Chapter 4: The Battle Continues
The city shuddered beneath the crimson moon.
Ruin stretched in every direction—fractured streets, collapsing towers, flames gnawing at the darkness. Each collision of monstrous auras sent violent shockwaves ripping through stone and steel alike. Towers cracked. Windows burst. Even the night itself seemed to recoil, as if the world feared what stood at its center.
Black Shizugawa fell to one knee.
His scythe struck the ground with a dull, echoing clang. The dark energy along its blade flickered weakly, unstable, struggling to remain alive.
Across from him, Doumar stood unharmed.
He brushed dust from his shoulder, eyes calm, almost bored—as though the devastation surrounding them meant nothing.
"Well… unbelievable," Doumar said lightly.
"You look fifty—no, sixty at least—yet you still manage to keep up with me."
A faint smile curved his lips.
"If you were young…"
"This might've been troublesome."
Black clenched his teeth and forced himself upright. Every muscle screamed in protest.
Doumar chuckled.
"Still standing? You really are stubborn."
"Shut up."
Black slammed the butt of his scythe into the ground.
The air pulsed.
A deep, suffocating pressure spread outward—like the heartbeat of death itself.
"8th Stage — Death Pulse."
An invisible wave detonated from Black's body.
The ground cracked in a perfect circle. Debris, shadows, and weaker entities were crushed flat, their strength stolen in an instant as the pressure overwhelmed them. Even Doumar slid backward, boots grinding against shattered stone.
"Tch…"
Before Black could move—
"Shadow Binding."
Dark tendrils erupted from the earth, twisting upward like living chains. They coiled around Black's arms and legs, crushing down with overwhelming force, locking his body in place.
"Tch… damn it," Black growled.
I'm completely bound—
The scythe trembled in his grasp.
The battlefield darkened.
"12th Stage — Tomb Domain."
A death field expanded outward from Black, swallowing the ruins whole.
The ground blackened. The air thickened. Sound itself seemed to die. Shadows lost their form, crushed beneath the absolute authority of death.
The tendrils shrieked.
Then disintegrated into ash.
Doumar took a slow step back.
"That technique…" His smirk faded.
"Who would believe you're just an old man?"
Black stood, legs trembling violently, surrounded by the silent domain of the dead.
"Don't underestimate the Reaper's lineage."
Lightning cracked along the scythe as he raised it high.
Wrath erupted.
Raw, violent power smashed through Doumar's guard, hurling him through broken buildings. Structures collapsed in his wake as smoke swallowed the battlefield whole.
Silence followed.
Black stood alone, panting heavily. Blood and sweat streamed down his face, his grip shaking.
"…Did I get him?"
A low laugh echoed through the ruins.
"Heh…"
Doumar emerged from the smoke. His clothes were torn, his aura darker, heavier—but his posture remained composed.
"You've gone far," he said calmly.
"But using above the 10th Stage drains too much Eminence energy."
His gaze hardened.
"And at your age…"
"You can die too."
Black tightened his grip on the scythe. His hands trembled violently—but his eyes burned with resolve.
"Then I'll end this…"
"…here and now."
The Tomb Domain began to collapse inward.
A sound filled the battlefield.
Not wind.
Not metal.
The scythe sang.
A mournful, ancient note—so heavy with death that even the air recoiled from it.
"13th Stage…" Black whispered.
The blade vibrated violently.
"Void Requiem."
For the first time—
Doumar's expression changed.
His eyes widened as the sound pierced his very existence.
"…That sound…" he muttered.
"Horror… even for a demon…?"
Black moved.
Slow.
Unsteady.
But unavoidable.
The scythe cut into Doumar's body.
Steel met flesh—physical, undeniable.
The song intensified.
Doumar screamed.
Eminence was torn violently from his body, dragged into the scythe as though his very existence were being harvested. His aura collapsed inward, shattering almost instantly.
"N–no—!"
In moments, nearly ninety percent of Doumar's Eminence was gone.
His knees buckled.
His vision blurred.
"…So this is… Reaper's end…" he murmured, barely conscious.
Doumar staggered—but did not fall.
The song faded.
The scythe fell silent.
Black collapsed to one knee.
Blood poured freely from his wounds. His breath came in broken gasps. The world spun violently.
No…
Not yet…
Doumar stepped forward—slowly now, unsteady.
"It seems…" he said quietly, no mockery left,
"…you've reached your limit."
He looked at Black—truly looked.
"You're stronger than me," Doumar admitted.
"There's no doubt."
Black lifted his gaze toward the crimson sky.
Blood streamed down his body, soaking the shattered earth.
"…I just wanted," he whispered, voice barely sound,
"to live long enough…"
"…to see my grandson… Rein."
A single flash of steel.
The scythe slipped from Black's hand.
The crimson moon watched in silence.
Darkness fell.
End of Chapter 4