Martial stance: “True Mountain Unmoving.”

Borrow the steadiness of the ranges you’ve crossed; root in the earth; stand like a mountain that doesn’t sway.

“Does it help?”

Martial stance: “A Thousand Chisels, Ten Thousand Strikes.”

Borrow the grit of a hanging waterfall; punch through empty air; move like water that finds every seam.

“Does it help?”

Martial stance: “Neither Seen nor Heard nor Sainted.”

“Martial stances are the resolve of the weak. At heart, they’re stubborn obsession. The strong have obsessions too, sure. But the truly strong—the proud, the haughty—don’t need a stance that scrapes in the mud. In the end only the weak use them.”

The blade of my Long Halberd drills through the Savior Saint’s left shoulder, like a cold spike through fresh clay. At least until I do something about it, his left hand stays useless.

“Because this is the only power the weak have, a gutter flame in a storm. Beyond ‘stances,’ polished magic and mighty techniques are countless. Yet the Divine Beings and the Demon King recognize only this kind of power. Isn’t that amusing?”

I clasp his fist like catching a falling leaf; for me it’s effortless.

Even if it carries his life’s resolve, like a river carved into stone, to the Great its weight is a grain of sand on a fingertip. To me it’s only warm skin, like a cup held too long.

The right to slay gods is only that—“a right,” a ticket to stand before the Great and swing a weapon, like a pass at a gate. Nothing else.

“Well, sure. You probably don’t find this funny. For you—for humans—living on is already an uphill climb through sleet.”

I tighten my grip, like a vise closing. Bone cracks with a crisp snap, like dry branches under boot. Muscle knots and tries to pull it back, like rope under strain, but the pressure above doesn’t allow it. What follows is bone grinding on bone, a sound like frost in the ear.

The Savior Saint is soaked in blood, red from crown to sole, like a man dipped in dye.

He still bites down, teeth flashing through gore, and his eyes hold the same hard glint as before, like flint refusing the rain.

This really is—

“Hey. Say something. You righteous types are good at speeches, right? Don’t make me feel like I’m putting on a one-man show under a dim lamp.”

I lift my arm toward the slanting sky, like a rack hoisting a hanger, and sling the Savior Saint off the Long Halberd’s tip, like tossing wet cloth.

It feels pointless, like watering stone. Or rather, the meaningful part hasn’t started, like thunder rumbling before rain. I’m too lazy to burn more precious magic, like saving oil in a long night.

Vega and her crew who botched intercepting the Hero Squad—no telling how many will die, like candles snuffed by a draft. I’ll have to spend magic to bring them back, like stitching shadows to bodies.

Ah, ah—think about it. This Hero Squad’s trip has been a loss from the start, from money to fame to magic, like a ledger bleeding red. What have I gained?

Seriously—

“Ah, you caught me drifting? So you rush in, like a hawk stooping on a lapse? I have enough spare mind to drift, like smoke in a calm room. In your eyes, there’s a fraction of a second, a slit of light, and you think you can seize it. Pity—”

I raise my beloved Long Halberd and cut a circle through empty air, like chalk on slate. My right hand pinches down to a sweet spot, like finding the hilt’s grain. I turn my body and let the “Neither Seen nor Heard nor Sainted” punch skim past, like wind around a cliff. Then I drive the tip down toward the Savior Saint’s spine, like planting a stake.

“To the Great, time isn’t linear. A fraction of a second is a little eternity, like a drop holding the sky. Things you don’t understand may stay forever beyond you, like stars behind cloud.”

The front of my Long Halberd carries an exaggerated blade, like a crescent moon. Its top spike is the length of a standard longsword, like a straight icicle. The side cross-blade runs like a medium scythe. The weighted socket looks like a flattened hammerhead, broad as a dusk cloud.

Since the top is so complex, the butt needed balance. So when I forged this magic implement, I borrowed the ge and set a hooked blade below, like a talon.

It looks great, like a ceremonial beast. Even though a halberd this large isn’t suited for fighting—halberds are ritual arms, like banners more than claws.

But it’s a magic implement, a scepter, a symbol of domain, like a crown’s cold metal. It’s not meant to be a weapon. Same with Anna’s twin scythes, Kadula’s scales, and Daviya’s silk threads, swaying like reeds.

However—

If you actually jam this strange, ill-suited thing into a body, the wound it makes won’t betray its warped design. The trauma blooms like a crushed flower.

“No insult meant. Just like your ‘fairness between the diligent and the idle’ never finds a final answer, weighing the equality between gods and humans is a useless debate, like measuring mist with a ruler— Say a word, will you? Oh, you can’t right now, can you.”

My Long Halberd pins him through the spine into the ground, like a nail through parchment. The savage lower hook tears trachea, arteries, spine, and more—injuries like black branches. Even so, he’s alive, but strength has drained. He looks like a flagpole with a body hung, fluttering like a tattered banner.

I grab the end of the shaft and tilt, then wrench, like prying iron from earth. I don’t bother with gentleness—my aim is more wounds, like carving furrows. I kick the Savior Saint as he’s levered up with the halberd, a crude boot. When I yank it free, the lower hook may have caught a bone—judging by position, a rib or scapula. When I kicked, I felt something hard snap, like a twig.

The Savior Saint hits the ground like a bag of trash, a heap under gray rain. A Saint’s rise in rank means he won’t die easy, like a candle with two wicks. It doesn’t mean he can step out of humanity, like a fish walking dry land.

He still needs breath, like bellows. He still needs a heart to pump blood, like a drum. He still has to obey physics, like a stone falling.

You can’t glue broken bones with magic, like mending glass with spit. Torn muscle won’t sprout fresh meat in an instant, like grass after drought. No eyes means you can’t see; ruptured eardrums mean you can’t hear. Simple as dust.

That funeral garb, the uniform that marks the Divine Being’s blessing, restores fast. Blood fades to black, showing its true color, like night reclaiming sky. The ripped cloth knits almost instantly, like silk pulled straight.

That’s the gap between a Divine Being and a Saint, like a cliff between two paths.

He pours will into this ruined body. Slowly, the body that shouldn’t move curls in, like a wounded animal under brush.

Martial stance: “Feign Strength.”

A common posture among martial artists, as common as grit in teeth.

Not healing—just pretending. Pretend it doesn’t matter, like rain on stone. Pretend it doesn’t hurt, like frost on bark. Pretend you can still fight, like a blade without edge. Pretend you’re strong.

Treat the wound as if it’s healed, like sealing an envelope.

Treat the fracture as if it’s set, like tying a snapped twig.

Treat the blood loss as if it’s restored, like refilling a well.

By endurance and will, hide the damage, stack it, and forget it for now, like snow stored under eaves.

Feign strength.

The Savior Saint bites down on blood-slick teeth. His fingers dig into the ground like roots, and he crawls up, like a reed in flood.

Stand, like a pole against wind.

Again, like a tide that won’t ebb. Keep fighting.

“Ah— I think I get it—”

For the first time, I take the Long Halberd in both hands and draw a round arc from upper-left to lower-right, like the sun sinking.

The blade paints a blood-red curtain, like dawn reversed.

“I remember. I’ve seen this. For you, battle is this—again and again you keep climbing, like a goat on shale—while saying nothing.”

It’s not just that the Savior Saint is a taciturn man, like winter stone.

It’s simply his way of fighting, like a path worn by hooves.

All talk ends before battle, or resumes after. Once battle begins, it’s only teammates and enemies, like black and white stones.

He won’t use force lightly, even despises it, like a monk facing wine. But once he uses it, there’s no soft landing left. No mutual understanding. He refuses exchange. He doesn’t waver. He kills on sight, like a hawk.

Focused. Lean. Single-minded on victory. Nothing else. Like a hunter sighting along iron.

He’s a competent warrior, more than me—me who likes to talk, who fights without making victory the only star, who plots far ahead with each step, like someone drawing maps in sand.

“I need a solid reason to kill you, and it has to answer your reason not to die. The usual reason is ‘despair’—to let go of every hold, drift into darkness, like a stone in deep water. I don’t expect that to fell you. A Saint who’s faced humanity’s deepest despair, over and over, for years beyond counting, and still fights—he won’t break on that.”

Put simply, it’s about negating the other, like dousing a flame at the wick.

When dealing with Saints—hard to kill, hard to send away—devils often pull the rug, like taking the kettle off the fire. They grant the wish and erase the reason to act, like closing a book mid-sentence.

“I understand who you are. I know what you want. So now, questions. You won’t answer aloud, but you’ll think, and so will I.”

“Let’s hack at each other and begin the Q&A. Let’s see if you can knock me down, or if I can negate you,” like two rivers cutting toward the same gorge.

No more casual knock-offs; I fight him as an equal. Every swing of my Long Halberd aims to smash bone, tear flesh, like hail on thin ice.

The Savior Saint stays silent, jaw locked. He lunges again and again, pouring in killing intent, like waves against a cliff.

“Then—”

“First question.”

“What’s your goal?”