Inside a hidden subspace.
The members of the Chloroya Merchant Guild sat surrounded by glowing magical projections, observing every battlefield in real time through specialized magical devices.
Their focus, of course, was on the five Greater-Rank Demons—the true decisive force of this invasion. Everything else was just collateral.
One steward pointed to one of the scenes in the display and said,
"That one looks like he's slipping into a disadvantage. Should we use the artifact the Guildmaster gave us? Give him a little nudge?"
Since the battle began, they'd stayed hidden within this isolated subspace, safely away from the battlefield thanks to advanced magical concealment. As a result, they hadn't suffered a single casualty.
The artifact in question, entrusted to them personally by the Guildmaster, was their final trump card—capable of disrupting a Greater-Rank battle at a critical moment. It couldn't kill a Greater-Rank opponent outright, but a well-timed strike might tip the scales.
Another steward, however, shook his head slightly.
"No need yet. His opponent doesn't look much better. It might end in mutual destruction. And even if he loses, his opponent won't have the energy left to interfere with anyone else's battle."
He paused, then added with a cold smile:
"The Guildmaster's orders were clear—secure victory first, but if possible, wear down the Greater-Rank demons. Ideally, we want two or three of them eliminated. It'll save us a fortune in future payments."
The others nodded in understanding.
After all, they'd spent long enough in the Abyss to pick up a few of its local customs—like backstabbing your own team to cut costs.
Even with binding contracts in place, they were still hoping some of those demons would take each other out. Deep down, they'd be thrilled to see every last one of them die a noble, expensive death.
While the first two stewards debated, a third was watching the projection showing Orsaga's battle with Helion, frowning as he gestured at the screen.
"These two have already fought their way across thousands of kilometers. It's been fire scorches sea, punch sinks island, breath wipes out cities. The collateral damage is astronomical. At this rate, even if we win, all we'll inherit is a smoldering wasteland."
The other guild members stared at the battlefield footage in grim silence.
Sure, the other Greater-Rank demons were also making a mess—but compared to Orsaga and Helion, they looked like squabbling children. The rest might've sunk a few islands. Orsaga was on track to reformat the entire biosphere.
Worse yet, over 90% of the devastation… came from Orsaga alone.
At least Helion was a native of this world. He had some restraint.
Orsaga, on the other hand, was utterly unhinged, with no concern whatsoever for environmental preservation.
Even just watching from afar, the stewards could feel it—Orsaga was the kind of demon who didn't care whether the world survived his presence.
Another steward spoke up, rubbing his temples:
"We can't stop him. If we try… I'm pretty sure he'll just kill us first."
The room nodded in unison.
"Yeah. Same vibe here."
"So what, we just… watch?"
"Maybe we could talk to him?"
"…Who's gonna do that?"
"…"
No volunteers.
They may have spent decades in the Abyss, but even they weren't foolish enough to reason with a fire-breathing, contract-breaking, civilization-melting Greater-Rank Demon on a rampage.
This is why being monstrously dangerous pays off—people start trying to reason with you instead of resisting.
Whether Orsaga realized they were nervously watching from the sidelines was unclear—and irrelevant.
Because he wouldn't have cared anyway.
---
At this moment, Orsaga was having the time of his life.
Blow after blow, wound after wound—they were carving into each other like blacksmiths at the forge. But both sides regenerated too fast for the wounds to stick.
It was glorious.
After another round of clashes, both combatants recoiled slightly.
Helion panted heavily, golden flames flickering around his armor.
Even with his divine authority and the World Will's aid, the relentless close-quarters tempo was wearing him down. Every second brought thousands of micro-decisions—angles, force, balance. His body could keep up. His mind, however, was starting to slip.
And fatigue... was something Helion hadn't felt in thousands of years.
He had fully realized by now: Orsaga wasn't just strong. He was an absolute nightmare to fight.
That massive body moved with predator-like grace, as if it ignored inertia altogether.
And even while brawling like a wild beast, Orsaga could weave complex spells into the fight with zero casting time—laying subtle traps between each exchange.
It wasn't just strength. It was battlefield domination.
If Helion's entire divine domain wasn't tethered to this world, he would've considered retreating already.
And indeed, that thought had started creeping into his mind.
Orsaga noticed.
He always noticed when someone started losing heart.
His fists kept hammering forward like before—relentless, thunderous.
Helion met them with his glowing greatsword, intercepting another direct blow.
"CLANG!"
The blade caught the punch.
But then came the real trick.
From Orsaga's other hand, and from the tip of his tail, simultaneous follow-up attacks launched.
Helion, familiar with Orsaga's style, twisted his body just enough to avoid them—his sword as the fulcrum, his body narrowly dodging by mere centimeters. His attention even flicked briefly to Orsaga's wings, knowing they were more than ornamental.
But he missed one crucial detail.
Something was slithering out of Orsaga's knuckles—a thread-thin blood vessel, like a viper, had bypassed his divine wards and pierced into his arm.
A split second later, paralysis hit him like lightning.
Then—
SNAP.
The arm gripping Orsaga's fist… split open.
A thinner arm emerged from within the original—like a grotesque nesting doll—and drove straight through Helion's wards, impaling his chest and gripping something vital.
His divine spine.
The core of his godhood.
"You made a mistake," Orsaga said calmly.
"Which means you lose."
With a vicious yank, a golden, spine-like shard of bone tore free from Helion's back.
In truth, Orsaga had been hiding his full control over his own flesh and blood throughout the fight. Beyond using a few blood-formed minions, he'd shown nothing.
Now that Helion had grown accustomed to his rhythm, Orsaga struck with the ace he'd been saving.
He had already calibrated the exact frequency of Helion's divine shielding.
He had waited for that moment of doubt. That half-second of mental lapse.
And he pounced.
In a battle of equals, where raw power alone wasn't enough, factors like endurance, tactics, and confidence made all the difference.
And in that instant, Helion faltered.
Orsaga didn't.
__
T/N:
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