.
So, you know things. Birand folded his arms, eyes cold as iron. I don’t recall your name.
No Angel or undead of your caliber exists. And the Demon Race can’t touch those two up top.
Ugillian shrugged, a leaf drifting. Knowing too much won’t help you.
Birand’s face darkened, storm coiling. He could feel it.
The old man’s life was a candle in the wind; one breath and darkness would swallow it.
The girl was a thorny vine—annoying, not fatal.
He shook his head, disdain falling like dust. The Abyss never meant to truly stop me.
Otherwise, I’d be wading through countless Demon Race legions like a black tide.
Sure, the Demon Race was mostly slaughtered by me and other strong races, like a forest after fire.
But if the Abyss wanted me stopped, they’d have kept enough wolves alive to bite.
He reached out and rubbed his neck, a cat stretching before a pounce.
Will you step aside and let me smash these statues, or go to the Netherworld first and make me do it after?
Arrogant brat. Who do you think you are, huh? The girl planted her hands at her waist, contempt sharp as pepper.
Ugillian only smiled, silent as falling snow, his gaze resting on Birand like a mountain’s shadow.
To Birand, that silence was the deepest scorn, a winter sun refusing to rise.
Hahaha. Good. Birand shrugged and laughed, embers in his voice.
He was pissed, pride bruised like a peach; since his debut, he’d been eating dirt.
He thought his undying trait would make him a high-tier boss straight out of the gate.
He’d reclaim everything like a river finding the sea, then settle vengeance with an easy blade.
Instead, he kept meeting weird things, like night markets under a red moon.
Territories and power levels weren’t like his era at all, maps rewritten by storm.
He ripped a slice of Eli’s memory, but Eli’s soul was weak as fog at noon.
Under the pressure of his vast soul, it vanished without ash, a mist burned away.
He got too little, and the road beat him like rain on a thatched roof.
He could hardly stand it. He wiped at a theatrical tear, a clown in warpaint.
Dammit—where’s the promised boss? Even a dried sardine has more dignity.
Spear of Judgment. She saw him zoning out and arched a brow, left hand grasping air.
A lightning spear bloomed in her palm like a white lotus, then she hurled it like a comet.
Birand snapped back, flicked his hand, and swatted it aside like a mosquito. You kidding me?
Deepsea Tide! she shouted, palms pressed, voice like a shell’s whistle.
The spear reappeared behind him, lightning melting into water, coiling like a serpent around stone.
He lifted his hand to disperse it, impatience a gust about to blow.
The little stream traced a circle, a silver coin spinning, then burst a flood through its ring.
Endless seawater roared out like a broken dam and drowned Birand in cold thunder.
Ugillian watched with a doting smile, like an aunt at a playground scuffle.
The waves swallowed Birand and swept him toward the girl like foaming horses.
She spread her hands; two red magic circles unfurled left and right like twin moons.
Her chant rose, a drumbeat under flame; the circles brightened, crimson folding like silk.
She stopped, gripped both circles, and lifted them toward him with a hunter’s calm.
Red Lotus Chasing the Moon!
Two massive beams braided into twin energy dragons, maws yawning like furnaces, diving at Birand.
His hands sharpened into blades; he braced within the flood like a rock under torrent.
He didn’t see the dragons; he drove twin blades long and stabbed the ground, anchoring himself.
Then the fire-dragons dropped with a predator’s cry; he arched a brow, a mocking crescent.
Flame swallowed him like a forest fire licking dry pine.
She tightened her right fist toward the blaze, voice ringing like a gong. Scarlet Flame Oblivion!
The two fire dragons merged, kneaded into a molten sphere, compressing like a dying star.
They winked out in midair, leaving heat like a fever-dream.
She finally unclenched her fist, exhaled, then stood hands on hips, pride glittering. Tch, big fuss. He lives to show off.
Ugillian chuckled, shook his head, and strolled toward a quiet corner like a breeze.
She turned, curiosity bright as glass. Dean, you—?
Heh. No rush. I’ve got something to take care of.
