When a Filipino got Isekai'd with a twist!
"Only I can summon those!" ( Pinoy Isekai!)
Chapter 3: Hellbound vs alliance
The clang of metal and the thunder of magic shook the war-torn ground.
Vismond laid Chris down at the medic tent. Blood soaked the younger man's armor, but his chest still rose—barely. A dozen clerics and healing mages rushed in, their hands glowing, voices overlapping in panicked chants.
"He'll live," one muttered without looking up.
Vismond nodded once. That was all he needed to hear.
No time for relief. No room for peace.
Then—
"VISMOND!"
That voice. Shrill. Mocking. It cut through the chaos like a blade to the spine.
He froze.
That voice again.
That damn voice.
Jack the Ripper.
Vismond spun on instinct, sprinting before his brain fully registered. His boots pounded the mud-soaked ground, past firelit tents, mangled siege towers, and mangled bodies. Behind him, war still raged—roars, screams, explosions—but it all faded beneath the weight of the name that called him.
A flicker darted through the smoke. Jerky movements. Inhuman angles. A silhouette dragging a blade along stone, throwing sparks like laughter.
And then—
"Hehehe… You left me, Vismond. You think it's over? You think we're over? No one walks away from me."
Vismond rounded a shattered wall.
There he stood.
Jack.
Framed in firelight, his coat tattered and flaring like the wings of some hungry wraith. Twin blades shimmered in his hands, slick with fresh blood. His smile was too wide, too eager.
"Round two, darling," he whispered.
Vismond's eyes narrowed. "You're a stain I should've erased the first time."
Jack tilted his head. "Then erase me."
They didn't speak again.
They lunged.
Steel screamed.
The first clash cracked the air. Sparks exploded from their blades. Vismond struck with cold precision—Jack countered with lunatic grace. Their movements blurred, weapons carving arcs of silver and blood.
And above them, the sky split with another thunderclap. A new shadow loomed in the distance.
---
Elsewhere…
The battlefield groaned under the weight of titans.
Spells collided midair like collapsing stars. Siege beasts roared. The ground quaked.
Four Demon Kings still stood.
Aamon, Demon King of Carnage—a monstrous blur in the north, laughing as he ripped men apart with iron claws and flaming axes.
Azazel, Demon King of Cruelty—a sadist's poet in the south, toying with his victims before breaking them. Every scream was a symphony.
Astaroth, Demon King of Fury—a raging inferno in the west, his roars shaking the mountains as he hurled molten boulders like toys.
And Mephistopheles, Demon King of Incarceration—in the east, still, silent, watching. Every move he made calculated. Every death he dealt, earned.
Even the Alliance's elite—the kings and queens who once defied gods—were slowing. Weary. Bleeding.
The tide was turning again.
---
Back to Vismond.
He ducked a blade, slashed high—Jack leapt over it, landed with a cackle, and spun low. Vismond flipped back. They clashed again. Knife to knife. Blow to blow.
"Still holding back," Jack said between strikes. "Afraid to enjoy it?"
Vismond didn't speak. He blinked—literally—and reappeared behind Jack in a silent flash of shadow.
A clean slice tore across Jack's ribs.
"YES!" Jack howled, blood spitting from his grin. "There it is! Give me more!"
He lunged like a rabid dog, blades flashing. Vismond met him, relentless. No wasted motion. No wasted rage.
But Jack was grinning wider than ever.
Then—
He pulled out a vial. Black. Pulsing with purple sigils.
"Let's raise the curtain," he whispered.
He smashed it against his chest.
The transformation was instant.
His back arched. Bones cracked and realigned. Muscles swelled. Veins turned black. His laughter twisted into a howl of something no longer human.
And then—
He vanished.
Snap!
Vismond spun—but too late.
CLANG!
Jack's enhanced blade crashed into his guard, the force numbing his arms. Vismond skidded back, boots carving trenches in the dirt.
Jack didn't stop. He was faster. Stronger. His moves were still erratic—but now laced with unnatural precision.
A boot slammed into Vismond's ribs.
He flew through a pillar. Stone shattered.
Jack burst through the dust. "You're breaking! COME ON, Vismond!"
Vismond rolled, launched a knife—Jack caught it, twirled it, threw it back.
It slashed Vismond's cheek.
"You bleed too!" Jack crowed. "Now we're both honest."
Vismond clenched his jaw. He blurred forward—shadowstep again. This time with clones. Ten afterimages—blinking, weaving, striking all at once.
Jack's eyes widened.
Two blades landed true.
One to the side.
One to the leg.
Jack stumbled, blood gushing—but still grinning.
"Perfect," he whispered.
Then—he raised a hand.
A second figure stepped from the smoke.
Vismond's mirror.
Not an illusion.
A twisted reflection.
Same face. Same weapons. Same movements.
But with soulless eyes burning with Mephistopheles's mark.
Jack beamed. "I brought a dance partner."
The clone attacked.
Vismond parried instinctively, but the reflection moved like him. Fought like him.
Jack struck at the same time.
It became a three-way storm. Steel and shadow. Blade and mimic.
Then—Vismond baited the clone into a spin, grabbed its arm mid-flow, and threw it into Jack's path.
SHUNK!
Jack's blade went clean through the clone's chest.
The twisted copy exploded in corrupted mana.
The blast hurled them both back.
Vismond landed hard, coughing blood. Jack staggered to his feet, one eye nearly swollen shut.
"You win that round," he rasped.
Then—he opened his coat.
Three more vials.
"One more dose," Jack whispered, almost like a prayer. "And I transcend."
He raised one—crushed it against his chest.
His veins turned orange. Molten. His body spasmed—and then calmed.
No grin now.
No madness.
Just a steady breath. A killer's stillness.
"Final round, Vismond."
He moved—
And disappeared.
Vismond's eyes barely caught the blur before—
BOOM.
Jack struck from above, from below, from every angle at once. His knives sang death. Vismond blocked, barely. Each impact rattled his bones.
This was no longer Jack the Ripper.
This was a demon wrapped in human skin.
But Vismond didn't retreat.
He shifted stances.
Dropped low.
Slowed his breathing.
And waited.
Because the faster the storm raged—
The easier it was to find the eye.
Blood sprayed across the broken pavement as the two shadows clashed under the burning crimson sky. The battlefield had quieted in this pocket of destruction—no more screams, no more thunder of distant spells. Just the echo of steel scraping steel.
Jack the Ripper stood at the center of a bloodstained alley, half his coat torn, chest heaving, twin blades twitching in his grip. His grin hadn't faded, even as his blood dripped onto the cracked concrete.
Vismond walked out of the smoke with a blade in one hand, a throwing knife in the other. His cloak was ripped and scorched, his side stained with blood from an earlier slice to the ribs. But his eyes—those cold, unwavering eyes—were still locked on Jack.
"You again," Jack chuckled, rolling his neck with a sick pop. "Every time I kill someone fun, you show up like a damn curtain call."
Vismond didn't answer. His silence was enough.
Jack rushed first, his speed explosive, boots hammering the ground. The twin daggers gleamed, aiming for Vismond's throat and liver in a perfectly timed kill combo.
But Vismond side-stepped with fluid grace. His dagger scraped the side of Jack's blade as he spun, letting momentum carry his knee straight into Jack's gut.
Thud!
Jack staggered back but twisted with the impact, slashing up and nearly catching Vismond's cheek. Vismond leaned back, sliding under the arc, and swept Jack's legs with his own.
The Ripper crashed onto his back—but he didn't stay down.
With a howl, Jack flipped back onto his feet and lunged with a flurry of wild slashes, each strike faster than the last. The sheer speed made it hard to tell if Jack was laughing or screaming.
Vismond gritted his teeth, dodging left, blocking high, deflecting low. But one cut grazed his arm. Another sliced near his eye. Jack was adapting—becoming even more vicious the longer the fight dragged on.
"You don't get it!" Jack yelled, slashing horizontally. "You're just a tool! I kill for pleasure! You kill for what? Duty? Orders? Pfft—weak."
Vismond ducked the swing and drove his dagger forward, cutting across Jack's collarbone. Jack cried out, stumbling, but Vismond didn't stop. He followed with a hard elbow to Jack's face, then stabbed the throwing knife into Jack's thigh.
"Pain… isn't weakness," Vismond finally spoke, yanking the blade back. "It's a reminder."
Jack stumbled—but then started laughing. Blood running from his mouth, he raised one blade and roared, "REMINDER? LET ME REMIND YOU WHAT I DO TO HEROES!"
His foot slammed down, kicking a cloud of dust into the air. In the chaos, he vanished from sight.
Vismond's eyes darted. He tuned out the noise of the war, the distant clashes, the screams in the wind. He inhaled once—
—and ducked.
Shiiing!
Jack dropped from above, blades first. But Vismond rolled out and drove his dagger into Jack's back as he passed.
"Agh—dammit!" Jack twisted, coughing blood.
Vismond kicked him off the blade and stood over him. Jack was kneeling now, blood soaking his coat, face pale. His grin was gone.
"You're fast," Jack said, panting. "But I've killed faster."
"Not today," Vismond muttered.
He raised his blade—but Jack suddenly laughed.
"You think I'm alone?!" Jack growled. "You think I didn't leave a gift?!"
From his sleeve, he flicked a bloodied rune into the ground. It pulsed red. Vismond's eyes widened.
A self-detonation sigil.
"You son of a—"
BOOM!!!
The explosion lit the sky, throwing Vismond across the wrecked alley, crashing him into a wall. Flames roared, smoke choking the ruins.
Silence followed.
Then—footsteps.
Vismond stumbled out of the smoke, limping, coughing. His cloak was nearly gone. Burns streaked his arm. But he was alive.
Jack's body lay nearby—burned, unmoving.
Vismond looked down at him.
"…You should've stayed dead the first time," he muttered, then collapsed to one knee, gripping his side.
—
From above, the smoke curled into the air as the battle raged on. The kings and queens were barely holding. The Demon Kings were relentless.
But in this broken alley, a killer had finally been silenced.
And one assassin still breathed.
The battlefield was a hellish symphony of roars, screams, and clashing steel. Josh stood atop a mound of broken chimera bodies, his coat tattered and stained with blood—not all of it his. Across from him stood Josef Mengele, that twisted mockery of a man, wearing a crooked smile like it was glued to his face. Surrounding him was a new wave of abominations—twisted hybrids of beasts and machines, sewn together by madness and dark science.
"You've killed plenty," Josef said, walking forward with unsettling calm. "But I've made more. Shall we keep dancing, Sword King?"
Josh cracked his neck. "Don't flatter yourself, freak. I'm not dancing—I'm clearing trash."
The horde surged forward.
Josh met them head-on.
He moved like a storm given shape. Every strike was efficient—limbs flew, heads rolled, and spines cracked under the weight of his brutal, precise swings. The monsters were fast, but not faster than him. He weaved through claws and fangs, blade singing as it cut through bone and sinew.
Then, behind him—thunder.
A salvo of magic shells rained from the cliffs to the east. A second later, Kalisto's mercenary battalion charged down the ridge, banner flying, swords raised high. Josh didn't stop. He didn't need to. A blast of fire lit up the left flank as Serena arrived like a meteor, her spear cleaving a chimera in half. Sir Elara followed, armor cracked but eyes burning. And behind them, Princess Lyra summoned a barrage of light arrows, pinning several abominations to the ground like grotesque bugs.
"Josh!" Serena shouted, impaling a beast and kicking it aside. "Status?"
He parried a hook-like claw, shoved his blade through the monster's chest, and yanked it free.
"We're buying time. Mengele's still protected, but the center's collapsing. If we crush him now—"
"Then we win here," she said, breathless but fierce. "The kings and queens are still fighting the Demon Kings. Once we break this side, we'll push forward. The path'll be open. You finish this bastard, and we'll give you cover to reach them."
Sir Elara grunted as he cleaved through two charging beasts. "The tide's turning. No more delays."
"Good." Josh narrowed his eyes at Mengele, who had begun laughing again—eerily calm amid the carnage. "Then I'll carve the path. You hold the line."
He stepped forward.
Josef raised his hand, and the chimeras around him rearranged, forming a grotesque wall of limbs and armor—his personal guard.
Josh raised his sword.
"Let's finish this."
The battlefield cracked under the weight of the world-shaking clash. The sky above was no longer blue—it had turned a shade of dark violet, rippling with black lightning as if reality itself was trembling under the pressure of too many titans locked in combat.
Aamon, Demon King of Carnage, swung his jagged axe through a squad of Royal Knights, carving a bloody arc. Each swing of his weapon erupted like a cannon blast. "Is that all your alliance has to offer?" he roared, his bloodstained smile wild.
In the south, Queen Elira of the Desert Flame Kingdom had her blades locked with Azazel, the Demon King of Cruelty. Her arms trembled from the force, her armor dented and smeared with ash and blood.
Azazel chuckled, his crimson eyes glowing with sadistic joy. "You're cracking, little queen. Break for me."
Farther west, King Gregor of the Mountain Realm hurled boulders like bullets at Astaroth, the Demon King of Fury. But the demon tore through them like paper, his fists engulfed in raging hellfire. He was more beast than man, a juggernaut of wrath.
Meanwhile, in the east—where the tension was thickest—Mephistopheles stood calm, floating above the battlefield, a ghostly smile on his face. Chains of violet magic twisted and slithered like snakes around him, catching soldiers mid-charge and yanking them into the air, binding them in the sky.
King Alaric and Queen Yselle, both seasoned war mages, were pushing their limits just trying to keep him grounded.
"He's not even breaking a sweat," Queen Yselle muttered, blood trailing from her lips.
"He's playing with us," King Alaric spat.
Then—out of nowhere—a massive magic circle erupted high above the center of the battlefield. Its eerie green light bathed everyone below.
Everyone—both sides—looked up.
A whisper ran through the air, chilling everyone to the bone:
> "The gate… is opening."
From the circle, black tendrils began to descend like feelers from another realm. A single red eye blinked open within the gate, staring down at the battlefield like a god gazing at insects.
Even Mephistopheles' expression shifted—for the first time, he looked… surprised.
The voice came again, this time booming:
> "You dare delay my return?"
All four Demon Kings turned to look at the rift—shadows danced across their faces. Aamon's grip on his axe tightened. Astaroth took a step back. Azazel's smirk faded. And Mephistopheles slowly clenched a fist.
"They're waking up too early," Mephistopheles said under his breath.
"What… is that?" Queen Yselle whispered.
And then—CRACK—the sky shattered like glass.
Something was coming through.
To be continued....