The Pharaoh's ruined lips peeled back into a twisted grin, his jagged teeth glinting faintly in the torchlight. His bandages unraveled and twitched violently, rippling like snakes eager to strike.
"So…" his rasp cut the silence, each word dragging with ancient malice. "You've finally awakened… King Kazami—"
But before he could finish, Shoto moved.
His body pivoted slightly, his right arm stretched outward toward the wall. His stance was calm, yet his aura carried a sharp weight that made the Pharaoh hesitate.
Confusion flickered across the mummy's hollow gaze. He tightened his grip on the golden staff, raising it slowly. But in the same breath, the bandages that bound Shoto's left arm snapped. With one clean slice, the wrappings tore apart, falling limp to the floor.
In his right hand, a blade shimmered into existence. Black steel edged with crimson glow—the Zamroak sword. Its appearance filled the chamber with a chilling hum, as if the air itself recognized its presence.
Shoto leveled the weapon at the Pharaoh, his gaze steady, his breath even.
The Pharaoh snarled. Slamming his staff into the ground, he summoned jagged spikes of sand that erupted from beneath Shoto's feet.
But the boy was gone.
In a swift leap, Shoto vaulted forward, his figure a blur in the dim torchlight. The sand spikes crumbled uselessly behind him as he descended, sword raised high.
The steel came down in a deadly arc—
CLANG!
The Pharaoh blocked with his golden staff, the impact sending sparks flying. The weapons locked, vibrations shuddering through the stone chamber as both combatants pressed with brutal force.
Shoto's muscles tensed, veins straining against his skin. The Pharaoh's bandages whipped violently, anchoring him in place, his skeletal frame trembling with fury. Then, with a guttural roar, they broke apart—only to clash again, and again.
Steel rang against gold in a furious rhythm. Sparks scattered, torch flames flickered, and the ancient tomb echoed with the violent music of their struggle.
Shoto's strikes were swift and relentless, each swing carrying more precision than fear. The Pharaoh countered with inhuman strength, his staff spinning and smashing back with bursts of sand and force. Their movements blurred, neither giving ground.
Finally—
CRACK!
The Pharaoh's decayed fist lashed out mid-clash, smashing directly into Shoto's face. His head snapped to the side from the blow, blood spraying into the air.
The mummy smirked, his fist still pressed against Shoto's cheek. He started to reel his arm back—
But it didn't move.
His hand wouldn't come free.
Shoto slowly turned his head back toward him, lips curled into the faintest of smiles. His once-fearful eyes now burned with something far darker, more dangerous—scales etched along his skin like markings of a predator.
The Pharaoh froze, stunned at the sight.
Then Shoto's voice, low and calm, rumbled like thunder:
"…My turn."
His fist surged upward, slamming into the Pharaoh's jaw with monstrous force. The blow cracked like a cannon.
The bandaged figure flew across the chamber, his body smashing into the far wall. Ancient stone shattered upon impact, and the Pharaoh's corpse-like frame crashed down beside his own coffin, dust and fragments burying him halfway.
The tomb groaned under the aftermath, silence pressing heavy except for Shoto's steady breathing. His grip on the Zamroak sword tightened, his darkened eyes locked on the rubble.
The Pharaoh stirred, laughter rasping from the debris. His ruined voice echoed through the chamber.
"Yesss… that's it. Show me… your true face."
The torches flickered violently as the tension thickened. Shoto began to walk slowly towards the Pharaoh, A slow, rasping laugh escaped his ruined lips.
"Yesss… There you are, King Kazami. At last… I can taste the strength you've kept hidden."
Shoto exhaled sharply, steadying his stance. His grip on the Zamroak sword tightened, its black steel glowing faintly with red veins of energy that pulsed like a heartbeat. His once-frantic breathing was gone—replaced by calm focus, his scaled eyes narrowing on the ancient monster.
"I told you, I'm not this so-called King nor do I care, but since you keep bringing it up. I will end you here." He raised the blade in one hand, leaping towards the mummy to prepare for his final attack, or so it seems. The Pharaoh's bandages writhed violently in response, slithering across the floor, ceiling, and walls like living serpents.
"End me? Foolish child… You are but an echo of a man I once crushed. Let me remind you why even kings bow to the sands."
With a slam of his staff, the entire chamber shook. Sand exploded from the cracks in the stone floor, spiraling upward into colossal tendrils. They struck like whips, dozens at once, tearing through walls and smashing down toward Shoto.
Shoto leapt back, the tendrils exploding where he had just stood. The Zamroak sword cut through one of them in a clean arc, the severed sand hissing into dust. He dashed forward, weaving between the strikes, his blade carving quick, precise slashes that cut through the writhing barrage.
The Pharaoh raised his hand, and the sand shifted again, forming a massive clawed fist. It lunged downward, the weight of a collapsing building crashing toward Shoto.
He braced—then rolled forward at the last moment. The fist obliterated the stone floor where he'd stood, shattering it into a pit. Shoto sprang up, launching himself high into the air, Zamroak sword spinning in his grip. He descended with a powerful strike aimed straight for the Pharaoh's chest.
CLANG!
The golden staff met the sword once more, sparks erupting as their weapons locked. This time, Shoto pressed harder, his scales glowing faintly, veins of dark energy racing across his arm.
The Pharaoh hissed, his skeletal jaw straining as he pushed back.
"Yes… Yes! This is the Kazami bloodline! This power—unchained, it belongs to me!"
He twisted, breaking the lock, then slashed horizontally. The blade tore through the Pharaoh's torso, ripping a deep gash across his decayed frame. Sand and dust spewed from the wound, but the mummy didn't fall—instead, his laughter echoed louder, chilling.
The wound stitched itself together with writhing bandages, his body reforging before Shoto's eyes. Then, with terrifying speed, the Pharaoh lunged.
The golden staff flared, light crawling along its length as the sand obeyed the Pharaoh's command. The stone floor buckled and convulsed — not one towering fist this time, but three, each carved of compacted sand and jagged stone, rising like the columns of a ruin come to life.
Shoto froze and watched them form. The first and third loomed to his left and right, massive knuckles grinding against the tomb's pillars; the second, larger and cruelly precise, bristled directly before him like a hammer poised to fall. Two of the fists lunged simultaneously — left and right — and Shoto answered with a single, taut motion. He coiled and exploded upward, vaulting clean over the twin strikes. The air whistled where the sand-fists struck the empty space he'd occupied.
He hung in the torchlight for a heartbeat, Zamroak flashing in his grip, expecting the third to follow — but the third came brutal and true. It slammed into his temple with the full weight of the collapsed earth, sending a shock through his skull. The world narrowed: a white comet of pain, the crack of stone, then the column itself taking him like a catapult. Stone fractured beneath his weight; chunks detonated outward as he skidded, limbs tangled, until he crashed to the floor in a spray of grit and blood. Red braided down his forehead.
Before he could push himself up, the tomb responded with hungry intent. Bandages erupted from the Pharaoh's body like living rope, coiling and tightening with surgical speed. They wrapped around his wrists, his ankles, across his chest — each loop pulled taut until Shoto was pinned against the carved wall, spread-eagled and powerless, a desperate silhouette framed by flickering torchlight.
The Pharaoh strode forward, the staff in his hand erupting into a violent golden corona. He spoke slowly, triumphantly. "You cannot kill me, boy. Not with one sword. Not without embracing what you truly are."
Shoto's lungs burned. The scale-marks around his eyes darkened until they felt like armor, his pupils slitting to narrow blades. The pain did not break him; it carved him sharp. Calm settled like iron across his features.
"One strike," he said, voice low and cold. Energy knotted in his chest, and the Zamroak blade flared — crimson veining the black steel, heat humming along the edge. "One strike is all I need to end this."