Deep within the Demon Palace, where the walls were forged of frozen blood and the floors whispered ancient curses, a gateway of pure shadow tore open, and from it stepped Sajibro.
His footsteps were calm, yet each one cracked the very air—as if space and time themselves either respected… or feared him.
At the end of the grand hall, upon a throne of black steel, sat Zaramus, King of Demons, leaning on one arm, his eyes glinting with malice.
He smirked with disdain and spoke in a mocking tone:
"So this is the Shadow King? I thought you'd be greater… not some stray child who came to play the game of kings."
Sajibro didn't reply. He simply kept walking.
Zaramus rose from his throne and spread his arms mockingly.
"Come… show me what shadow can do against infernal light."
In that instant… the ground was the first to feel the wrath.
A single strike from Sajibro's palm shattered the floor, sending chunks of dark bones flying in all directions. The Throne of Skulls exploded into fragments, and a wave of shadow surged to engulf every corner of the hall.
A deep wound now marred Zaramus's chest… the first he had suffered in thousands of years.
The Demon King roared, summoning his hellforged blade, Valcarion, the Edge of Fallen Ages.
The battle ignited.
Every strike meant the collapse of a wall.
Every movement could have slaughtered a thousand soldiers had they stood in its path.
Shadows and hellfire, impacts no mortal could endure, and deadly silences between each devastating wave.
Zaramus snarled as he attacked with relentless fury:
"You're strong… but a century too late to match me!"
But Sajibro lifted his hand.
"I was only testing you… you remnant of ruin."
He raised his arm to the sky and summoned something unseen since the dawn of time—
The Millennium Armor.
A legendary armor, etched with the runes of dimensions, pulsing with the ancient light of shadow. The moment Sajibro donned it, his aura changed—older, heavier—time itself seemed to halt in reverence.
Then he whispered:
"Awaken… my true blade."
A girl appeared from the void.
Her eyes were silver, her hair flowing like calm fire, her presence distorting reality itself.
She smiled, lifted her hand—and transformed into a blade unlike any other.
A sword capable of slicing through dimensions and breaking the laws of battle.
Sajibro grasped it with his gauntleted hand, standing at the center of the hall, as the chaos seemed to retreat… as though the universe itself awaited.
For the first time without mockery, Zaramus's eyes widened.
"What… have you done?!"
Sajibro gave no answer.
He raised the blade, and an echo rang out—
Not the echo of sound, but of a past… a legend… and an army of phantoms.
End of Chapter Forty-Eight