Without wasting any time, I create a dark blue spear made of Netherwater, the Netherwater Spear and hurl it at him.
The spear pierces through Az, and the Netherwater begins to corrode him from the inside.
"Ahhhhh! Az is dying!"
I wait patiently, watching closely. I need to understand why this demon keeps dying and reviving again and again.
And then, once more, Az's body begins to rebuild itself on its own.
"Impossible… How can this be happening?"
'Shadow Bind.'
Az's shadow extends unnaturally, forming writhing tentacles that twist around his limbs and body, restraining him completely.
"Az, you're worse than a cockroach, you know that?"
Az tries to respond, but the binding covers even his mouth, muffling any sound.
'Dream Void.'
A small, dark purple sphere materialises in my palm and slowly floats toward Az. When it touches him, he collapses, falling deep into a swirling sea of nightmares.
"Let's see what this cockroach is hiding behind his resurrection."
I close my eyes and summon one of my lesser-used divine aspects—the Divinity of Secrets. It responds.
A vision unfolds before me.
I see Az performing a forbidden ritual, one that grants him 99 lives—a twisted mockery of immortality.
"Ahhhhh!"
Within the nightmare realm, Az's mind begins to crumble. The Dream Void corrupts his sanity beyond repair.
I release the Shadow Bind. I want to witness the effect of my spell firsthand.
Once unbound, Az starts clawing at his own face, screaming silently, then tears open his chest and stabs his own heart.
Az dies.
"Alright… My main objective is complete. But killing this cockroach 99 times is going to be exhausting."
Az resurrects again.
Without blinking, I unleash another Netherflame Blitz, incinerating him once more.
'Hmm… To kill him completely, I'll need to kill him 94 more times. I need a spell that can end him in one strike permanently.'
Az comes back yet again, but this time I don't kill him.
Instead, I bind him once more with Shadow Bind.
I ponder. In this universe, the only known resurrection method requires the Resurrection Flame—a flame that only I possess. Yet Az hasn't used it. So how is he resurrecting?
Half an hour passes. I observe every detail but find no trace of the Resurrection Flame or its energy.
Then an idea strikes me.
I kill Az again.
This time, I use all of my divine aspects—Underworld, Soul, Death, Mortality—and begin a deep analysis.
And then I find it.
'The energy signature is subtle, almost perfectly masked by the violent flare of his dying soul. It takes the full flows of divinity to trace it.'
Az isn't resurrecting in the usual sense.
His soul isn't dying only his physical body. Upon death, an unknown energy transports his soul to another dimension, where it rapidly reforms a new body using his own soul energy and sends it back.
I stare at his newly reformed body and re-bind it with shadows.
Now it is time to end this cycle.
Combining my divine powers, I forge a new type of flame—a pale light green fire, forged from the essence of soul destruction itself.
This is Soul Fire, a fire never before seen in this world.
I shape it into a sphere, then launch it at Az.
The fire does not touch his physical form—it burns his very soul.
Az tries to scream in agony, but the Shadow Bind prevents even that.
The fire consumes him from the inside out, not with heat, but with pure annihilation.
And finally, Az is truly dead.
No resurrection.
No rebuilding.
No revival.
I exhale deeply and mutter to myself.
"Finally… it ends."
---
I return to the castle and enter the throne room.
At the far corner, Hecate sits cross-legged in meditation, the arcane softly humming around her like a coiled serpent.
As I seat myself on the obsidian throne, my presence shifts the atmosphere.
Hecate opens her eyes, rises to her feet, and approaches with that same careful grace.
"I felt a significant expenditure of power emanating from the western volcanic plains, My Lord," she says, her voice a model of polite reporting. "Enough to incinerate a minor duke. Yet I sense only the ashes of a common goat demon. I trust the… scale of your solution was proportionate to the problem?"
A flicker of understanding passes behind my cold and sharp eyes. Of course. This isn't mere mockery; it's a probe. She's testing my patience, my ego—seeing if the crown has made me brittle and arrogant. Very well. Let's play this game. But we'll play by my rules. A slow, deliberate smile touches my lips, devoid of warmth but full of intent.
I look at Hecate as a spark of challenge rises in my voice.
"Hecate, let's play a game."
Her brow arches slightly.
"If I win, you will aid me in dealing with these so-called dukes," I state, laying out my deal.
"And if I win?" she asks, her voice like the whisper of turning pages in a forbidden library.
My smile vanishes, replaced by a gravity that seems to bend the very light around me.
"If you win," I declare, each word a stone dropped into a bottomless well, "I will grant you the one thing you have coveted through all the long, silent eons of your service. I will sever the ancient bonds that tie you to this realm. I will grant you your freedom."
The silence that follows is not mere absence of sound. It is a physical presence, thick and heavy, pressing down on us. It is the sound of a door, locked for millennia, suddenly swinging open onto a terrifying and unknown abyss.
This is no friendly spar.
I understand the risk with chilling clarity. If I lose, I will not merely be losing a battle. I will be unleashing her. Hecate, unshackled, is not simply a neutral party.
Hecate stands still, her eyes locked on mine.
"…You would risk that much?" she asks, her voice soft but sharp.
"Yes."
She studies me for a long moment.
"…Then I accept," she says finally, a glint of anticipation rising in her tone. "Let's see what you've become."
Together, we leave the throne room and descend to the battlefield, the same field where I once trained alone under the blackened sky.
But this time, I am not fighting with puppets.
I am facing the Witch of the Crossroads herself.
The training grounds are still as death—silenced. No witnesses. No audience. Only two gods, preparing to test their fate.
Hecate stands calm and composed. She raises her sage's staff, etched with ancient runes glowing violet, and lights her silver lamp, which floats beside her, humming softly with lunar energy. A quiet storm gathers around her.
I create my weapon—a spear born from darkness, its shaft pulsing like a living vein, the tip shaped to pierce gods and ghosts alike.
Without a word, I create an iron coin, tossing it high into the air.
As it spins, thoughts race—calculating openings and counters, possibilities branching like trees in our minds.
The moment the coin strikes the ground with a hollow ring, I move.
I unleash a flurry of Dark Bullets—dozens of rapid-fire projectiles—seeking to test her reflexes and spacing.
She doesn't flinch.
In a blink, she teleports into the air above and chants a sharp incantation. A flash of arcane light bursts outward, and from it descends a pair of giant stone golems, their forms groaning as if ripped from ancient mountains.
One raises its colossal arm and smashes downward toward me with surprising speed.
I rise into the sky, dodging with a sharp pivot of my wings.
But Hecate has predicted that.
While I am mid-flight, she has already released hundreds of Fire Lances, each conjured in perfect formation, descending like a divine meteor storm, aimed with surgical precision to deny every path of escape.
I raise a Dark Shield, bracing myself.
The impact is tremendous.
Even with my protection, the concussive force slams me to the ground, cratering the earth beneath my feet. Before I can recover, the golem brings down its massive hand with brutal weight.
The world shakes.
Pain lances through me, but I grit my teeth. This isn't a spar. This isn't a game. If I can't overcome this now, how can I ever earn the loyalty of my future aides?
As the golem prepares another strike, I channel power into my spear, condense it, and slash upward, shattering its arm into a thousand shards. In one motion, I hurl my spear toward Hecate, aiming straight for her chest.
She vanishes again—teleportation—just as I expect.
Which is why I am already invisible.
But Hecate isn't surprised.
Instead, she conjures illusions—dozens of copies of herself spreading across the entire garden. To most eyes, they are indistinguishable.
But I am the God of Secrets and Perception.
I sense the truth.
I lunge toward the real Hecate, my spear driving forward, but her lips curl into a small smile.
She has been waiting.
The moment I close in, the air around her shimmers with tiny glowing spores, barely visible until too late.
Fire Spores.
As my spear touches one, the explosion ignites, engulfing the field in searing heat. I shield myself in time, but the blast pushes me back, forcing me to reset.
She isn't finished.
A vortex of water surges upward around me, forming a massive water tornado. The pressure pins me in place, trapping me inside a prison of spiralling current.
And then an inspiration strikes.
Why fight her spell… when I can own it?
I call forth the Nether energy from within me. My divine essence corrupts the water, turning it into Netherwater—dark, acidic, and alive. The tornado twists, condenses, and reshapes at my will, transforming into tens of spiralling Netherwater Spears.
With a roar, I fire it back toward her.
She reacts quickly by summoning dozens of Lunar Wolves, each leaping toward me, coated in moonlight and fangs bared.
I hurl my own spear of corrupted water at them.
The two forces collide midair, darkness and moonlight crashing together in a violent burst, cancelling each other out.
Steam hisses. Cracks split the ground.
And for a moment, silence.
We stand at opposite ends of the scorched battlefield, both bruised, breath steady, eyes locked.
I am not the same as I was months ago. Neither is she.
This is no longer student versus master.
This is a battle between equals.