Nullivar's grip on his pistol tightened as a cold spike of calculation slid through him. *This is dangerous.* His gaze flicked between the demon knight's helmet, caved in, the head still wedged inside. and the half-elf advancing on him with a venomous, barely bridled fury. Those mismatched eyes, one steel gray, one sky blue, burned with a hatred so sharp it felt like a physical pressure.
*Heterochromatic eyes? Half-elf? Hold on...* His eyes widened. "Wait, wait, wait, you're, you're Stroven Van Elnan, aren't you? How are you alive? Half-elves don't live this long and look like you." His voice wavered between disbelief and caution.
Stroven never broke stride. "My age doesn't matter. You know who I am, so you know you're going to die." He launched forward with such force the ground behind him burst upward in a plume of dirt and cracked stone. His fist rocketed toward Nullivar's head with lethal intent, the blow aimed to rip it clean off his shoulders.
Nullivar threw up a heavy curtain of shadow, the same technique he had used to arrest the momentum of the archers' arrows. Stroven's punch slammed into the barrier, slowed, yes, but only in the way a missile slows into the speed of a bullet: still blisteringly fast, still monstrously heavy. It bought him just enough time to twist aside.
Nullivar retaliated instantly, whipping his pistol up and firing point-blank at the back of The Star Crusher's skull. The report was less a gunshot and more the thunderous blast of a tank cannon. The bullet struck dead center.
It didn't even break the skin. Stroven's head merely dipped forward from the impact, as though nudged.
He pivoted sharply, his arm snapping out in a brutal backfist. Nullivar reacted on instinct, raising his forearm as plates of dense shadow armor surged across it. The hit connected with a deafening crack.
A sharp, sickening snap followed, his forearm bone giving way under the force as easily as a twig. The blow hurled him skyward with catastrophic velocity, the world dissolving into a smear of color and spinning horizon. Air screamed past him as the clouds split around his body.
He fought through the rattling haze, forcing himself to stabilize by manifesting wide shadow wings. They caught, slowed, and steadied him mid-air. Grimacing at the pain, he lifted his pistol with his still-functional arm, while his other arm already knitting itself back together, and aimed downward.
No Stroven.
"Where is he? And it felt like I got hit with a damn mountain moving at the speed of a bullet train," he muttered.
"Right behind you."
Nullivar barely managed to turn. A hand clamped over his face like a steel vise before he could fire. Then the world inverted.
Stroven hurled him downward with overwhelming, effortless strength. Nullivar's body knifed through the air at a speed far past terminal velocity before smashing into the jungle floor with an impact that blew the earth outward in a colossal eruption, carving a crater so vast it was visible above the cloud line.
Nullivar coughed wetly as he forced himself onto his knees, vision swimming and ribs grinding with every breath. Nearly every bone in his body felt fractured or shattered; natural healing would take too long. He pushed his focus inward, gathering his shadow magic and threading it through his own skeleton. Tendrils of darkness wrapped around each broken piece, aligning them with surgical precision before compressing into rigid, inky splints that solidified around the fractures. The pain dulled, but only barely.
He heard the soft thud of Stroven landing.
Nullivar lifted his head.
Across the torn earth, Stroven stood untouched—perfectly composed in his monochrome attire. The gray waistcoat lay flat against his torso, his gray dress shirt unwrinkled, the matching slacks and polished shoes showing only the faintest dust. Even his blonde, ear-length hair moved only slightly in the wind, as though the devastation around them simply did not apply to him.
It would have felt insulting—like Stroven hadn't exerted an ounce of effort—if not for the fury boiling in those mismatched eyes. Gray and blue burned with a rage so dense it felt gravitational.
"Why?" Stroven's voice carried forward as he clenched his fists. "Why do you keep trying to take this world?" He started walking towards the kneeling Demon Lord, steps steady, controlled.
Nullivar braced his palms against the ground, forcing himself upright on still-weak legs. "Why? Take it up with my boss," he muttered, brushing dust from his coat as he rose to his full height. "I'm just doing what I'm told. I couldn't care less about this stupid world."
Stroven stopped a few paces away, glaring up at him. At five foot five, he had to tilt his chin almost straight up to meet Nullivar's eyes. The size difference didn't diminish the weight of his anger.
"So that's all killing and conquering is to you? A job?" Stroven spat, voice tight with contempt.
Nullivar exhaled slowly. "I don't know what to tell you."
His spine lengthened, muscles tightening as his body shifted. Red seeped through his skin. His eyes inverted—the pupils turning stark white, the sclera glowing green. Two heavy, ram-curved horns pushed through his skull as he entered his demon form. The earth beneath him vibrated from the heat and density rolling off his body.
"Yes," he said plainly as the transformation completed. "It is a job. And it's one I have to do—even if it means I have to try to fight and kill you."
He raised the obsidian pistol, sight locking on Stroven's forehead.
Stroven only shook his head once, almost pitying. "You won't be able to kill me. And let me tell you why."
Then he burst forward, the ground exploding where he'd stood.