A few minutes later.
Orsaga had once again ended up in a heavily injured state—so badly mangled that only half a head remained attached to his neck.
Despite most of his face being destroyed, the fragments that were left still bore a calm and unbothered expression.
Casually pulling out his exposed brain matter, he gave it a light toss in his hand.
Looking at the completely unscathed Malcairon in the distance, he muttered softly, "An attack that can't be dodged… and an existence that can't be hit… this is honestly kind of annoying."
In just this brief skirmish, his body had already been obliterated more than twenty times.
It wasn't a huge problem per se, but being helplessly crushed like this was definitely a first for him.
And honestly? It stung a little.
If he hadn't essentially "turned on cheats" and locked his health bar, he'd have been long dead by now.
On the other side, Malcairon still wore that frosty, emotionless look on his face—but deep down, even he was feeling helpless.
Under normal circumstances, while Orsaga was undeniably strong, he was still within manageable limits—a bit of effort, some high-level spells, and the problem would be solved.
But this guy just refused to die.
One or two resurrections? That was normal. Plenty of spells had similar effects. At first, Malcairon hadn't thought much of it.
But twenty-plus deaths with no sign of resource depletion? That was absurd.
Even a Lich would've turned to dust by now. But this guy? Still standing, still grinning.
For someone like Malcairon—who had always believed that below the gods there were no true threats—this was the first time he'd felt so uncertain.
'I guess it's time to try a banishment spell…'
After some thought, he gave up on completely eradicating Orsaga and opted for a compromise.
In the next instant, just as Orsaga was toying with the idea of eating his own brain—hoping to complete the cycle of self-consumption—he suddenly vanished, forcibly ejected by a surge of power into some unknown alternate dimension.
Even after successfully casting the spell, Malcairon's expression didn't show any hint of satisfaction or relief.
Instead, his brow furrowed slightly.
He could sense it—thanks to the massive barrier enveloping the outer edge of the world, which carried anti-teleportation effects, he hadn't been able to banish Orsaga too far.
That barrier, crafted by the gods, served mainly to isolate the Material Plane and disrupt all cross-plane teleportation. It drastically raised the cost of summoning forces from the Abyss—but it also severely restricted Malcairon's own spell's effectiveness.
Normally, he could have hurled Orsaga into some obscure crystal sphere or even into a raging spatial storm.
But now? The spell had been limited to flinging him into some pocket realm still tethered to this world.
While those places weren't part of the core Material Plane, they were still fundamentally linked. So in relative terms, they weren't all that far away.
That meant Orsaga had a fairly good chance of finding his way back.
Sure enough, not long after, spatial ripples began to form around the area—and Malcairon realized that it hadn't been resolved so easily after all.
A few pitch-black voids suddenly tore open in midair, followed by a surge of gravitational force pulling everything nearby toward them.
If one got sucked in, best-case scenario: they'd be tossed into another part of the Material Plane. Worst case? They'd begin a chaotic interdimensional journey—assuming they didn't get shredded by space turbulence first.
Malcairon glanced at the nearby Mage struggling to stay on their feet, a flicker of helplessness flashing in his eyes.
With a wave of his hand, he cast a protective barrier around them.
Otherwise, many of the lower-ranked ones would've ended up like ants in a vacuum cleaner.
Just went to show—if your Rank's too low, even spectating a high-level fight could get you instantly obliterated by stray energy.
In fact, if Malcairon hadn't cast a few protective spells on them ahead of time, many of the weaker ones would've been corrupted just by being near Orsaga's true form—becoming vessels or conduits for him.
"Crack… crack… crack…"
With a sound like shattering glass, Orsaga tore open the space with his bare hands and returned.
Thanks to the demonic race's innate resistance to spatial forces, the chaotic space turbulence—capable of slicing through nearly anything—hadn't left a single scratch on him.
Not only that, his injuries had fully healed, returning him to his unscathed state. The only loss?
His brain was gone.
He'd really been hoping to complete the whole "consume thyself" plan.
By the logic of "you are what you eat," he figured eating his own brain after recovering from injuries would supercharge his intelligence.
Still, no real loss.
Because of being forcefully banished, Orsaga had sensed something strange while traveling through the spatial cracks. Combined with what he'd learned during the earlier attacks, he finally figured out Malcairon's method of attack.
"Vmmm—"
A searing heatwave capable of distorting space spread outward from his body.
Arcane runes, hidden in the deeper layers of space, gradually emerged into view.
Although their full meaning remained elusive, even deciphering a portion of their function caused Orsaga to click his tongue in appreciation.
"Fascinating ritual magic… it actually makes use of the power of time."
The watching mages erupted in murmurs of awe. Though they couldn't comprehend what "time" magic truly meant, the very word carried the weight of something impossibly advanced.
Then, for the first time since the battle began, the ever-silent, ever-stoic Malcairon finally spoke:
"So… you sensed the anomaly in outer space when you were banished. Looks like I'll need to be more careful going forward."
Orsaga didn't deny it. Instead, he continued calmly:
"That's part of it. But there were other clues as well. For example, during your earlier attacks—no matter how I dodged—they always struck the exact same spot. Not even a millimeter off. At first, I was puzzled. But after sensing those runes, it all clicked."
"You only attacked once or twice in total. The rest? You just replicated the time at which the attack landed—over and over again. That's why they always hit, regardless of what I did."
"Essentially, if the outcome is already predetermined, then nothing I do in between matters. And as for why I couldn't land a hit on you… it's because you probably paused time and stepped aside—then returned to your original position before I could observe anything. Gave me the illusion my attacks were missing."
"I was wondering why your position always shifted by a millimeter or two after every blow… turns out you were moving during time I couldn't perceive."
Malcairon glanced down at his feet, noting a barely visible shift in position. He nodded slowly.
"So… I have that many flaws, huh?"
"But it doesn't matter," he added coldly. "When one commands time, it doesn't matter whether you figure it out or not. There's still nothing you can do."
As soon as he finished speaking, Orsaga was once again struck by an identical set of wounds—exactly like before.
And yet, his expression remained unchanged, still carrying that carefree smile.
In his view, all Malcairon had done was create a contained space within this battlefield—then seized partial authority over the flow of time within it.
From there, he created a temporary, localized timeline he could manipulate at will.
But that was still far from true control over time.
The actual timeline of the Material Plane—or, even more vastly, the multiversal time axis—was beyond Malcairon's reach.
Worse still, this mini timeline he created was inherently flawed. Its defects were obvious:
It had limited impact on higher-ranked entities.
It couldn't execute advanced temporal manipulation.
It couldn't tamper with biological timelines to achieve effects like resurrection, age reversal, or status-locking.
If Malcairon truly could control time, he wouldn't need to outlast Orsaga in battle.
He could simply revert Orsaga to a state before he acquired [Unholy Wraith Body]—or freeze his personal timeline entirely, rendering him completely inert.
And if something can't move, it might as well be dead.
But since Malcairon hadn't done that, the answer was clear:
He couldn't.
Having reasoned all of this out, Orsaga realized—he had already won.
Because time, at its core, was on his side.
___
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