Years passed.
Or at least Simon believed they had.
Time was no longer a flowing river — it was a storm swallowing memory.
He did not know whether he had swung the sword ten thousand times or a million.
Sometimes, Simon woke up trembling, breath burning in his chest, certain he had died.
Sometimes, he woke to find wounds closed, skin reborn, strength replenished — though he didn't remember healing.
And sometimes, he did not wake at all —
but returned.
Returned to the arena.
Returned to the sword.
Returned to being less than Orba.
Always less.
Always losing.
Simon's muscles had become layered like tempered steel, veins thready and dark from constant strain. His palms were raw, scar tissue thick where the sword's grip had eaten into him over… fifteen years? Twelve? Twenty?
He didn't know.
He stopped counting after the fifth winter he survived on rage alone.
But in this strange immortal hell, seasons only existed in memories.
He trained until thought dissolved and instinct remained.
He struck until air cracked and dirt burst from the ground beneath the force.
He learned to anticipate Orba's movements — the twitch before a parry, the subtle shift of weight before a counter.
Simon learned to see battle.
To breathe battle.
To be battle.
And then… to lose. Every. Single. Time.
—
"Again."
Orba stood like an iron tower, eyes glowing with ancient power.
The Demon King's arms folded, his tone neither mockery nor taunt — simply a decree.
Simon steadied his stance, chest rising and falling like a bellows.
"Come," he growled.
The metal sword in his hand trembled — not from fear, but from the vibration of raw energy surging through his bones. He stepped forward, feet carving grooves into the earth.
He struck.
Steel sang through the air, faster than any human soldier could ever dream of swinging — yet Orba blocked it with one finger, coated in a black, shimmering aura.
The sound was humiliatingly soft — clink.
And Simon felt it — the reminder.
He was still human.
Still mortal.
Still small.
Every improvement, every grueling breakthrough — still a pebble thrown at a mountain.
Orba flicked his finger.
The force hit Simon like a storm hammer, sending him flying across the field, ribs shattering.
He rolled, bones crunching, lungs screaming. The world blurred — earth, sky, blood, sky again.
He hit the ground and didn't rise.
Not for minutes.
Not for hours.
He didn't know.
Time was meaningless here.
"You improved," Orba said eventually, voice flat. "Your perception sharpened. Your body responds faster than instinct. Your footwork no longer wastes movement."
Simon groaned, spitting blood that tasted metallic and bitter.
"But?"
Orba's gaze burned like cold flame.
"You are still… weak."
Simon let out a low, broken laugh — more like the rasp of someone who had strangled hope so often it no longer fought.
"I know," he whispered.
His voice was different now — deeper, coarser, forged in the furnace of endless defeat.
"You say that every time."
"And it remains true every time."
Simon forced himself upright, bones cracking audibly. "You could at least lie."
"A demon never lies about power," Orba replied. "Only humans cling to comforting illusions."
Simon snorted, though his lungs protested.
"And yet," he muttered, "you're still training me."
A long silence.
Finally — Orba lowered his chin slightly. Almost like acknowledgment.
"It is interesting to see a mortal who refuses to break."
Simon smiled — tired, feral.
"Maybe I already broke. I just didn't fall apart right."
Orba's lips twitched. The closest thing to amusement Simon had seen in years.
Dirt shifted as Simon dragged himself to his sword.
He gripped the handle, knuckles white, and climbed back to his stance.
Pain throbbed through every vein.
Memories flickered.
His village.
Faces he had almost forgotten.
His mother's voice.
His sister's laugh.
Warm bread.
Sunlight.
Life.
All blurry now.
His world had narrowed to one thing.
Swing.
Fall.
Rise.
Repeat.
Not to win.
To not stop.
Because the moment he stopped swinging…
the promise he made to the graves of everyone he once knew — forgotten or not — would turn to dust.
"Again," Simon rasped.
And Orba smiled this time — a predator's smile, but genuine.
"Good."
The Demon King's sword materialized in his hand — a blade of shimmering magic, each pulse of energy beating like a demon's heartbeat.
Simon felt the pressure weigh down on him.
His bones groaned.
His heart lurched.
And he lunged.
Their swords clashed — metal against magic, mortal fire against eternal darkness.
This time, Simon didn't fall back immediately.
He parried one strike — barely.
He dodged the next — by instinct.
He countered — reckless, wild, desperate, beautiful.
And for one heartbeat — one glorious, fragile heartbeat —
he met Orba blow for blow.
The Demon King's expression shifted — surprise breaking through stoic composure.
Simon grinned through bloodied teeth.
"I'm not done—!"
BOOM.
Power erupted.
Orba's blade flickered — and Simon's world exploded in white agony.
When vision returned, he was face-down in the dirt again.
Broken.
Again.
Still breathing.
Always breathing.
"You have taken a step," Orba said quietly.
Simon coughed, forcing his body up with trembling arms.
"A small step," Orba added.
"Small steps lead to big ones," Simon muttered.
"Humans always say that." Orba's voice darkened. "Yet you will never surpass me."
Simon wiped blood from his mouth and stared at him — exhausted, defiant, unkillable.
"I don't need to surpass you."
Orba raised a brow. "Then what?"
Simon lifted his sword again.
"I just need to keep getting up."
And in Orba's eyes — for the first time — flickered something ancient and rare.
Respect.
The battlefield wind whispered across the barren ground, carrying dust and the scent of iron.
Simon stood.
Scarred.
Bloodied.
Unbroken.
A loser.
Again and again.
And again.
But every failure sharpened him.
Every defeat molded him.
Every moment brought him closer to the blade he would become.
One day — he would not be prey.
One day — he would not be the one eaten.
One day…
He would rise so high that even demons would tremble at the memory of the human who did not surrender.
Even if "one day" was a lifetime away.