The battlefield outside the Demon Lord's castle was a hellscape of fire, blood, and steel.
Corpses of both man and monster littered the torn earth. Smoke coiled into the sky, choking the air, while the clash of weapons and magic thundered across the field without pause. Neither side held an advantage—victory hung just out of reach for both.
Three heavenly beasts fought at the heart of the storm.
The white lion, cloaked in golden flames, let out a roar that shook the heavens. Its divine fire scorched through waves of lesser demons, yet it was soon met by a hulking demon general clad in blackened armor, wielding a bloodstained axe the size of a tree. The two collided with a force that cracked the ground, their power shaking the battlefield as they tore into one another without mercy.
Above, the sapphire-scaled dragon whipped through the smoke-filled skies, trailing thunderclouds in its wake. Bolts of lightning rained down with every flap of its wings. But even the skies were not safe—a winged demon general with obsidian feathers and a spear of shadows rose to meet it, matching speed for speed, strike for strike. Their aerial duel became a deadly storm of light and darkness, flaring above the battlefield like a second war in the clouds.
On the ground, the silver-clad warrior—beast in human form—fought in a dance of blades and fury. Every movement was precise, every strike deadly. But it was not alone. A demon general emerged from the smoke—slender, sharp-eyed, with twin swords that shimmered with cursed magic. They clashed in a blur of steel and footwork, neither giving an inch. Sparks flew. Wounds were traded. Neither fell.
Around them, human soldiers and demonspawn battled in a tide of chaos. Arrows flew, spells erupted, screams rose and fell. The field was littered with the wounded and the dead, but neither side broke. The humans held their ground with grit and faith. The demons fought with hatred and anger.
No side was winning. No side was losing.
The battle had become a test of endurance—of who would break first. And as the sun dipped lower, casting a deep red light across the battlefield, the war raged on with no end in sight.
While the war outside raged on, the throne room inside the Demon Lord's castle had fallen into an unnatural silence.
The Hero, glowing with golden divine light, stood with sword in hand. Across from him, the Demon Lord shimmered with a deep purple aura, his power thick and suffocating. They were just inches apart—two legends on the brink of a world-shaking battle.
But neither moved.
It wasn't hesitation that kept them still. It wasn't doubt.
It was fear.
A presence far stronger than either of them weighed down the room like a crushing tide. Familiar. Unmistakable. Neither had forgotten it from the last time he had appeared. Neither had hoped to see him again.
The air split with a sudden, jagged sound.
A rift tore through space itself, like reality had been slashed open with invisible claws. From it stepped a man—tall, composed, and dressed in a perfectly fitted dark suit, the fabric unruffled as if untouched by the chaos of the world. A party mask covered the upper half of his face, adding a surreal, almost mocking edge to his arrival.
His posture was relaxed, but the room reacted to him as if gravity itself had shifted. Both the Hero and the Demon Lord felt it—the crushing aura of a force beyond them, beyond good or evil, order or chaos.
Beside him, a woman emerged in a maid uniform, face expressionless, movements silent. But even in her stillness, danger radiated off her like heat from a flame.
The man looked around the room—not with curiosity, but with a quiet certainty, like he already knew how everything would end.
He took a single step forward.
Neither the Hero nor the Demon Lord moved. They couldn't.
Because now, this was no longer their battlefield.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he bowed his head slightly—as if greeting old acquaintances.
"Hello, Hero. Demon Lord," he said, voice smooth and composed. "As both of you know... but allow me to repeat myself—my name is Phantom."
The name echoed like a bell in a graveyard—soft, but unforgettable.
He lifted his head, gaze hidden behind the mask, and let out a sigh, more tired than angry.
"What is all this?" he asked, his voice low. "The last time I met each of you, I told you clearly—you weren't strong enough to give me the kind of battle I wanted. The clash of legends. Hero versus Demon Lord... and yet, here we are."
As he spoke, his voice grew heavier. The floor vibrated. The walls trembled. The room seemed to shrink beneath the weight of his presence, as if even the stone itself feared what would follow.
The Hero, already pale and shaking, forced himself to speak.
"I've become stronger than before," he said. "I'm certain I can defeat the Demon Lord. Even the heavens sent me a sign—Saying I'm ready."
The Demon Lord snarled softly, his tone defensive.
"He attacked first. I simply retaliated."
Phantom tilted his head, slowly.
Silence followed. A silence so thick it pressed against their skin like cold iron.
And in that silence, they both realized—they had no control over what came next.
Phantom turned his head toward the Hero.
"You," he said, voice calm yet razor-sharp. "You claim to have grown stronger. In what way?"
The Hero opened his mouth—but no words came. His mind raced, searching for proof, for evidence, for anything. But what could he show? His trembling hand clenched at his side, unable to speak under the weight of Phantom's gaze.
Phantom didn't wait for an answer.
With a flick of his wrist, he summoned something impossible.
A book appeared in his hand—a grimoire unlike any seen in centuries. Its cover shimmered with divine gold, etched in glowing runes. Chains wrapped tightly around it, pulsing faintly as if alive. The air around it seemed to bend.
The Hero's eyes widened.
The Demon Lord took an involuntary step back.
"Do you know what this is?" Phantom asked, holding the chained grimoire between two fingers.
Neither answered.
"This," he said, with a trace of amusement, "is a God-tier Grimoire. A world treasure. One of the rarest objects to ever exist." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "One time use. One spell. One miracle."
Then his voice dropped.
"Its power? Existence Erasure."
A chill swept through the room. Even the air stopped moving.
"One target," Phantom continued. "One name. And they're not just killed. They're removed. Forgotten. As if they were never born."
The Hero's knees nearly buckled.
The Demon Lord's expression darkened, lips slightly parted—not in rage, but in something far rarer: awe.
And then, with no warning, Phantom raised the grimoire above his hand and casually pressed his fingers together.
The book shattered.
Not torn, not burned—shattered.
A God-tier artifact, indestructible by any known force, crumbled like dust in his palm.
The Hero could only stare, heart thundering in his chest.
His cheat skills, divine training, and heaven-sent messages—all of it felt meaningless now.
The Demon Lord stood frozen, unable to even begin to comprehend what stood before him.
And Phantom?
He simply dusted off his fingers.
As if what he just destroyed meant nothing.
Both the Hero and the Demon Lord dropped to their knees—not because Phantom willed it, but because their bodies moved on their own. A primal instinct. Submission in the presence of something beyond comprehension.
Phantom didn't even look at them.
"You two," he said casually, almost like a teacher scolding children, "should stop this war. You're not strong enough yet. Come back when you are."
He turned, footsteps soft as they echoed through the throne room. A portal swirled open ahead of him, glowing faintly with spatial distortion. He stepped toward it—
Then paused.
His head tilted slightly, the mask hiding his expression, but something like amusement danced in his voice.
"Hmm… I guess we have an uninvited guest," he said. "And judging from that suffocatingly righteous aura… I'd say it's Archangel Uriel."
The Demon Lord's eyes widened.
Archangel Uriel? No... That's impossible.
He whispered to himself, disbelief laced in every word. "An Archangel… has descended?"
That's never happened—not in any era. Angels don't descend. They send divine will. Not avatars. Not bodies. Never.
But Phantom didn't joke. He never joked.
A heartbeat passed.
Then—BOOM.
The throne room doors exploded into dust and splinters. Stone cracked, walls trembled.
From within the cloud of debris emerged a figure radiating so much divine energy that it almost scorched the senses. Twin wings of radiant white unfurled. Blue hair cascaded over silver armor that shimmered with pure light. In his right hand, a sword forged from the authority of Heaven itself.
Uriel, Archangel of Judgment.
His voice rang out, sharp and absolute:
"Being. You are under arrest for treason against Heaven."
Phantom turned to face him slowly.
"Being?" he repeated, voice cool, amused. "No respect. No courtesy. Not even a name. How very angelic of you."
He took a step forward. The air tensed.
"Also... you came alone?" His voice dropped lower, amused and insulted. "Am I being underestimated?"
Uriel's eyes narrowed. He didn't answer with words.
With holy light blazing around him, he lunged—sword raised, wings cutting through the air, intent on striking Phantom down in a single, divine blow.
And then—
Phantom whispered, "Stop."
A single word.
But it wasn't just a word. It was authority. Reality itself bent in acknowledgment.
Time froze.
Not slowed—froze.
The Demon Lord, the Hero, the falling dust from the shattered door—everything halted mid-motion, like a paused painting.
Everything, except Uriel.
He remained airborne, his body frozen in time, yet his eyes moved—shifting frantically, confused, enraged, terrified.
His mind raced, screaming against the impossible. This shouldn't be happening. This shouldn't be possible!
But it was.
And Phantom stood there, unbothered, arms folded behind his back like a curator admiring art in a museum.
The maid, who had watched silently until now, finally spoke as she observed Uriel frozen mid-strike.
"Phantom-sama… I thought Archangel-class beings weren't affected by time. He should be above such limitations."
Phantom didn't look at her. His voice was calm, almost thoughtful.
"He doesn't fully understand the concept called time."
He raised his hand slightly, watching the stillness like a sculptor admiring his work.
"Even the so-called God of Time doesn't understand it. Time isn't just a river you travel—it's a truth you have to comprehend. And Uriel... he's still clinging to divine authority, not understanding the laws that bind even divinity itself."
He turned, footsteps echoing softly toward the glowing portal.
"But if it were Michael or Gabriel... it might be different."
The maid glanced once more at Uriel, his form locked in place, then turned and followed her master into the portal.
Just before stepping through, Phantom paused and looked out across the horizon. His voice was soft, nearly lost in the hum of returning time.
"I used to be just a high school kid."
A low chuckle followed.
"Now look at me… What fun is life."
And with that, he vanished.
The portal sealed shut.
Time snapped back like a cracked whip.
And Uriel, Archangel of Judgment, dropped to one knee—breathless and shaken—for the very first time.