From the edge of the devastated plaza, Satoru watched the scene in silence.
The Eyeball Demon floated several meters above the ground, its grotesque body vibrating with demonic energy. Around it, a disorganized formation of soldiers and priests tried to keep it contained. Consecrated arrows cut through the air, sealing spells struck its unnatural flesh, and yet, the demon endured. Every so often, it released a wave of dark magic that sent bodies flying like puppets.
Satoru remained still, his hands hidden beneath his cloak, his presence discreet behind soldiers and members of the church. Since the fight had begun, he had not moved—positioning himself as a guardian for the demi-humans while watching the civilians leave the area.
His current objective was simple: release the spell he had used to dispel the demon's clouded mind, forcing it to act more consciously.
A single gesture was enough, and for a few seconds, nothing changed.
Then, the Eyeball Demon let out a thick roar, a bellow not of blind rage, but of a will half-recovered. With magic, it pushed away the soldiers around it. Its movements stopped being purely instinctive; its eye, once erratic, now focused on its surroundings.
The demon trembled violently, and a faint spark of energy began to stir beneath it. Dark runes emerged from the ground, connecting in patterns that Satoru recognized immediately. It was not a difficult deduction. Wounded, confused, and without true understanding of its surroundings, it did the one thing that could guarantee it some respite: the summoning of the Labyrinth.
Satoru evaluated the possible routes. If he failed to stop the process, he could dismantle the labyrinth from within—he was already close to the demi-humans, so if teleported, he would be with them. Furthermore, if the Eyeball Demon failed to summon the Black Demon, Satoru himself would introduce a high-level enemy to preserve the illusion of an authentic battle.
He had already prepared with what he had.
A breeze lifted the dust and dried blood from the ground, stirring the folds of his cloak. Satoru adjusted his stance.
The air vibrated with a dense, brutal tension. The matrix beneath the Eyeball Demon continued its manifestation, spreading like a pulsating spiderweb.
Satoru narrowed his eyes.
It was time to act.
He stepped forward, the earth beneath his feet creaking under the weight of his decision. His voice, firm as a sentence, resonated through the entire plaza.
"Fall back!"
The shout cut through the chaos like a blade. Some soldiers froze, others looked at him in confusion, unable to ignore the authority in his words.
It was the Galleon priest who reacted first.
"Retreat!"
His voice dispelled the hesitation of the rest. As if waking from a dream, soldiers and clerics began to pull back quickly, leaving an even wider empty circle around the demon.
At that moment, the air grew dense. Waves of darkness surged from the ground, corrupted magical circles expanding like a living plague. The Eyeball Demon roared, and the matrix beneath it throbbed more intensely.
Satoru raised a hand, the folds of his cloak rippling from the gathered energy.
"[Antimagic Field]"
His voice was no louder than a murmur, but the magic answered like contained thunder.
An invisible wave surged from his outstretched palm, sweeping through the plaza with a suffocating pressure. Instantly, the demon's magic circles began to crumble, as if an unrelenting wind were tearing their very existence from the fabric of reality.
The matrix shattered in a flash of darkness, leaving the Eyeball Demon floating, exposed and vulnerable.
The battlefield held its breath.
For a few seconds, the Eyeball Demon floated in silence, as if its grotesque body could not comprehend what had just happened. Then, slowly, its single eye slid toward Satoru.
Now it understood. It had been he who drove it into rage, and now he had destroyed its work. There was no hatred. Only comprehension.
With almost ritual-like movements, it lowered its deformed arms and then raised them toward the sky. When it spoke, its voice was not that of a defeated creature, but of a priest uttering a final prayer.
"My Lord… I have failed. I wished to prepare for you a worthy stage, a prison to display the suffering of the weak, as you so enjoy. But they have taken it from me… they have."
A pillar of darkness burst beneath it, rising into the sky like a living column of absolute night. The pressure it radiated made the plaza tremble, and fear rooted itself in every present heart. No one spoke. No one fled. All stared as one would at a distant tsunami, wishing it were an illusion.
"Still… one has appeared. Different, perhaps able to entertain you."
The darkness surged violently. And then, a new demon emerged.
A titanic figure, several meters tall, covered in infernal jewelry that crackled with dark energy. Each step it took warped the ground. Its eyes blazed with unholy fire. The aura it exuded was so oppressive that even the air seemed to thin.
The soldiers, priests, and civilians watched in disbelief.
"…Is that… a high-class demon?" someone murmured.
"Impossible…" another managed to say before falling silent before the overwhelming presence. No one moved. It was as if they expected it all to be a hallucination.
The demon let out a slow snort. A breath of black energy escaped its nostrils, tearing through the silence. Then it turned its gaze toward the Eyeball Demon.
"Summoning… acceptable."
With a deliberate motion, it extended one hand and took hold of it.
The Eyeball Demon did not resist. In fact, it seemed to exhale in peace.
It was devoured.
No screams. No struggle. Only darkness consuming darkness. On its forehead, a massive eye sprouted, resembling the Eyeball Demon.
Satoru stepped forward.
His boots echoed calmly on the cracked stone as he advanced toward the center of the plaza, his cloak swaying with precise rhythm. His gaze was not fixed on the infernal creature, but on the space between them.
"I will not repeat myself," he said in a serene voice, neither raising it nor hardening it. "Fall back."
The Black Demon turned its head slowly, recognizing him—the one its servant had offered as tribute. Its eyes narrowed, and the eye on its forehead pulsed once.
But it did not speak to Satoru. It spoke to the others.
"I have no time for the feeble."
And raising one of its claws, it blew.
"[Cursed Wind]."
A gust of dark wind, saturated with cursed power, erupted from its palm like a shockwave, tearing toward the line of soldiers and priests.
Before it could reach its target, Satoru had already cast.
"[Spell Turning]."
A mirrored shimmer distorted the space before him. The gust twisted in the air, coiling like a violent serpent before shooting straight back at its caster.
The Black Demon did not flinch. It received its own magic with its bare chest, letting it envelop him like thick smoke. When the wind dissipated, it was still standing.
It smiled.
"Very well, you have my attention, mage."
The Black Demon tilted its head slightly, observing Satoru like one might evaluate an intriguing piece. Without the need for theatrics, it spoke in a deep voice that resonated like cracking stone.
"But I am not like those arrogant demons—" it said with a dry note of respect. "Arrogance is always the path to ruin."
It raised all four of its arms, and crimson energy began to envelop it. The massive eye on its forehead pulsed, casting dark flashes as it chanted in a guttural tone. The incantation lasted only moments before the spell activated.
"[Physical Attack Increased by 300%]."
Satoru observed the spell with a glint of interest in his eyes. He had already witnessed demonic magic when the Eyeball Demon faced the militia, but having it before him was different. Demonic magic surpassed human magic in both sophistication and brutality. He knew of this spell thanks to the original story, yet seeing something like this executed by someone whose strength in YGGDRASIL would be considered low was surprising.
In YGGDRASIL, there were spells with both percentage and fixed increases, and while metamagic tools like Triplet Magic existed to replicate spells multiple times, seeing a 300% boost to physical damage in a single cast was a luxury reserved for entities far above this level.
Perhaps, Satoru thought, in YGGDRASIL this demon would be below level 40. Even so, its magical capacity was considerably interesting.
A thought crossed his mind like a sharp shadow, intrigued by the very structure of the spell. He wanted that knowledge; if not for the scene currently unfolding, Satoru would have already killed the demon to use his [Dark Wisdom].
While Satoru was lost in thought, the Black Demon lunged forward with speed incongruent to its size, claws extended like black blades ready to tear through anything in their path.
"[Cat's Grace]."
Before the attack could reach him, Satoru enhanced his reflexes with a low-level spell, anticipating the enemy's movement with supernatural ease.
He watched the motion without altering his expression, and at the last moment, his body simply slid aside with elegant fluidity, letting the deadly claws pass just centimeters from him.
Anticipating Satoru's next move, the Black Demon quickly cast in a deep, resonant voice:
"[Sacred Damage Reduced by 90%]."
A dark aura wrapped the demon just in time. Satoru extended a wand toward it in immediate response.
"[Holy Strike]."
An intense flash of sacred light struck the demon in the face, enveloping its figure in a blinding radiance that caused some soldiers to instinctively cover their eyes.
When the light faded, the demon still stood firm. Its wounds were superficial—only minor, smoldering burns marked its dark skin—and it smiled with contained arrogance.
"Did you truly think I would not be prepared for such obvious attacks, mage?"
Satoru did not answer. Instead, a fleeting glimmer of intelligence crossed his gaze as his lips murmured the next spell.
"[Fire Ball]."
This time, the effect was immediate. A burst of fire erupted from his palm, engulfing the demon in living flames that consumed both its skin and its pride.
The Black Demon roared in genuine pain, desperately activating its regenerative ability to counter the burns. When the flames finally died down, it remained standing, but its skin smoked, and its previous smile had been replaced by caution.
The demon, determined to regain the initiative, charged at Satoru once more with renewed ferocity. Its black claws tore through the air with such violence they created slicing gusts, shattering the ground and sending shards of rock flying in all directions.
Satoru moved with a grace that seemed unreal, dodging each attack with precision while maintaining serenity in his expression. As he shifted, he whispered spells in quick succession to further enhance his abilities:
"[Haste]…"
His body reacted instantly, becoming even more agile and swift.
"[Greater Evasion]…"
A faint aura enveloped him, greatly increasing his ability to evade any strike.
The Black Demon attacked relentlessly with its claws, trying to tear Satoru apart with every blow. However, Satoru dodged with precision and grace, countering with a quick gesture.
"[Greater Fire Ball]."
A massive explosion engulfed the demon, tearing a grunt of pain and annoyance from it. Enraged, the demon activated new enhancement spells in retaliation:
"[Physical Strength Increased by 300%]… [Speed Increased by 100%]."
The intensity of the battle escalated rapidly. The terrain fractured with each strike, explosions of mana intermingled with flames and sacred flashes lit the scene, while dark gusts, infernal curses, and powerful slashes tore the surroundings apart.
A shiver ran down the spines of the soldiers and priests watching the fight, unable to believe what they were seeing.
For them, a High-Rank Demon like the Black Demon was not a creature to be defeated—it was a calamity that could only be contained, an abyss of despair before which men could only pray. And yet, there stood that unknown man… a human fighting it. And the worst—or most astonishing—part was that he was not merely holding his ground; he was overpowering it.
It was a feat that, according to all beliefs, should only be possible for a hero wielding a sacred sword.
From his perspective, the demon's flesh no longer healed as it once had. The flames hurt it. The explosions forced it back. And in the midst of that confusion, the demon roared, letting out its disbelief in a furious cry.
But then, its voice rang out once more—deep, resonant, almost ritualistic:
"[Mantle of Darkness]."
A black sphere emerged between the combatants, enveloping both the demon and Satoru in a field as opaque as liquid ink.
The soldiers tensed. Some raised prayers. Others simply held their breath, waiting… fearing.
Inside the mantle, silence was absolute.
The Black Demon turned its head, puzzled. Its senses told it it was not alone, but something didn't add up. Why had it heard its own voice chanting a spell? Where had that magic come from?
He had not been the one to cast it.
Yet, he felt no anomaly in his body. The dark field did not harm or weaken him in the slightest. Its only apparent effect was to create an area of total darkness. But for someone like him, whose night vision was absolute, this was no disadvantage.
In front of the demon, Satoru sighed. He no longer appeared as a tense warrior or a strategist measuring movements. He had dropped the mask, stripped away the theater. His shoulders were relaxed, his stance that of someone who had just finished a performance.
The game was over.
The demon stepped back. Something deep inside it—something ancient and primal—screamed at it to run. That it should not face what stood before it.
But it was too late.
"[Death]," Satoru whispered.
There was no bolt, no explosion. No scream, no curse. The Black Demon simply stopped. Its body collapsed from within, its life ripped away without ceremony or warning. The colossal demon fell with a dull thud, shaking the ground with its dead weight.
Satoru closed his eyes. An intangible flow enveloped him as [Dark Wisdom] activated, allowing him to absorb the magical knowledge embedded in his enemy's essence. Images, formulas, and structures of demonic spells flooded his mind.
When the effect ended, Satoru allowed a small smile of satisfaction.
"Oh~, interesting."
He had found an unexpected gain. There was more within [Demonic Magic] than he had anticipated.
Opening his eyes, he regarded the immense corpse of the Black Demon and casually extended a hand.
"[Gate]."
A portal opened to the Dragon's Valley. From it emerged the Corpse Collector, which, without a word, approached the corpse and, with unnatural strength, slowly dragged it into the portal until both disappeared.
Moments later, Satoru raised his hand again and spoke words in a guttural, harsh language, resonating like blades scraping against stone.
A dark wind surged from his fingers, forming a spiraling shadowy gust.
"[Cursed Wind]."
The very technique the Black Demon had used at the start—now in his hands.
Satoru nodded in satisfaction. Not because of the spell's power, but because of his ability to cast it. Internally, a wave of childlike excitement coursed through his chest, pure and innocent as a child receiving a new toy.
However, he quickly contained it. There was still a role to play; only when this was over would he dedicate himself to testing his new magic.
He looked up at the dark sky, calculating the time elapsed. Enough time had passed.
With a mental command, his field of darkness began to dissipate.
The shadowy veil disintegrated slowly, like ashes floating in the air. The light of the sky filtered back over the devastated plaza, revealing an area blackened and cracked by intense fire. There, where seconds earlier the demon had stood, nothing remained but the echo of an impossible explosion. For the witnesses, there could only be one explanation: the demon had been reduced to ashes by magic far too advanced to comprehend.
For a moment, there was no sound.
The soldiers, priests, and civilians remained frozen, gripped by a mixture of fear, disbelief, and something deeper… reverence. No one screamed, no one cheered. It was like witnessing a miracle that the soul dared not yet react to.
One of the clerics let his staff fall to the ground. Another began to murmur a prayer, unsure whether to praise the god Garleon… or the man standing amidst the ruins.
A veteran captain swallowed hard. His sword trembled in his hand—not from the battle, but from what he had just seen. This being had defeated a high-ranking demon… alone. And he was unharmed.
"He…" someone whispered. "…won?"
To defeat a high-ranking demon in such a way… was that something a human could do?
Behind the captain, murmurs began among the soldiers.
"Could he be a [Hero]?"
A [Hero]—one chosen by the goddess Parion to defeat evil. That idea seemed to fit. The captain himself considered it, as did many present. But there was an obvious problem.
Where was his sacred sword?
Every chosen Hero received one—a legendary blade symbolizing their pact with the goddess. In that case… where was this man's sword?
The words hung in the air, suspended like a seed of truth everyone feared to accept.
A young demi-human girl, still under the protection of Satoru's invisible barriers, clung to her younger sister. Her eyes were fixed on him, as if expecting him to vanish at any moment.
And yet, he was still there. Standing, slowly approaching.
Satoru took a few steps forward, letting his eyes scan the devastated surroundings. Then, in a calm voice, he asked:
"Are you hurt?"
The question floated in the air like an unexpected echo. Many barely reacted at first. It was the priest of Garleon who stepped forward, still wearing an awed expression, and shook his head, followed by a few soldiers barely able to keep their composure.
"Perfect," Satoru said, lowering his tone slightly as he reached inside his cloak.
He drew out a smooth, featureless mask, made of dark metallic material with bluish crystal inlays at the eyes. As he put it on, the fragments emitted a faint glow, completely hiding his gaze.
"It's a magical artifact," he explained, anticipating the silent doubts he could feel in the air. "It helps accelerate my mana recovery."
Some soldiers nodded awkwardly. Others simply exhaled, as if reminded that all of this was still real.
Satoru observed them for a few seconds longer, calculating the scene, measuring reactions, faces, postures. The fear was still there, but now it was fear wrapped in respect. The tension had faded… and that allowed him to extend his presentation.
Behind everyone, still protected by the magical barrier, the three demi-humans stayed together. The eldest, with reptilian features, cautiously looked up. For a fleeting instant, she felt as though her gaze met the mage's across the distance.
***
The ruins were shrouded in a thick gloom, barely lit by fragments of light filtering through the cracks in the ceiling. Cracked stones, fallen columns, inscriptions eroded by centuries… and yet something remained. A latent memory.
Akon Kagura walked in silence. Each step carried her deeper into the foundations of the forgotten temple. Her figure, wrapped in dark, worn fabrics, seemed held together only by willpower. Her strength—once enough to destroy empires—was now a residue locked in a human body.
As she descended, she murmured to herself, as if repeating a name that should no longer be spoken.
"Yamato…"
That was how the books remembered her. How the temples revered her. How the kings of Shiga invoked her whenever they sought authority over their people.
The great unifying monarch.
The hero who faced barbarism and gave birth to order.
But it was a lie.
Not out of malice. Not out of betrayal. Simply out of forgetfulness.
The truth was that Yamato… had been a human girl. A Japanese girl. One who never wanted to rule. Only to wait.
And her real name was not Yamato.
It was Mito.
Mito Misukuni.
A pleasant, cheerful, and friendly woman, yet carrying incredible determination. She had not been born to lead armies. She had not been raised to impose her will over kingdoms. Her soul was that of someone who protects… who waits… who gives herself without conditions.
And yet, she had been thrown into this world centuries ago.
The Saga Empire had summoned her, expecting an obedient warrior, and when her magical ability failed to meet their expectations, they relegated her to the back lines. They marked her as a failure. Assigned her as a pack mule. Nothing more than a burden whose only worth was her [Inventory].
They ultimately lost her when the caravan she traveled with was attacked by Orcs.
What they didn't know—what they never understood—was that Mito's magic, called [Friendship], was more than just the ability to speak with other races. It was a pure extension of her character. It was what kept her alive when the orcs captured her. It was what made even her captors end up protecting her.
But that episode was only the beginning.
At some point, her path crossed with one of the most feared enemies on the continent: the Golden Board Lord, a Demon King as ancient as he was powerful. His magic was enough to fell dragons, and his authority among the demonic hosts was absolute.
And Mito… managed to approach him.
Not with deception, nor with tricks. Only with her presence. With that magic that had no offense but did have soul.
From prisoner of war to friend of the King.
For a time, there was truce. And perhaps, if the world had stayed quiet, there might have been peace.
But unfortunately, that did not happen. Because when the Demon God designates a new Demon King, that king is destined to bring disaster and suffering.
Mito could do nothing but watch as her friend was corrupted by the deity's power.
And it was then that she, the prisoner, the pacifist, the discarded human… was forced to take up a weapon.
With the support of Akon Kagura and the few allies who still believed in her, she faced the Golden Board Lord in a battle that remained etched in the world's memory.
That battle ended with the Demon King's death.
Her victory brought her the title of [Great Hero], and with it the opportunity to return to Japan.
She had saved the world. She had earned her right.
But she chose to stay. After her battle, Mito founded the Shiga Kingdom, with her own ideal of balance, power, and stability. History remembers her today under the title of "King Yamato."
However, something few know is that this decision did not stem from her current ties or pending responsibilities. It came from her love for the past. From the beginning—since she arrived in this world—only one person in her mind inspired her to keep going. In times of war, she even took longevity elixirs just to remain young for when they would meet again.
But then, when the time came to return, she was met with an oracle who gave her a revelation: if she went back, she would never see the one she loved again.
So she chose to stay. Without hesitation, she abandoned the idea of returning to her country—her "home"—because she felt it would not be worth it without him.
And so she decided to wait.
For centuries, hidden in a temple, waiting to see him again, she remained under a cryo-sleep. A decision made not out of faith, not out of duty.
Only out of love.
Tap. Tap.
Akon Kagura walked with heavy steps—not from physical exhaustion, but from the unbearable weight of what she was about to do. She had not wanted this meeting. Not under these conditions. She had avoided this moment with every fiber of what power she had left, resisting waking Mito—not out of fear of her strength, but because she understood that breaking her sleep meant destroying the only pure bond still tied to Satou.
Mito was no ordinary ally. She was the only one capable of understanding what Akon had lost. The two were women who had loved the same person with equal intensity, though from different angles.
Mito had known him in her everyday life, in simple, close normalcy. She had loved him as a human being, as a companion she could touch.
Akon, on the other hand, had followed him through endless branches of time, had watched him from every angle the world offered, had gathered and rebuilt him obsessively until forming the only version of him who could be with her.
Her entire plan—her entire purpose—revolved around protecting him. She had sacrificed her body, her influence, and nearly her very existence to place him exactly where he needed to be.
Satou was her answer, her choice… her love.
And yet, she failed.
Not out of lack of foresight. Not out of arrogance. But because someone else intervened.
That thing. His killer.
She didn't know what it was, nor where it came from. Only that, in those brief moments, it had used something… an object so powerful it ripped Satou out of the very world. It wasn't a barrier, nor a concealment spell. It was an absolute disconnection. Akon had felt it—the exact moment when all connection to Satou vanished, as if he had been torn from reality itself. And when she felt him again… he was already dead.
Akon felt it. She felt the heart of her world crumble in an instant.
Satou died. And she could do nothing.
Now, only Mito remained. Asleep beneath the foundations of a forgotten temple, sealed in a self-imposed dream. The last person who could still share her loss. The only one who could help her with the same motivation…
And yet, part of Akon hesitated.
Mito didn't deserve this either. She didn't deserve to wake to a world where her wait had been in vain.
And still, Akon had no other choice.
She raised her eyes. The seals flickered softly, as if resisting the final activation. The capsule was intact. Mito's body remained unchanged, as if time itself had frozen just for her.
Akon did not pray. She did not ask permission.
She only accepted.
"Forgive me, Mito," she whispered, knowing forgiveness would change nothing.
The sanctuary's seal dissolved in a faint glow. There was no thunderous sound, no surge of energy shaking the ground. Only a faint sigh of air, as if time, contained for centuries, had released its breath.
The capsule opened.
For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then, a figure stirred inside.
"Ten-chan…"
Her voice was the same as always. Gentle, relaxed, without the slightest worry on her face. A warmth that seemed out of place in the sanctuary's rigidity, yet radiated naturally from every word she spoke.
"You woke me…"
She yawned, unhurried, and sat up within the capsule with slow movements. She didn't stand. She simply adjusted herself inside, sitting with her legs folded, without hurry. She looked at Akon with calm, as if expecting a simple answer and nothing more.
Because in her mind, if the answer wasn't what she expected, she could just go back to sleep.
"What's wrong? Feeling lonely? Hehe~"
Still, she didn't miss the chance to laugh with the friend she hadn't seen in so long.
Akon didn't respond.
Mito tilted her head, still smiling calmly. She wasn't surprised by the lack of response. So she simply leaned closer and asked:
"Did he arrive?"
There was nothing wrong in her tone. Only hope. Pure. Blind.
And that was enough to darken Akon's face.
Mito, at last, noticed the unusual state of the small deity.
The smile faded slightly. It didn't disappear, but her eyes, for the first time, sought something more in her friend's face.
Without another word, she leaned forward and took Akon's hand in hers.
"… Did something happen?"
Akon lowered her gaze.
"He's dead."
The temple, already shrouded in silence, somehow became even quieter.
And Mito… said nothing.
Not a single word.
She only lowered her gaze. As if she had just woken up, for the second time.