Belial's body screamed in agony—every muscle locked in deathly screams, his left arm dangling uselessly at his side, a dead weight that throbbed with each heartbeat. Blood dripped from a gash above his brow, stinging his eyes, but he had no time to wipe it away. The general loomed before him, a towering figure of obsidian armor and unyielding menace, its dark Jian slicing through the air with a force that made the very atmosphere feel like stone. The blade was descending again, faster this time, a crescent of death that promised to cleave him in two.
Belial's mind raced, scrambling for options, but there was only one way out now.
He'd have to throw his sword.
His working hand tightened around the hilt of his curved longsword, fingers slipping on the sweat-slicked grip. The blade was an extension of himself, forged in the fires of a forgotten smith, its edge honed to a whisper of blood. But now, it was a gamble—a desperate, reckless move that could either save him or seal his fate. His body protested as he shifted his weight, pain lancing through his ribs, his shoulder, his everything. There was no room for hesitation. No room for doubt.
With a guttural roar, Belial hurled the sword with every ounce of strength his broken body could muster. It spun through the air, a crescent of light slicing through the chamber, its arc as graceful as it was deadly. For a fleeting moment, hope flared in his chest. It could work. It had to work.
And then it missed.
The blade struck just shy of the general's shoulder, scraping against the jagged edge of its obsidian armor with a screech that set Belial's teeth on edge. The sword clattered to the stone floor, useless, its light snuffed out like a candle in a storm. The general didn't flinch, didn't slow. The Jian kept coming, its arc unbroken, a guillotine poised to end him.
But Belial wasn't done.
His fingers flicked, almost imperceptibly, and a small, translucent crystal no larger than a coin slipped from his palm. It glimmered faintly in the chamber's light, catching the shadows as it sailed through the air with flowing ether. It bounced once on the sword, then again, its trajectory erratic but deliberate. The general's Jian was inches from Belial's chest now, the pressure of its descent crushing the air from his lungs.
The crystal struck its true target.
A hairpin.
Tucked within the folds of the general's long, crystalline hair, the delicate metal gleamed for a fraction of a second before the crystal hit it with a soft ping. The sound was small, almost insignificant, but it echoed strangely, unnaturally, reverberating through the chamber like a tolling bell. Something inside the general shuddered—a faint tremor that rippled through its massive frame. The Jian froze mid-strike, its blade hovering inches from Belial's heart.
The air stilled.
For a moment, neither moved. Belial's chest heaved, his breath ragged, his eyes locked on the general's featureless helm. Then, with a slow, almost reverent motion, the general withdrew its Jian, the blade sliding back into its sheath with a whisper of steel.
Without a word, without a glance, the towering figure turned and strode back toward the center of the chamber. Its heavy steps echoed like ritual drums, each one deliberate, mechanical, devoid of the hostility that had driven it moments before. At the chamber's heart, it sank to one knee, then the other, its form rigid as if waiting to be activated once again.
Belial collapsed onto his side, a sharp gasp escaping his lips as he hit the cold stone. His chest ached, his lungs burning with the effort of simply breathing. His useless arm throbbed, the pain a dull roar that threatened to drown out his thoughts. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, letting the reality of his survival sink in.
"Maybe I should've listened," he muttered, his voice hoarse, barely audible in the vast chamber.
"Maybe I should've actually trained that damned form before trying it for real."
Bloodless Passage.
The name alone sent a shiver down his spine. It was the sixth form of the Death Dance, a series of combat techniques so precise, so perilous, that most who attempted them lost themselves before mastering even one. Belial had clawed his way through five forms already, each one a trial that had left scars on his body and soul. Rebirth had come naturally, a gift that had saved his life more times than he could count. Death's Reversal had been a brutal lesson in timing, earned through countless sparring matches that left him bruised and bleeding. Black Wind had demanded speed, Silent Passing had required stealth, and Sanctuary of Death… that one had nearly broken him but his Hax was very compatible with it...though his master didn't like it very much. Weeks of motionless meditation in total darkness, learning to sense killing intent, to redirect it, to become it.
But Bloodless Passage was different. It was incomplete, a half-learned technique that relied on precision he hadn't yet mastered. The crystal, the hairpin—it was a desperate improvisation, a gamble that had paid off by the skin of his teeth. If he'd missed, if the crystal hadn't struck true, he'd be dead. He knew it. The general knew it...if it could think for itself.
He groaned, forcing himself to move. The giant staircase loomed before him, its steps stretching endlessly toward the archway at the far end of the chamber. Each step was a mountain, each movement a fresh wave of agony. His legs trembled, threatening to give out, but he dragged himself upward, one agonizing step at a time. His useless arm dangled, dragging against the stone, the pain a constant reminder of his failure. Blood dripped from his brow, leaving a trail of crimson in his wake.
He didn't stop. He couldn't.
Through the archway, he stumbled into a dark corridor, the air cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of damp stone. At its end was a chamber, smaller than the one he'd left, dominated by a massive bed that looked more like a slab than a place of rest. The sheets were rough, woven from some coarse material clearly not meant for comfort, but to Belial, they were a luxury compared to the cold stone below. He collapsed onto the bed, his body sinking into the mattress as if it could swallow him whole.
He stared at the ceiling, his breathing ragged, sweat pooling at his collarbone. The air felt strangely cold now, a sharp contrast to the heat of battle. His mind wandered, replaying the fight, the crystal, the hairpin. It had worked, but only just. Bloodless Passage was supposed to be seamless, a technique that disarmed an opponent without a single drop of blood spilled. Instead, he'd barely survived, his body a wreck, his pride in tatters.
To think… this is the hardest I've ever trained by myself.
No master looming over his shoulder, barking orders. No punishments for sloppiness, no endless drills under a watchful eye. Just him, alone, pushing himself to the brink in a chamber that reeked of death and echoed with the ghosts of his failures. His master would've called this progress, would've clapped him on the shoulder and told him to keep going. But his master wasn't here. No one was.
Belial let his limbs splay out in every direction, a collapsed puppet cut from its strings. For a moment, he flailed dramatically, arms and legs twitching as if to shake off the weight of the fight. Then he sighed, the sound muffled as he buried his face in the rough pillow.
"Why did that damn demon-king have to be so useless…" he grumbled, his voice barely audible. fatigue taking over. "Now I have to do everything myself."
He had no divine quest, no prophecy to guide him. Just two promises, heavy as chains, binding him to a path he couldn't abandon. One to the people the Demon King had failed, a kingdom left in ruins by a ruler too weak to protect them. The other… to his father, a vow whispered in the shadow of a grave.