The silence after Beelzebub spoke was a lie.
The world outside stood still, but inside Micafer's mind, storms raged. Thoughts snarled and collided. That name—Micafer—echoed through his soul like it had always belonged there, etched into the Veil itself.
It felt like this moment had been waiting for him since birth. Maybe even before.
And yet, beneath the chaos, something unexpected took root.
Resolve.
Panic would mean turning away from the very destiny he'd been cast into. No—he wouldn't kneel. Even if it meant death, he'd face these purgators with fire in his heart.
Still, one question stabbed at him: How?
The answer came through motion.
Beelzebub moved first. His blade Justice fell—slow, ceremonial. Like a relic of ancient wrath, stiff with centuries of stillness.
Micafer dodged, light on his feet. His posture was shaky, but his sidestep spoke volumes. The King's grandeur no longer inspired fear.
Beelzebub had waited far too long. Limbs calcified by pride and time. A king out of practice, waiting for something—or someone—to wake him.
And now, the fracture had come.
The blade struck molten stone, splitting it like brittle bread.
Micafer didn't gloat, but he understood: If this dragged on, the King's stiffness would fade. He had to act fast.
A second blade—Vengeance—howled in from the left.
He ducked beneath it. Both swords now buried in stone, crisscrossed like shackles forged by the King's own hubris.
The window opened.
Micafer lunged, aiming for Beelzebub's head—only for a second shift to betray him. Not of space, but of meaning.
Two more arms came down.
He dove low, rolling beneath massive legs. With a grunt, he drove his obsidian shard upward—his last loyal weapon.
Crack.
The shard shattered. Pain flared through his hand.
Beelzebub didn't flinch.
No anger. No wound. Just a slow turn, as he pulled his blades free—like mountains shifting in boredom. His eyes met Micafer's with something worse than fury: pity.
And shame.
Not for Micafer—for himself.
Then, a command unspoken. One of his underlings stepped forward, offering a twisted staff—black as ash, silent as a grave.
Micafer hesitated.
A cursed gift. But in Hell, even corruption had purpose.
He took it.
At once, something stirred inside him—an imbalance. His neutral spirit, once balanced between light and dark, tipped. Light compressed. Shadow surged.
He tried to let go.
But instinct held on.
Sometimes, embracing poison reveals the cure.
He smirked. Not out of malice—but momentum.
This time, he didn't dodge.
He met the King's blade head-on.
The clash was thunderous. Beelzebub blocked—but the stiffness cost him an arm.
The arena fell silent.
Every purgator stared.
Even Beelzebub paused. Not in pain, but… amusement. His molten essence stirred. Heat returned to his limbs like lifeblood unclogged.
He laughed—a sound layered with pride, mockery, and rebirth.
This was what he'd waited for.
Micafer braced as Beelzebub moved with newfound speed. Sword and staff collided again. Divine fire sparked, scorching the air.
Micafer spun, ducked, struck. A hit to the shoulder. No effect.
Beelzebub countered with a punch.
Micafer blocked with the staff.
No tension. Only the King's grin.
Then, in a voice rarely heard:
"Let me show you why they call me Beelzebub."
He vanished.
Micafer's eyes searched wildly—too late.
A flash fell from the sky. Black light, sharp as a blade, struck like divine thunder.
When the dust cleared, Beelzebub stood—humanoid now, draped in infernal majesty. Flies orbited him in perfect circles.
Each fly held a soul. Eyes glowing. Wings shimmering with impossible hues. Countless voices trapped within them.
Beelzebub extended his hand. The swarm surged forward.
Micafer raised his staff and launched shadow blasts—but they shattered instantly.
Too weak.
The swarm pierced him.
Not to kill—but to weigh.
Micafer dropped to a knee. Darkness seeped into his limbs, and with it, memories:
"Get away, you cursed!"
"You thief!"
"A penny's too much for you."
"You are a Child of the Veil."
He clenched his teeth.
This wasn't pain—it was a mirror.
"A trial," he whispered.
Beelzebub descended with another strike.
Micafer raised the staff—horizontal, both hands gripping tight.
Crack.
The staff broke.
Blood trickled. The wound was shallow, but the blow carried more than force—it carried visions.
Lucifer, offering a blade of pure shadow.
Michael, offering one of radiant light.
Again and again—one then the other.
Strike. Dodge. Offer. Refusal.
The illusions blurred into noise.
Micafer staggered. His limbs shook. His soul churned.
What do I choose—Light or Darkness?