Those who inherit a Hero’s bloodline are monstrous, like blades forged in thunderstorms. Take Stini: lazy in drills, playful as a spring fox, yet he can draw sword arts that touch a conceptual realm.

Heroes are out-of-spec beings, like comets that ignore gravity and burn a private path through night.

Augustus is one of them, a storm-bred prodigy. His elemental sense and command sit at the summit, like a hawk reading the wind. His reflexes snap like lightning; his understanding blooms like dawn breaking ice. He’s born for battle, a war-child whose daily training raises him to legendary heights.

Yet Augustus rarely uses magic, a choice like stepping off the paved road to run on wild grass. He fights with a spear in one hand and a sword in the other, like twin rivers cutting stone.

He isn’t a defective heir; he stacked another gift on the base template, a martial talent like a second spine of iron. He’s better at the use of Martial Stances, like a dancer who turns killing into choreography.

It’s so strong it brushes the border of deification, like a mountain peak tasting clouds.

Even among Heroes through the ages, he’s a rare star. His Martial Stance attacks move like gods changing weather. On our first meeting, one sword split the Hero Academy’s magic barrier and carved a canyon in the plain, like a glacier breaking the earth.

As for Martial Stances, few in our squad use them, like rare instruments played only on holy days. Even Stini leans on sword arts when he needs to step into the Godspeed Realm, but he doesn’t use stances as his main blade.

The reason’s simple, like a knot tied too tight. Basic stances need charging, a dead weight in a fast-shifting fight where wind changes every breath.

And their power seems small, like sparks that don’t always catch. Not everyone is Augustus, whose stance erupts with heaven’s dread, like thunder breaking a chapel. Most people never enter the door in their lifetime; that’s the normal path, like a stream that never reaches the sea.

Unlike sorcery, you can’t chart why you failed, like fog hiding your own feet. You can’t measure what composes a slash. Martial Stance is a craft of feeling, a wordless river under night.

The same posture can be a plain chop or a stance, like two seeds that sprout different trees for no clear reason.

So the Hero Academy teaches the “Martial Arts” track, not the “Martial Stance” track, like teaching storms rather than a single cloud.

But Augustus stands on another peak, like an eagle nesting above the snowline.

“Leave, Demon King. This is no longer your domain.” His voice fell like a bell over frost.

“A space soaked with slaughter and killing and annihilation, ku-ku-ku. How is it not mine? How is it not my frontier?” Her chuckle crawled like ants under skin.

Anna felt Augustus’s mana like a rule-breaking sunrise. She drifted aside, hovering like a leaf on a black pond, not rushing in.

“Because I’m here.” The line was cool, like moonlight on steel, and from Augustus it didn’t feel fake; his power is that clean.

“Not yours to decide.” Anna’s smile was frost over red wine. She called her magic weapon, the Giant Scythe, and it sang like winter wind on bone.

“Must we fight?” His breath was steady, like a tree that doesn’t bow.

“Indeed, indeed. Ku-ku-ku. Show me your valor. See if you can break through this endless intent to kill.” Her words prowled like wolves.

She vanished mid-sentence, slipping into her own domain like a fish into deep water. She reappeared before Augustus with power charged, a storm cupped in her palms.

But as the scythe fell, the spear-tip pressed her throat, like a thorn kissing a petal. A shot from the Godspeed Realm pierced her neck in an instant, like a comet tearing silk.

Augustus stepped forward, closing distance like dusk swallowing a lane. Then a storm of spear and sword surged, like two hurricanes crossing paths.

Martial Stance. Judgment Spear-and-Blade. The name cut like a seal pressed into wax.

It’s Augustus’s signature skill, and one of his titles, like a brand burned into thunder.

I couldn’t read it; neither could Anna. I doubt Augustus understands its theory. He throws this peak strike by feel, like a hunter who listens to snow.

Compared to the sky-cleaving sword that shattered the Academy’s barrier, this move looks plain, like rain that doesn’t glow. No sky-splitting light, no jeweled brilliance.

But the user is Augustus, the man who cuts sky and earth with a blade. It is his hardest fang.

For the normal world, the Godspeed Realm lasts only an instant, like a lightning blink.

And in that instant, I saw Anna chopped by countless swords and pierced by countless spears, her perfect body worn to dust, then to nothing, like a statue swallowed by tide.

A single move. Demon King slain, like a candle snuffed by night.

Augustus drew back spear and sword, yet kept a fighting stance, like a bow still strung.

“Don’t play dead. I know you’re alive. This level of fight won’t kill you.” His words fell like iron beads.

“Play dead? A rare battle, and Andor—” she used the Demon Realm pronunciation—“who knows where he ran. Only you, ku-ku-ku. The strongest in the mortal world, Augustus Saya. You’re worthy of me. Why would I flee?” Her voice slid like oil over glass.

Darkness thinned to the naked eye, like smoke lifted by wind. It gathered, then folded into a human shape. The Demon King’s strongest attack domain fails against a Hero’s Immunity Privilege, like arrows skittering off a divine shield. Revealing a physical true body works better, like iron nailed to earth.

“Kids, close your eyes and guard yourselves. The others will be here soon.” Augustus’s command rang like a drum.

We nodded fast, like birds startled into flight.

The face was still perfect, like porcelain under night. The figure still flawless, like a spear carved from moonlight. The long hair still spilled into the deep behind her, as if dragging night’s hem.

But something had changed, something deeper than power or concept, like a river changing its source.

Anna walked the world as incarnate malice. She was Slaughter; she was Carnage; she was Extermination, three knives planted in dusk.

Two poles of mortal power collided, like day and night grinding. Light and dark, good and evil, tore and crashed, shrieking like blades, like a siren for the world’s end.

Everyone obeyed and closed their eyes, waiting tight for the verdict, like rabbits under hawk shadow.

Time stretched like a century of rain. The fight paused, a breath held by mountains.

Augustus panted hard, like bellows over coals. Anna looked unruffled only because demonfolk don’t breathe; both had bled their stores, like emptied wine jars.

“Ha… ku-ku-ku. Even ‘Mad Berenz,’ that little thief who threw himself into his own bent nature, barely scratched me. Killing a fully formed fiend wasn’t hard.” Her tone was silk with thorns. “I didn’t expect flesh to grow into a warrior like you. That’s an education.”

“Why can’t I kill you? I clearly crush you in power.” His frustration flashed like a blade catching sun.

“You want to kill Slaughter itself? Ku-ku-ku. Mortals can be terrifyingly arrogant.” Anna laughed behind her hand, like a fan hiding a smile.

Her bad mouth aside, she wasn’t wrong. In straight combat, Augustus is stronger, like an oak against a reed. Anna may still have hidden knives, but “strongest in the mortal world” carries no water; Augustus earned it with record like scars.

Yet Anna’s undying aspect is just as brutal, like a shadow that never leaves at noon.

I’ve fought Anna many times, always with kill intent, like wolves meeting on a glacier. No matter how badly I beat her, she didn’t die. In the original timeline, before the Demon King Andor was driven down into the Demon Realm by God of Strength Bell, no tale said Anna was slain.

Later, in the Endless Demon King Andreas era, I killed Anna and she became part of the Endless Evil Facets, like a shard in a broken mirror. But as holder of the Slaughter Authority Domain, her undying rank is second only to me.

Every time Augustus cuts her head or pierces her heart, he is “killing” her, like acting out a ritual. In that process, new Slaughter concept forms, like mushrooms after rain. He can’t put her down; he only sharpens her, like whetting a blade on himself.

By the way, if I want to die, the only way is to go down with Eternal God Feriel and drag the world into ruin, like a lighthouse smashed by a tidal god.

Augustus is different. He seems to carry the gods’ blessings, like charms stitched under his skin. He can have several lives, but if the fight stretches, Anna will shave him away bit by bit, like rust eating steel.

Anna despises humans in part because flesh tires and tears; wounds pile and spirit wears, like a rope fraying in salt wind. Augustus’s combat strength will drop as time leaks.

If nothing changes, Anna will kill him, like winter closing a mountain pass.

Thankfully, change came, like a second moon rising.

Shadows rippled, the concept of Shadow spread like ink in water. It wasn’t the Son of the Demon King Andor, but it dwarfed Shadow Artisan Andor, like a cliff beside a wall.

Assassin. Lightbane Shadow, Ankor, arrived. The word fell like a blade drawn in fog.

Light gathered with a roar, a surge grander than Sorek’s full-force elemental call, like a dawn that silences owls.

Mage. Dawn of Radiance, Gugwen, arrived. His presence shivered like a silver spear.

Holy power poured, a man in the mortal world wielding a Divine Being’s authority, like a priest bearing sunfire. Augustus’s stamina snapped back to whole, like a torn net rewoven in a blink.

Delegate. Rose Saint, Saint Mire, arrived. Petals and iron walked together.

Killing intent locked on Anna’s position, invisible as a winter current. No one saw its source, but if that feathered arrow flew, the world would earn another corpse, like a leaf cut from its stem.

Archer. Soul-Chaser Hunter, Dofenpei, arrived. His boots were soft as dusk.

The last came in full plate, steps steady as anvils. He walked to Augustus, shield in one hand and sword in the other, and stood like a wall set in bedrock.

Knight. Unbroken Bulwark, Maig, arrived. His shadow was a fort.

Augustus’s Hero Squad had all gathered, like stars stitching a banner.

“That’s all?” Anna’s killing intent swelled like smoke from pine resin. Her hands tightened on the Giant Scythe like winter gripping a well.

“Enough talk. Fight.” Augustus’s answer was a flat stone.

Both raised weapons, and war was about to break, like thunderheads touching—

The earth shook, violent enough to unseat any stance, like waves rolling a ship.

“What’s this…” The question hung like dust.

It wasn’t just physical tremor. Some conceptual domain pressed down, making both Anna and Augustus lose footing, like gravity turning sideways.

“Beozwulf… Finally here, the ‘Sky-Bearer’ Beozwulf!” Anna’s excitement flared like wine flame, but her battle heat cooled, like rain on embers.

“No fight. The Creator’s firstborn I’ll leave to you. My entertainment was cut short; I’ll save it. That guy never reads the room. Do as you please, and let me see how you handle this tainted primordial being.” Her voice drifted like ash.

“But—” A hinge creaked.

She vanished again and appeared before Stini, like a raven hopping branches. “Before I go, I’ll take a souvenir. I said your eyes were pretty.”

Her scythe fell, but a spear stopped it, iron meeting winter wind.

“I also said I’m here. Leave the rest to me.” Behind the mask, Augustus’s eyes were steady as a mountain. He didn’t give an inch.

“Tch…” Anna’s pout was a thorn. “Fine. Sharp men don’t get liked by girls. I’ll change the souvenir.”

We heard that and the Hero Squad moved to cover us, bodies closing like shields.

Too late. Anna had known from the start she couldn’t kill with every squad gaze on her. She had picked her target at the first bell, like a hawk fixing a hare.

Shiku, a small sickle-shaped magic weapon, pierced Catherine’s body, like frost threading silk. An invisible line at its tail dragged her into darkness, like a fishhook in deep water, and Anna slipped away with her, like a shadow unhooked from noon.

Because the only non-combatant, the Delegate Saint Mire, hadn’t joined the protective ring, Anna found a seam, like a crack in ice.

I was the only one on scene who sensed it, like hearing a bat under thunder. I watched and didn’t stop it.

The primary reason was fear of exposing myself. I can’t explain why I can read Anna’s movements, like hearing the tune under noise.

Another reason… maybe this way Catherine can still live, like a seed carried by flood but not broken.

Catherine was killed by Anna’s own hand. The magic weapon condensed by the Slaughter Authority Domain pierced her heart, filling her body and soul with an extreme dose of Slaughter concept, like black fire saturating a wick. She merged with the Slaughter domain.

In theory, not even Death, one of the Primordial Deity, can revive her, like asking winter to undo itself.

The Demon King’s princess, Anna, holder of Slaughter Authority Domain, is that terrifying, like a night that refuses dawn.

But if it’s Anna herself, maybe she can manipulate the Slaughter inside Catherine, like a weaver teasing threads. It’s absurd—she represents “kill,” yet she’s the only being who might let someone live.

Also, Anna handled Catherine’s body cleanly, leaving no crude physical damage, like a cut that doesn’t bruise. I think Anna saw Catherine’s talent—deification qualification—and wants to turn her into a high-ranking retainer, like setting a jewel in iron.

That’s not easy. If you kill someone unfallen and throw them into the Ocean of Darkness, you only get a powerful lower retainer, like losing levels till it aches.

She’ll probably take Catherine back and school her slowly, like water hollowing stone.

Either way, living keeps hope, like a coal under ash. I watched the darkness retreat, the Slaughter field thinning like fog, and thought that.

The Tower of Final Stars began to collapse under Anna’s kill-concept, like shingles blown off by a black gale. Below, the sealed Sky-Bearer broke free, like a titan shaking chains.

“Gugwen, move every kid out!” Augustus’s order cracked like a whip. “Stini, take your team and leave. Now.”

“But Catherine—” His protest trembled like a reed in storm.

“Don’t be stupid!” Augustus’s voice hit like a hammer on a bell. “As captain, you’re responsible for them. You know the weight; pick it up. Stini, you’re the leader, the spirit standard. If you want to be an adventurer, don’t fear death. No crying.”

"Care about the ones still breathing, not the names carved in stone," Augustus snapped, like a cold bell cutting fog.

Hurt flickered like a moth at glass; Stini bit her lip, swallowed words, then turned to rally us.

"Let's go, everyone," she said, her voice thin as morning mist.

"That's better," Augustus said, his features easing like ice under a pale sun, and he beckoned to the mage. "Gugwen."

"Understood; the field below is our battlefield," Gugwen replied, the words steady as an oar in rough water.

He nodded, face set, and began to chant, each syllable a blade slipping through silk.

I couldn't tell if the Sorcerer Emperor's wards had failed, or if Gugwen's craft ran deep as a well.

He cast, and the world blinked, and we stood at the Tower of Final Stars' outer ring like survivors on a new shore.

The Tower of Final Stars speared the clouds, paled to bone, and a vaster hand burst from the earth to seize it.

It crumbled like a brittle cookie in that grip; a giant's head heaved up behind the arm and roared like thunder.

Lustrous beams that eclipsed the sun hammered the giant, etching tragic furrows like fire plows through snow.

"Let's go," Stini murmured, bitterness creeping like frost over a face that was usually summer, and I lacked the heart to tease.

"We should know that isn't our battlefield," she said, the words dropping like stones into a well.

"We're too weak; the Divine Being won't bless us every time—I know that," her voice frayed like damp paper.

She waved and led us away, an unnatural smile like a paper mask as her tone thinned to a sobbing thread.

"Hurry, this place isn't safe either," she said, the warning fluttering like a sparrow from thorns.

"Let my dad and the other powerhouses fight; we shouldn't bother them," she added, her smile trembling like a candle in wind.

"Maybe once they beat that 'Sky-Bearer,' they'll help us bring Catherine back," she said, hope wavering like heat over stone.

"They're the Hero Squad—they're really strong," she breathed, clinging to the words like driftwood in black water.

"Stini," I cut in, unable to bear the mask that didn't fit her, like night draped over a sunflower.

"You're crying," I said, "and if it hurts, you don't have to hold it in—let the rain fall."

She stared for a heartbeat, touched the wet tracks on her tender cheeks, then turned hard, shuttering the tide behind her eyes.

"It's fine; don't comfort me—let me cry a bit; it'll pass soon, soon," she said, like drizzle that knows when to stop.