Excalibur thrummed with power in Fitran’s grip, its ancient silver marred by trails of pulsating crimson, like scars refusing to heal. It was no longer just a weapon; it whispered of glory turned bitter, each mark a tale of pain, mostly borne by others.

  “Look at it,” he breathed, gaze fixated on the spiraling red runes above. “Once, they were alive with wisdom. Now they bleed despair into the very air, distorting everything they touch.” The air around him felt frozen, each breath a reminder of debts unpaid, every heartbeat echoing the weight of past choices.

  “What part of your soul lies feast for the abyss, Elbert?” he called out, the words sharp, slicing through the fog of battle. “Or have you become so hollow that ambition is but an echo in your empty shell?” With that, he plunged forward, blood and anguish trailing him like a comet’s tail—his pain a haunting melody as it danced around Excalibur, weaving the sword’s dark magic tighter.

  As he fell, reality itself twisted, a crimson shroud swallowing colors whole. The sky recoiled, shadows splintering, as if the universe remembered its own torment at the sight of this descent.

  “What you call vengeance is merely your birthright,” Fitran rasped, his voice weaving through the chaos, heavy as a storm.

  “It’s time for the Blood Eclipse Slash,” he declared, the words a thunderclap that shattered the silence.

  The slash was not merely an arc of steel—it was a torrent of torment unleashed, compelling every spirit it touched to echo the centuries of anguish that Fitran bore. The impact sent vibrations through the very stones, which groaned as if they were alive, unwilling to witness the horror unfolding.

  Elbert's figure disappeared into the collapsing ruins, his absence marked only by a hollow chuckle drifting from the billowing dust. Fitran’s brow furrowed, muscles coiled with tension. He held his breath, tasting the metallic bite of his own blood, wary of claiming victory just yet. “You cling to life like a leech—you don't know when to yield.”

  A fractured, mocking laugh tore through the desolation. “Hahahaha—did you really believe I could be stopped by mere suffering?”

  Elbert emerged from the fractured light, his form grotesque, torn flesh clinging desperately to bone, yet not a single drop of blood dripped from him. His chest gaped open—a void bereft of heart and lungs, an abyss consuming all remnants of hope.

  Fitran's expression hardened, caught off guard by a flicker of doubt. “You've torn away everything that defined your humanity. What did you exchange for this hollow existence?”

  Elbert grinned, a chilling victory evident in his demeanor. “This is the ultimate gift of zombification: an insatiable hunger—Devil of Zero.”

  Fitran felt the chill of Elbert's words settle within him. “A child’s story spun for the dying and the damned.”

  Elbert’s voice shifted to a steely edge, “Mock me all you wish, but your blade is as insignificant as your beliefs. This power cannot be quenched by mere men or gods.”

  Fitran shrugged, a predatory smile creeping across his lips. “You really believe you have what it takes, don’t you? A king? More like a shadow of the men who dream of conquest without knowing the price.”

  Elbert’s eye twitched—pride wounded deeper than flesh. “And who are you to speak of price? What do you know of sacrifice at your tender age?”

  Fitran's boredom was palpable. “You want me to lay it out in crayon? I devour souls like yours for breakfast.” He turned his back, the taunt hanging in the air, a dare for Elbert’s anger to ignite.

  Elbert's composure shattered. “This will not go unpunished! Spirit Collection!”

  Corpses littered the battlefield trembled, their anguished cries merging into a cacophony as their souls were viciously pulled into Elbert’s frame, mending his wounds with a dark hunger. The void within him pulsed, momentarily almost human, yet his eyes reflected an insatiable abyss.

  Fitran spat, moving like a predator closing in on prey. “You may heal, but what of the hollow void inside you? That’s a fate worse than the scars.” With a single leap, he soared through the air, his shadow slicing across the ground like an executioner's blade.

  He uttered a chant in a forgotten language—ancient, throaty, rife with danger. “Dunkle Flamme Drachen.” The earth trembled, and the battlefield cracked open as a black dragon's maw erupted from the void beneath him, fire coiling between jagged obsidian fangs.

  The dragon’s breath wasn’t merely flame—it was a conflagration of lost memories, searing away every illusion. Black fire engulfed Elbert, devouring not just his flesh but mirroring his shattered hopes and facades. For a fleeting heartbeat, it felt as if nothing could escape the inferno's roar.

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  Yet from the ashes came a dark, mocking laughter. “Is that all you’ve got, boy?”

  From the heart of the inferno, Elbert reformed, his body a writhing silhouette born from the void itself. His grin twisted, not just from pain but an undercurrent of cruel joy.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” he spat, the words dripping with malice.

  Above him, blood coalesced—then it fractured into countless needles, a storm of sharp fury that cascaded down at Fitran. There was no time to react, only instinct.

  “Aegis—” Fitran gasped, his will summoned in desperation. The shield erupted into existence, a shimmering dome of azure gold. But the impact was a tempest; it drove him to one knee, an oppressive weight that whispered of impending defeat.

  Elbert’s voice sliced through the turmoil, smooth and venomous, “You bleed, you break, you will die here—utterly alone.”

  “Pain is just a stepping stone, Elbert,” Fitran replied, his eyes narrowing, simmering with defiance. “You have no idea what I endure.”

  “Spirit Explosion!” Elbert unleashed a cacophony of souls, detonating in a violent surge that rattled the earth. Flames surged forth, intent on consuming everything.

  For a heartbeat, chaos engulfed the world, a blaze of misery and despair.

  Yet amidst the roaring inferno, Fitran’s laughter emerged, low and cold, a haunting melody. “You still don’t grasp the nature of true destruction.”

  “Totem—Phoenix.” The flames coiled and twisted around Fitran, defying death. Where others would have turned to ash, he ascended, a majestic silhouette adorned with fiery feathers—a crown of embers igniting behind him. The phoenix’s cry resonated, a clarion call that shattered doubt and despair alike.

  Elbert staggered back, shaken to his core. “That ritual… it’s impossible. What are you? Where is your Yttrium?”

  Fitran pivoted, the flicker of dark humor dancing in his fractured gaze. “Why should I reveal my heart to someone devoid of theirs?” He let the tension linger, challenging Elbert to fill the silence with his dread.

  Elbert's voice faltered, like a brittle leaf in autumn's chill. “Could it really be—”

  Fitran interrupted, each word precise, cutting to the bone. “Night Severance.”

  His blade soared, not to carve flesh but to cleave the very essence of light. Magical incantations extinguished like candle flames, the vitality that sustained Elbert's undying form siphoned away by the grotesque rift he tore through the air.

  Fitran pressed on, unstoppable. “Dusk Fang.”

  From the engulfing shadow at Elbert's feet, a pair of wicked violet fangs launched upwards, piercing through his essence from within. Elbert shuddered, dark blood erupting in rebellion against the void of his hollow frame.

  Fitran’s stare was a mixture of cold calculation and ravenous desire. “I don’t merely shatter bodies. I fracture souls.”

  “This skill…,” Fitran's voice lowered, a whisper that sliced through the tension like steel through silk.

  “Tenebris Lumen—Eternal Dark Light.”

  Excalibur screeched like a banshee, its core crackling with dark lightning. The strike tore through the fabric of reality, unleashing a torrent of white fire and abyssal shadows. With every sweep, illusions shattered, and truths laid bare. The enemies huddled in horror, unable to escape the grotesque reflections of their own corruption, suffocating under the weight of the monstrosities they had willingly embraced.

  A chilling presence throbbed in the void. From nowhere and everywhere, a woman's laughter unfurled—smoky, enigmatic, and irresistibly tantalizing. A figure took shape, long ebony tresses cascading like a veil of midnight, her eyes shimmering with the brilliance of the abyss.

  Fitran stood unwavering, voice steady yet sharpened like a blade. “Are the conditions fulfilled?”

  “Oh, my precious one,” she said with a smile that cut through the air like a whisper in the wind, her tone both soothing and ironclad. “Indeed, you have left scars on his spirit. Now, allow me to complete this dark tapestry you’ve woven.”

  Her presence enveloped the surroundings, a chilling void that drank in warmth and joy—a manifestation not of mere evil, but forged from the depths of despair: the Seventh Dimension, a realm where lost souls were torn apart and reforged into instruments of chaos.

  "Beelzebub," her voice floated with a ghostly fondness. “Your culinary genius astounds me.”

  Fitran shifted his gaze towards Elbert, an edge of sorrow lacing his words. “Do you grasp the reason I permit you to linger, even after everything? It’s not your demise I seek; it’s the essence that resides within you.”

  Elbert faltered, the weight of reality crashing down, his bravado evaporating like mist. “What—what are you?”

  Fitran allowed Beelzebub to wrap around him from behind, the darkness merging seamlessly with his flesh, as though he were part of the shadows themselves.

  “I am the nightmare you dared to bring to life,” Fitran murmured, his voice imbued with a haunting familiarity.

  “Devourer’s Doctrine,” he proclaimed, each word resonating like a tolling bell at a funeral.

  “Ultimate Skill—The Ninth Stomach,” he revealed, a glimmer of grim satisfaction flickering in his gaze.

  The atmosphere twisted above them, morphing into a spiraling void of eternal night. Nine orbs of inky blackness floated, each one a prison veil, echoing with insatiable hunger.

  A wail ascended—a cacophony of lost souls, forgotten children, and fallen monarchs, all pleading with desperation for liberation.

  Colors faded from existence. Sound dwindled into silence. The sole truth remaining was an all-consuming dread.

  Elbert attempted to flee, but shadows ensnared him, dragging him into their abyss. His essence—his abilities, memories, even his existence—were being erased within the relentless spiral.

  Fitran’s voice pierced through despair, a lethal dagger aimed at hope itself. “What you cherished, you surrendered to the void. Your soul is merely an offering on the altar of oblivion.”

  The last image imprinted in Elbert’s mind was Beelzebub’s eyes, deep and ageless, as the summoning circle ignited with a violent blaze, maggots and flies erupting forth, obliterating his very being.

  Fitran observed the devastation, unflinching, Beelzebub’s limbs encircling him like a clandestine oath.

  “Covenant of Filth,” he breathed, a chant infused with both reverence and horror.

  The portal widened, consuming every trace of former existence, every hidden truth, until only an echoing stillness and the stench of charred regret lingered.