When a Filipino got Isekai'd with a twist!
"Only I can summon those!" Volume 3
Chapter 2: tilted
Chris screamed—not from fear, but from sheer pain and fury.
Frank's hand twisted inside his chest, tendons tearing, ribs cracking under pressure. The magic barrier Chris had barely managed to raise shattered like glass, reduced to glittering fragments in the air.
His vision blurred. His knees buckled.
But even as the edges of his world turned black, Chris clenched his jaw, and his hands—bloodied and shaking—moved.
He whispered something.
The runes tattooed along his spine and collarbone lit up—faint at first, then violently pulsing. Ancient, forbidden glyphs. Not just magic… divine fury.
Frank noticed.
His eyes narrowed. "What are you doing—?"
Chris grabbed Frank's wrist with both hands, locking it in place inside his chest. He didn't care anymore.
If he was going down, he was taking this monster with him.
"You forgot…" Chris muttered through bloodied teeth, "I'm a wizard."
He slammed his forehead into Frank's nose with a sickening crack, stunning him just enough.
And then—
He detonated.
A spell woven directly into his bones, locked to a self-destruct command.
The explosion wasn't fire.
It was pure arcane backlash.
A shockwave of purple light burst from Chris's body, launching both of them apart. Trees disintegrated. The earth split. The sky, once roaring, now went silent—as if even the gods had flinched.
Frank flew backward, smashing through stone and root until he crashed into a boulder, leaving a crater in it.
Chris was hurled the opposite way, skidding along the ground like a ragdoll until he finally stopped—limp, smoking, unmoving.
Seconds passed.
Then a cough.
Chris twitched.
Alive. Barely.
Burned, ribs broken, his entire chest a searing wound.
He blinked one swollen eye open.
Across the battlefield…
Frank was standing.
Again.
His coat was gone. Half his face was charred. His right arm hung useless—but he was still smiling.
"Is that it…?" Frank hissed, staggering forward. "Is that all you've got, wizard boy?"
Chris didn't answer.
He was already unconscious.
Frank walked toward him—but stopped. A sharp pain twisted in his gut. He looked down.
Blood.
Lots of it.
That last blast… it had torn through more than just flesh. Something inside him was cracked. He fell to one knee.
Then he heard a thunderous noise.
Metal groaning. Stone shifting.
He turned—just in time to see the ruins of Zerokaizer move. Not from inside.
From underneath.
The ground buckled.
King Youm burst out—battered, yes, but alive. Blood poured from his shoulder, and half his golden armor was scorched off. But in his hand was a massive war-hammer glowing white-hot from the remaining reactor fragments of the Gundam.
"You bastard," Youm snarled. "You hurt my people. My city. My son."
Frank turned slowly, grinning despite the blood in his teeth. "Oh look. A king with no kingdom."
"You talk too much."
Youm charged.
The hammer crashed down like judgment.
Frank caught it—with one hand.
But his body buckled. His knees hit the ground.
Youm raised it again—and this time, Frank let go too late.
The hammer slammed into his back, denting bone, driving him into the earth.
A crater formed around the impact. The land trembled.
Frank coughed violently, spitting blood.
But even then…
He laughed.
Broken and crushed…
Still, he laughed.
And from behind his teeth, something dark pulsed.
Something that wasn't magic.
Something older.
Chris's scream cut through the battlefield like a siren of raw agony. His legs kicked, trying to push away, but Frank held him there—lifted him off the ground like a ragdoll. Magic flared instinctively around Chris, a violent pulse of energy triggered by pain and survival instinct. Lightning crackled. A ring of fire burst outward. But Frank didn't let go.
He snarled, face bloodied, eyes wide with something almost feral.
"You burned my team," he hissed. "You took everything. So I'm taking everything from you—starting with this."
Chris gurgled, blood trailing down his chin as Frank's hand pushed deeper—reaching for his heart.
Suddenly—
CLANG!
A blur of silver slammed into Frank's side, sending him skidding back like a crashing train. Dirt exploded as he tumbled across the ground, finally stopping with a hard thud. Chris collapsed, gasping and clutching the bleeding hole in his chest, barely conscious.
Standing between them now was a figure.
Cane.
His war glaive hummed with divine pressure, tip smoking from the strike.
His voice was calm—but cold.
"Back away from my friend."
Frank slowly stood, ribs cracked, blood leaking from his nose. His grin never faded.
"Oh," he chuckled darkly. "It's the gladiator."
He glanced down at the shallow gash across his ribs.
"You actually managed to hurt me."
Cane didn't reply. He shifted his stance.
Behind him, Vismond appeared in a flicker of shadow, already holding Chris with one arm, preparing to teleport.
Frank's eyes narrowed.
He took one step forward—
And suddenly froze.
He looked down.
A faint golden line ran across the ground in a circular pattern.
Too late.
"Divine Seal: Heaven's Judgement."
The ground erupted.
Pillars of light—twelve of them—shot up from the circle, trapping Frank inside like a holy cage. Symbols spiraled upward, burning into the sky, forcing Frank to his knees with sheer pressure. It wasn't damage—it was restraint.
Frank roared, struggling, slamming his fists against the invisible barrier.
From behind the light, Cane looked at him with steel in his eyes.
"You won't touch him again."
And with that, he turned—and vanished with Vismond and Chris.
Frank was left alone—caged, panting, and still smiling.
But his eyes had changed.
Now there was rage.
Now there was vengeance.
And as the light cracked ever so slightly…
You knew this wasn't over.
Frank's hand twisted.
Chris's scream cut through the battlefield like a siren of raw agony. His legs kicked, trying to push away, but Frank held him there—lifted him off the ground like a ragdoll. Magic flared instinctively around Chris, a violent pulse of energy triggered by pain and survival instinct. Lightning crackled. A ring of fire burst outward. But Frank didn't let go.
He snarled, face bloodied, eyes wide with something almost feral.
"You burned my team," he hissed. "You took everything. So I'm taking everything from you—starting with this."
Chris gurgled, blood trailing down his chin as Frank's hand pushed deeper—reaching for his heart.
Suddenly—
CLANG!
A blur of silver slammed into Frank's side, sending him skidding back like a crashing train. Dirt exploded as he tumbled across the ground, finally stopping with a hard thud. Chris collapsed, gasping and clutching the bleeding hole in his chest, barely conscious.
Standing between them now was a figure.
Cane.
His war glaive hummed with divine pressure, tip smoking from the strike.
His voice was calm—but cold.
"Back away from my friend."
Frank slowly stood, ribs cracked, blood leaking from his nose. His grin never faded.
He glanced at Cane—and laughed, bitter and low.
"Oh. So you already beat the Butcher, huh?"
He spat blood to the side. "Didn't think that idiot would go down so fast. But hey, guess that means I get to put you down myself."
Cane didn't reply. He shifted his stance.
Behind him, Vismond appeared in a flicker of shadow, already holding Chris with one arm, preparing to teleport.
Frank's eyes narrowed.
He took one step forward—
And suddenly froze.
He looked down.
A faint golden line ran across the ground in a circular pattern.
Too late.
"Divine Seal: Heaven's Judgement."
The ground erupted.
Pillars of light—twelve of them—shot up from the circle, trapping Frank inside like a holy cage. Symbols spiraled upward, burning into the sky, forcing Frank to his knees with sheer pressure. It wasn't damage—it was restraint.
Frank roared, struggling, slamming his fists against the invisible barrier.
From behind the light, Cane looked at him with steel in his eyes.
"You won't touch him again."
And with that, he turned—and vanished with Vismond and Chris.
Frank was left alone—caged, panting, and still smiling.
But his eyes had changed.
Now there was rage.
Now there was vengeance.
And as the light cracked ever so slightly…
The golden prison pulsed and hummed like a living thing, each beam of light thrumming with divine energy. Smoke curled from Frank's shoulders as the seal scorched his flesh just by existing. His laughter had stopped now—replaced with slow, deep breaths that sounded more like growls.
The cracks widened.
One finger moved.
Then another.
His muscles flexed—bloodied, broken, still trembling from the onslaught—but very much alive.
Frank Abigneil wasn't just a man anymore.
He was something else.
Something the seal wasn't meant to hold.
Inside his chest, the dark pulse—the thing that had flickered before—started to beat stronger. Faint at first. Then louder. Rhythmic. Hungry.
Boom.
A crack snaked up one pillar.
Boom. Boom.
Two more followed, shards of light peeling away like fragile ice.
From somewhere above, the clouds began to spiral unnaturally—drawn in toward a single point above Frank.
And then—he stood.
Slowly. Painfully.
Bones grinding. Skin hissing.
But he stood.
His eyes were no longer red.
They were black.
Black and bottomless, like two pits into something far beneath the world.
A voice whispered.
Not Frank's.
Something inside him.
Something ancient.
> "One more push, and you're free, my vessel."
Frank grinned. Not in triumph.
In surrender.
He spread his arms wide as the seal's golden beams pulsed once more in defiance. But this time…
They shattered.
Like breaking glass under a scream, the Divine Seal burst outward in a cascade of ruin. Light collapsed. Holy symbols flared and burned out.
And in the dead silence that followed…
Frank walked forward.
The wind had gone still.
The forest didn't breathe.
Even the sun above had dimmed, like it, too, was watching.
Far from the battlefield, on the edge of a hill overlooking the broken town, a scout spotted the moment the light collapsed.
He dropped his spyglass.
> "T-The seal's broken… he's free…"
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Vismond. Face pale, eyes like flint.
> "Sound the retreat. Now."
> "But—"
> "NOW."
Because behind them, from the ruins of holy light, Frank raised his hand.
Dark lightning crackled from his fingertips. Not magic. Not sorcery.
It was something older than both.
> "Tell Cane…" Frank whispered, voice low and cracked. "I'm not done."
The sky split with black thunder.
And Frank vanished into the smoke.
Smoke curled high into the blood-red sky, blurring the lines between hell and earth. Fires roared in every direction. Collapsed buildings burned, and mana storms cracked through the clouds like divine wrath. The camera panned over the battlefield—chaos, desperation, and crumbling resistance.
Amid the inferno, four towering figures stood like pillars of doom.
Aamon, the Demon King of Carnage, rampaged through the northern front, his jagged greatsword dragging behind him, cutting trenches through the land. He laughed wildly as he crushed soldiers underfoot, his body drenched in blood and flames, his roars drowning out the cries of the wounded.
Azazel, the Demon King of Cruelty, danced across the southern field, fingers dripping with venom and dark curses. He moved like a phantom, flaying flesh with just a touch, whispering horrors into his victims' ears before delivering the killing blow. "Run, little lambs," he sneered, his voice carrying across the battlefield like a lullaby of doom.
Astaroth, the Demon King of Fury, let out a howl as he clashed with Queen Hela and the remaining warrior monarchs in the west. His aura pulsed with rage—each swing of his axe sent shockwaves that shattered stone and bone alike. "You dare raise your swords at me?!" he bellowed, hurling lightning and fire with each breath.
And in the east—calm amidst the madness—stood Mephistopheles, the Demon King of Incarceration.
His glowing eyes surveyed the chaos like a chessboard. His chains slithered through the air like serpents, wrapping around warriors, dragging them down into abyssal prisons conjured from his own shadow. He moved with eerie precision, not a step wasted. "Struggle all you want," he murmured coldly, "this was over the moment I stepped onto the field."
One by one, the kings and queens of allied nations began to fall. Their battle cries were growing weaker. Blood mixed with the mud as flags burned and hopes flickered.
The tide was turning.
The Demon Kings were still standing.
And no one knew how much longer the defenders could hold…
To be continued...