The silence didn't break.
It ruptured.
Dark moved first. No words. No stance. Just an instantaneous shift from stillness to speed. His foot twisted against the black sand, launching his body forward with momentum that bent the air around him. The air screamed from displacement alone, and a heatwave followed his silhouette like a comet shedding skin.
Astaroth didn't blink. He waited. Hands behind his back. Not frozen—measured. Letting Dark come. Watching. Judging.
The gap between them closed in less than half a breath.
Dark's fist came in low, angled from below the ribs and driven upward like he meant to unhinge the spine from beneath. It wasn't a strike—it was an execution.
Astaroth caught it.
Not with effort.
With one hand.
His fingers closed around Dark's knuckles with the silence of a tomb being sealed. But his body shifted half an inch. Just that. Half an inch from the pressure.
Dark didn't stop.
His other hand was already following. A closed palm strike now, coated in something that looked like shadow but burned hotter than most hellfire. The hit cracked into Astaroth's jaw with a noise like an iron cathedral collapsing. The sound didn't echo—it sunk.
Astaroth slid back one step.
One.
But the sand under his feet caved into a crater the size of a cratered bell.
Dark followed through.
He didn't let the movement finish. His leg came up in a vicious side arc, knee spinning first before the heel came laced with dark energy. No name. Just pure kinetic hate wrapped in velocity. Astaroth tilted his head and the kick flew past his temple by less than a whisper, but Dark was already spinning with the follow-up, foot scraping the air in reverse motion and aiming for the back of Astaroth's neck.
This time—Astaroth ducked.
Only slightly.
Only enough to dodge.
Dark hit the ground and launched himself upward with a vertical elbow aimed for the sternum. The skin of his arm peeled back slightly mid-swing, blood catching in the force like ribbons following a blade. Astaroth caught the elbow mid-air, fingers tightening, but this time his other arm came up—and he brought down his fist into Dark's side.
It wasn't a punch.
It was a punishment.
Dark's ribs snapped like brittle glass. Blood erupted from his mouth in a violent spray mid-air, and he crashed into the far cliffside with a crunch that caved in half the wall.
But he didn't stop moving.
Even before the rocks stopped falling, he erupted from the dust, cloak shredded behind him, one eye already bleeding but still locked forward. He skidded across the dirt, flicked his fingers once, and something shimmered around him—an aura of ancient flame, not his, not divine. Infernal. Demonic.
The transformation was not loud.
It was a vibration.
A thrum that made the air vibrate between screams and prayers. His veins lit beneath his skin. Not red. Not orange. But a mix—like hell and void had bled into his bloodstream.
Dark rushed again, this time his arms held back, but his movement blurred. His steps were no longer linear—he twisted mid-air, reversed gravity, vanished mid-frame and reappeared ten meters closer. A low sweep came first, enough to decapitate a human with the wind force alone, followed by a downward strike that cracked the ground into squares.
Astaroth blocked it again.
But he leaned back.
A quarter-inch more than before.
Dark noticed.
He pressed harder.
His hands began to change shape mid-swing—bone shifting, muscle elongating, tendons snapping back into place as if responding to the heat of battle. Not transformation—adaptation.
He struck Astaroth's leg with a rising hook-kick. The Emperor stepped to the side—but the kick twisted mid-air and still connected with his thigh, enough to draw a ripple through the muscle beneath.
Astaroth's expression didn't change.
But he raised his hand.
And swiped once.
The sand behind Dark evaporated. Not burned. Vanished. The sky itself screamed as a fissure of black-red energy carved a slice through space and left a sizzling wound in reality. The slice missed—but only because Dark moved vertically.
He spiraled upward like a cyclone, arms crossed, then unfolded mid-air and released a downward volley of spikes—black spikes, born from shadow, shaped like blades but alive with magic. They struck the field like a hailstorm of daggers, exploding on contact, each one forming a short-lived vortex of shredding pressure.
Astaroth exhaled once.
All of it dispersed.
Every spike stopped mid-air and crumbled. Not shattered. Not deflected.
Denied.
Dark landed hard, one knee crashing into the soil, his hands pressed together, and the ground exploded upward as black roots burst from beneath the terrain. They coiled toward Astaroth like vipers—serrated, charged with demonic magic.
Astaroth smiled for the first time.
Then vanished.
Dark's eyes tracked it.
The sand to his left twitched.
He pivoted and—
CRACK.
Astaroth's fist buried itself in his chest.
Not the heart—above it. Just enough to fracture the bone, burst the vessels, and send Dark flying backward, body ragdolling for half a second before righting itself mid-air.
He landed.
Skidded.
Wiped blood from his mouth.
Then charged again.
This time—he wasn't just faster.
He was evolving.
His steps left afterimages now. His blows curved between dimensions. The way he struck forced the air to warp around his hands before they made contact. Each time he was blocked, his next strike came sharper, tighter. Each time he was struck, he adapted the angle.
Astaroth began using both hands now.
Still not serious.
Still not pressing.
But now moving.
And then he spoke.
Astaroth: I shall grant thee... 2% more.
The instant the words left him—
The entire ground exploded.
Not from magic.
From movement.
Astaroth moved so fast that the very idea of gravity broke beneath his weight. He appeared behind Dark mid-swing, and drove his knee into Dark's spine. The sound it made wasn't natural. It was internal. Like a bell struck inside a ribcage.
Dark hit the dirt so hard it cratered again.
He coughed once.
Then rose.
Slower.
But sharper.
And smiled.
Dark: ...Good.
He vanished again—this time reappearing above Astaroth mid-dive, and for the first time—
He struck true.
Astaroth's cheek twisted under the blow.
Blood—not much—spattered across the ash.
Astaroth smiled wider.
Astaroth: Very good.
He didn't move.
Not at first.
But the moment the last syllable fell from his lips, the sand beneath them ignited—black particles bursting into brief flame, then scattering as wind warped the silence.
Dark moved.
Not like a warrior testing the waters.
Not like a man measuring his opponent.
He moved to kill.
His fist carved through air with such force the world cracked before it landed. Astaroth parried—one hand, casual, like swatting a breeze. But the moment contact hit, it wasn't wind.
It was war.
Dark's second strike came from below—an upward elbow with enough force to lift a dragon's skull from its spine. Astaroth's ribs took it. His body buckled slightly, but only slightly. Then Dark twisted.
His heel snapped into Astaroth's knee, bending it the wrong way with a sickening pop.
But Astaroth didn't fall.
He grinned.
And in return—he breathed.
A blast of hellfire, silent but absolute, exploded from his mouth like a furnace given thought. It didn't roar—it shrieked. Not like flame. Like trauma.
Dark vanished.
He reappeared above, cloaked in void, his palm seething with a gravitational sphere so dense the air bent into a spiral. He slammed it downward—
BOOM.
Astaroth vanished.
The crater beneath them was no longer a crater. It was a sinkhole. Stone folded in on itself. The earth screamed. Trees from a mile away burst apart like they'd been shotgunned from the inside.
Then—
Astaroth appeared mid-spin.
His leg collided with Dark's side.
The impact folded bone.
Dark was launched like a meteor, his body skipping across the wasteland terrain, tearing trenches in the dirt until his boots caught air and he flipped, landing upright—but hunched.
He coughed once.
Black blood.
Dark: (thinking) His strength... is artillery.
But before he could finish the thought, Astaroth blurred into view, not sprinting—floating.
He thrust one hand forward, and Dark's left eye ruptured.
The magic behind it was raw distortion. Space compression. It didn't hit him—it crushed a fragment of his face with zero distance, zero delay.
Dark screamed—but it came out as a growl. Not pain. Rage.
He activated something old.
The veins in his right arm began to glow—pale violet mixed with charcoal, his skin fracturing like glass. Symbols flared down to his fingertips.
He rushed forward.
No sound.
No echo.
Just momentum incarnate.
He ducked Astaroth's swing, shoved both palms against his chest, and unleashed a gravitational rupture point—compressed magic turned weapon. It detonated inside Astaroth's body.
For the first time—
Astaroth winced.
He was thrown backward, spinning once before landing on his feet. His chest smoked. Bones visible.
Then the wound closed.
Instant.
No theatrics.
Just reversal.
Astaroth: (grinning) Two percent more, then.
He raised a hand.
Dark froze.
Not physically. But internally—his spine locked. His thoughts skipped.
Then he burst through it, screaming into a lunge that wasn't human anymore.
His hands became claws of void. He wrapped around Astaroth and began tearing.
Not fighting.
Butchering.
Dark drove his elbow into Astaroth's temple, used the recoil to flip over his shoulders, landed behind him, and stabbed his fingers into Astaroth's spine.
Pulled.
The sound was... wet.
Chunks of flame-wreathed bone came loose. Blood that sizzled like boiling iron sprayed across Dark's coat, eating through the fabric.
Astaroth laughed.
Then he exploded.
Literal combustion—his entire body detonated into a wave of infernal fire. It scorched half the battlefield. A dozen hills turned to glass. The sky cracked.
Dark reformed within shadow.
His jaw half-torn, fingers hanging loose like broken branches.
He flexed them back into place. The bones twisted, then aligned.
Dark: (thinking) ...He increased again.
Astaroth walked out of the blaze, still smiling.
Astaroth: Four percent.
Dark said nothing.
He took a step.
Then vanished again.
His body broke the sound wall three times before it reached Astaroth. He smashed his forehead into the Emperor's, cracking both skulls. His foot swept underneath, breaking Astaroth's balance.
Then he leapt.
Kneed Astaroth in the face.
Kicked his ribs.
Elbowed his throat.
Bite.
Yes.
Dark bit into Astaroth's shoulder—ripped skin off with a snarl—and spat it to the ground.
Astaroth: (laughing) You're evolving mid-battle...
Dark's left hand shimmered.
Then—
A sword formed.
Long, jagged, forged from condensed shadow. The blade screamed.
He swung.
SLASH.
Astaroth's left arm fell again.
This time he didn't regrow it immediately.
He caught the sword with his teeth.
Bit down.
Crushed it.
Astaroth: Six percent.
Dark grinned.
Blood poured from his nose. His chest was caved in. One leg twisted outward. But his aura was rising.
It wasn't glory.
It was savagery.
Instinct molded into intelligence. Brute force turned art.
He raised his hand again, and this time, summoned three dozen shadow spears mid-air. They pierced downward—Astaroth dodged half, deflected some, let a few stab through him.
The last one hit the ground behind him—
And detonated.
It wasn't a bomb.
It was a trap.
The ground caved in again.
But this time—
Astaroth didn't fall.
He hovered.
Floating above the battlefield like a fallen star with no god left to orbit.
Astaroth: Impressive.
He finally looked... interested.
Astaroth: Let us see how far thy flame shall rise.
Then he opened his hand.
And summoned the true heat.
The sand boiled. The earth melted. The sky wept flame.
And Dark?
He laughed.
Broken ribs, half blind, blood dripping from a hundred cuts.
But he laughed.
And then—he stopped breathing.
Not because he was dead.
Because something else took over.
The ground beneath him cracked into blackened sigils, ancient and scorched, veins of demonic scripture bleeding out into the soil. His body trembled—not from fear, but from something clawing upward from within. His blood hissed. His spine arched.
Then—
Dark roared.
The sound wasn't human. Wasn't mortal. It was the echo of a language older than the stars, a guttural bellow layered with a thousand distorted voices, all screaming through him at once.
Black horns burst from his skull—jagged, asymmetrical, each one pulsating with a crimson glow that flickered like veins filled with magma. His skin cracked along his arms and chest, revealing glowing, infernal muscle beneath. Smoke poured from his mouth. His eyes—solid red now, no whites, no pupils—glowed like molten iron dipped in pitch.
Two skeletal wings erupted from his back—half-formed, half-shadow, like the concept of flight weaponized.
His cloak disintegrated.
His boots melted into the ground.
And where he stood—wasn't Dark.
Not anymore.
This was the demon form.
The one born from resurrection.
Astaroth smiled wider, stepping forward slightly.
Astaroth: So it returns... The form birthed from death itself. From One's blood. From Zu'gu thu'ra'kai.
Dark didn't speak.
He lunged.
The battlefield detonated.
Dark moved faster now—no windup, no warning, just blur. His claws tore through space, shredding the atmosphere, reaching Astaroth's throat in half a blink.
Astaroth parried.
Barely.
And the force knocked him back a full step.
A full step.
The ground cratered beneath both of them. Dust rose like a tidal wave.
Dark didn't let up.
He was on Astaroth again, shoulder-checking him into the broken mountain behind them. The peak split. Lava surged upward from beneath the rock as the mountain broke.
Astaroth laughed through it—until Dark drove his horns into his abdomen, lifting him into the sky like a hell-born bull goring a star.
They spun midair.
Dark kicked off his chest, flipped, and hurled a black spear of pure rage-magic downward.
Astaroth caught it.
And it detonated in his hands—raw chaos fire lashing out in every direction, carving miles out of the terrain in every direction.
When the fire died...
Dark was behind him already.
He grabbed Astaroth's head and slammed it into the earth.
Once.
Twice.
The third time shattered a valley floor.
Dark raised his clawed hand—and brought it down with every ounce of that demonic weight.
But then.
It stopped.
His arm froze.
Held.
By two fingers.
Astaroth stood.
No glow. No anger. No shift in expression.
Just presence.
A pressure so vast, so crushing, it stopped the air itself.
Dark's arm—his fully transformed, demon-fueled, rage-possessed arm—couldn't move.
Astaroth twisted it slowly.
And broke it.
Bone cracked like a tree branch. The sound echoed across continents.
Dark didn't scream.
He swung with the other hand.
It never landed.
Astaroth raised his knee and shattered Dark's ribs. Not one. All.
Dark crumpled forward, but Astaroth didn't let him fall.
He grabbed his face and lifted him.
Astaroth: I commend thee... truly.
Then he threw him—
Through a mountain.
Dark's body punched through it, leaving behind molten tunnels, his wings trailing shredded pieces of shadow.
He skidded across the ash-flat ground, bleeding, twitching, trying to stand—
But Astaroth was already there.
A slap.
Not a punch.
A slap that cracked the planet's crust.
Dark was sent sideways, his body carving a river into the land, dragging lava from beneath it as he went.
Then silence.
Then nothing.
Dark lay face-down in stone, breathing heavy, his horns cracked, his wings burned down to stumps.
He tried to move.
Astaroth appeared behind him.
Whispered.
Astaroth: Ten percent.
And with that—
The fight truly began.
To Be Continued...
End Of Arc 6 Chapter 6.