Arlen stepped forward.
No relics in his hands—no borrowed crutches.
Only three manifestations followed him, orbiting like silent witnesses.
Not weapons.
Not tools.
They were understandings
Astrea’s lips curled upward.
“Well now,” she said, rolling her shoulders as space itself bent subtly around her frame. “That a surprise. So you’ve finally reached this far.”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Very well. Then I’ll stop holding back too.”
The air screamed.
Golden judgment arrows
—and missed.
Astrea vanished.
Not dodged.
Not blocked.
She simply wasn’t
anymore.
She reappeared behind him, fist already moving—space collapsing into the strike—
—but the Quill of Freedom
Fate rewrote itself.
Her blow skimmed past Arlen’s ribs instead of shattering them, tearing only air. In the same instant, the Staff of Life
They clashed again.
And again.
Space fractured.
Light screamed.
The ground buckled beneath principles older than kingdoms.
Dryas watched with widened eyes; breath caught in her throat.
“…He’s keeping up,” she whispered. “Arlen—he’s gotten so much stronger.”
But Cornea shook her head slowly.
“No,” she said, voice low and razor-calm. “Not enough.”
Everyone turned to her.
“He isn’t wielding relics,” the demon queen continued. “He’s wielding . The blood of three children of Aethel—filtered through his own will.”
Her crimson gaze never left the battlefield.
“It’s absurd. Almost impossible for someone to do this much. But it’s still incomplete.”
She exhaled softly.
“Nomos’ Judgment never misses they rebounds if dodged. Arlen’s arrows only fly straight. Dodge them once, and they’re done.”
Another clash shook the air.
“Caelus’ staff could restore the dead to breath in an instant. Arlen’s can only mend what hasn’t fully collapsed.”
Astrea twisted, countered, struck again—faster now.
“And Lysander’s quill?” Cornea smiled thinly. “It could deny fate itself. Arlen’s can only
it.”
The battlefield trembled.
“And there’s one more thing,” Cornea added, voice tightening.
“Because of our blood pact… I can feel it.”
Her fingers curled.
“This power is burning through him. Fast. His stamina is bleeding away with every breath.”
She looked up at Astrea—no fear, only grim certainty.
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“And Astrea?” Cornea said quietly. “I’ve seen her spar with my father.”
Silence.
“She can fight for hours
The clash intensified.
Steel against space.
Will against eternity.
And somewhere beneath the noise, Arlen gritted his teeth—fully aware of the truth—
—and fighting anyway.
Astrea laughed.
Not mockery—delight
Blow after blow clashed through the air. By sheer physicality alone, Astrea was overwhelming—stronger, cleaner, absolute. Each strike carried authority. Each movement was precise.
And yet—
Arlen kept up.
Not with technique.
Not with refinement.
With guts
With instinct sharpened by survival.
But Astrea’s speed kept climbing.
She vanished once more.
Not stepped away—vanished
One moment before him, the next behind, above, beneath—reappearing from angles that made no sense, attacking from places reality itself hadn’t agreed upon yet.
Nyx’s eyes narrowed, locked onto the duel.
“…That’s her domain,” she muttered. “Space itself. Our teleportation spells are just scraps—borrowed fragments. What she’s doing isn’t movement. It’s .”
Dryas clenched her hands, unease creeping in.
But Grom frowned.
A warrior’s frown.
“…Something’s wrong,” he growled. “Why isn’t the brat pushing? He should’ve gone all-in by now. Shouldn’t he be trying to end it fast?”
Astrea noticed it too.
“What’s wrong, God Slayer?” she said mid-exchange, effortlessly slipping past a Judgment arrow. “Why are you keeping your distance?”
She struck—Arlen blocked, barely.
“This isn’t like you,” she continued calmly. “You’re best when you fight ugly. When you take hits, break rhythm, force chaos.”
She tilted her head, eyes sharp.
“And yet—you aren’t.”
Another flash. Another reappearance.
“Why?” she asked. “Don’t you want to win?”
Arlen skidded back, boots carving lines into the floor.
He straightened slowly.
Smiled.
“You’re sharp,” he said. “And you’re right. I’m not as skilled as you. I’m already near my limit.”
His breath was heavy—but his eyes were steady.
“And yeah,” he admitted, “fighting messy is the only way I know.”
He lifted his gaze—not at Astrea.
But beyond her.
“At them.”
“But I can’t fight like that anymore.”
Astrea paused.
Arlen’s smile softened—not weakness, but resolve
“Because I made a promise,” he said. “I won’t throw my life away in battle anymore.”
The manifestations around him steadied.
“I’m not alone now.”
His voice was quiet—but absolute.
“I have allies I can depend on.”
Arlen continued, quietly,
Cornea’s heart lurched
For the first time since she’d claimed the throne—since she’d buried her rage under silk and fangs—her lips curved into something unfamiliar.
Not seductive.
Not dominant.
Not cruel.
Almost… girlish
Astrea noticed.
“Then how do you plan to win, God Slayer?” she asked, amused. “In this duel, your allies are forbidden to interfere. The Gatekeeper is watching.”
Her smile sharpened—testing not strength, but will
“Show me,” she commanded, “how you plan to defeat me, .”
Arlen smiled.
Then—he sat down.
Cross-legged.
Back straight.
Eyes closed.
Silence fell.
Solon’s eyes widened.
“…Boy,” he murmured, ancient amusement curling in his voice, “you’re doing it again?”
Arlen exhaled slowly.
“This teleportation trick?” he said calmly. “I’m used to fighting it.”
He opened his eyes.
“Bring it on, Goddess of Space.”
Astrea vanished.
Not once—dozens of times
She struck from nowhere, everywhere. Teleport—strike—teleport—strike—relentless. Faster than sound. Faster than perception.
To most eyes, the fight ceased to exist.
Only two beings
could still follow it.
Solon.
And Cornea.
Arlen’s human eye tracked what .
His demonic eye tracked what .
Judgment arrows materialized—not chasing her, but denying space itself
Sometimes—countering
Then—
A scratch.
Barely more than a kiss of steel across Astrea’s cheek.
Blood.
Just a drop.
Arlen smiled.
So did Aura from the sides.
Her black wings fluttered, excitement sharpening.
“So you’re using it,” she laughed. “How nasty.”
Then—
A flicker.
A faint dizziness.
Her balance shifted—just enough.
Aura’s pollen! Stored in Arlen’s hand since the beginning. Released slowly. Carefully. Too subtle for a goddess to notice.
Until blood opened the door. It numbed her monster reflexes – for a heartbeat.
Judgment arrows surged.
Astrea roared and brute-forced through it
“It’s not enough—!”
Dryas’s heart sank.
But Cornea smiled.
“It isn’t over,” she said calmly.
Arlen vanished.
Not teleported.
Hidden
“I told you—fighting unfair is way.”
He reappeared behind Astrea and smashed the staff of life into her face.
Impact thundered.
Astrea staggered.
“…What—Null Shroud?! How—?!”
Her eyes snapped to where the relics lay.
They were still there.
Unmoved.
Fake.
Steel imitations.
Her gaze snapped back—straight into Cornea’s smug grin.
Tethys spoke softly, proudly.
“I had Aquaria’s finest craftsmen build them. Just like Mister Arlen asked.”
A con
From the very beginning.
Astrea forced herself upright, will blazing, refusing to fall.
But Arlen was already there.
The life-devouring blade pressed against her chest.
Just enough to tear fabric.
Just enough to scar skin.
Just enough.
“Checkmate,” Arlen said quietly.
Soul Eater hovered an inch from her core.
Solon’s cane struck the ground.
“The victor,” the Gatekeeper declared, “is the God Slayer.”
Arlen withdrew the blade.
“I won’t destroy your core, Astrea.”
His eyes flicked to Cornea—for a heartbeat.
“…She’d be sad.”
The words were barely audible.
The duel ended.
Unfair.
Sly.
Absolute.
And for the first time—
Arlen won without breaking his promise
