Chapter 92: The Sorcerer vs. the Singular God
"Come on now, quit the mischief and get off the stage!" Heimdall barked, trying to salvage some semblance of decorum. Even he, a god himself, was blushing at the absurdity of the Seven Lucky Gods flaunting themselves like unruly schoolchildren.
But Bishamonten stepped forward, his voice calm and unyielding: "We are not seven—we are one."
One?
Heimdall squinted, baffled. What did he mean? That they were a collective bound by fate, rising and falling as a single entity? That their existence as gods was shared, indivisible? Was this some grand gesture of unity?
Touching in theory. But the reality was glaring: seven gods pitted against a lone human. No matter the sentiment—it was unfair.
Heimdall prepared to reprimand them, his hand half-raised.
Then Bishamonten scoffed.
With a startling crack, his armor erupted, scattering shards of divine steel across the platform. Heimdall stumbled back, alarmed. Was… was that a threat?
Was he really about to be attacked for questioning their conduct?
"Seven tribulations, one extinction."
The words rang out from Bishamonten like a curse pronounced upon heaven itself. Heimdall's gut twisted.
This wasn't banter anymore.
As Heimdall opened his mouth to threaten disqualification—authority he didn't technically possess—the six remaining gods charged.
But not at him.
They leapt toward Bishamonten… and disappeared into his form.
"What the…"
Heimdall gawked as their bodies merged into Bishamonten's being in glowing bursts of light. He began to shine, radiating divine energy that trembled the arena's foundations.
Then—
An egg.
Of all things—an egg, shimmering with celestial light. Heimdall had seen enough carnage and chaos to develop a very healthy fear of unhatched things.
As the egg cracked open, it released a tidal wave of dark energy. The crowd held its breath.
From the shell stepped a boy no older than fifteen, robed in ink-black garments lined with threads of crimson. His gaze was sharp—too sharp for someone his age. Ancient.
At that moment, Heimdall's terminal buzzed.
He opened the file and paled.
"Of course…"
He scanned the report: the Seven Lucky Gods were not seven at all. Originally, they had been a single entity—split into seven aspects to better manifest among humanity. Their division had been symbolic.
But this was the original. The whole.
Zero Fortune.
Heimdall stepped forward, booming with new clarity: "And thus, in this arena stands the divine embodiment once called the Seven Lucky Gods—now unified as one: Zero Fortune!"
The crowd gasped.
Brunhilde leaned forward in her seat. This god was no ordinary opponent.
Yet that wasn't the only surprise.
"Representing humanity," Heimdall called, gesturing toward the mortal gate.
The doors creaked open.
A dark palanquin rolled forth, veiled in ghostly silk. Ominous, regal… and sinister. The beings bearing it were not human.
Demons.
Clawed, horned, hunched—dragging the carriage forward with ritual reverence.
Heimdall blinked.
"This… this isn't the registered fighter…"
Indeed, the warrior stepping out wasn't the famed golden youth Sakata Kintoki—known for slaying the monstrous Shuten-dōji, whose divine lineage rendered him a hero fit to battle gods.
No, the man who emerged wore ceremonial robes etched with hexagrams and flowing talismans. His face was obscured beneath a shadowed veil. But Heimdall recognized the aura immediately.
Wicked. Old. Cunning.
Beside him sat a Valkyrie sister, feeding him sweet buns as if hypnotized. Brunhilde's heart seized.
Had her sister been… taken?
With trembling fingers, she ran a scan.
In seconds, the Akasha system returned a name.
"W-what in the world…"
The man was real. He hailed from the Heian era.
But not a hero.
A villain.
An infamous onmyōji—Domon the Taoist. Ashiya Dōman.
His reputation was steeped in curses and deceit, rivaled only by Abe no Seimei, whom Brunhilde had once considered recruiting.
And now, this man—uninvited, unsanctioned—had commandeered her sister and taken Sakata's place.
Did he kill Sakata?
Her scan pulled up surveillance: Domon had arrived early, hijacked the summoning channel, and lured the Valkyrie away. The subtle change in her voice during her last transmission—it all made sense. She'd been controlled.
Heimdall trembled.
Both sides were unraveling.
Zero Fortune, for his part, stared at Domon with a look of utter hostility.
Not awe.
Not curiosity.
But blood-born rage.
"You…" Zero Fortune growled. "You're still alive? I felt your soul extinguished. But you—you're here."
He dug his fingers into his back.
Heimdall reeled in horror as Zero Fortune pulled a black axe from his own flesh, the weapon emerging like clay peeled from the soul.
"I'll butcher you. I'll split you down the spine. I'll carve your entrails and feed them to the winds."
The hatred was not fabricated—it was ancient.
These two… knew each other.
From centuries past.
From battles the heavens dared not record.
"You're not Sakata, are you?" Heimdall asked Domon timidly.
Domon turned, his gentle smile razor-sharp.
"What part of me made you think I was that boy?"
He gestured behind him, where Sakata's body hung—bound, gagged, and silenced, suspended like a grotesque art piece.
Heimdall's face twitched.
Domon leapt off the palanquin. The demons departed in silence.
"The match can begin," Domon said calmly.
Heimdall hesitated.
This wasn't Brunhilde's selection.
This was not her plan.
And yet…
"C-can I even announce this?" Heimdall stammered.
"Can what?" Zero Fortune bellowed, his voice cracking thunder across the arena.
His eyes blazed toward Heimdall, silently daring him to delay.
"Announce. It. Now."
Heimdall looked at the crowd, looked at the gods, looked at the dangling body of Sakata…
And raised his trembling hand.
"The third match of Ragnarok… begins!".