The silence after Beelzebub had spoken was deceptive.
Outwardly, the world stood still. But inside Micafer's mind, chaos reigned—his thoughts loud, tangled, disoriented, just like his unsteady stance. The name echoed through him, ancient and absolute.
As if that wasn't enough, he felt an unseen presence watching him. Not as the center of entertainment—but something more dangerous than entertainment.
Interest.
Almost as if his coming had been awaited since the day he was born. Like a prophecy written into the Veil itself.
Deep within him, Micafer felt something no other person in his situation would feel—resolve.
To him, panicking would mean choosing a path opposite to destiny. Besides, he had a flame burning inside him—the will to humble this creature by defeating its king.
But something was still uncertain.
How?
In perfect cohesion with Beelzebub—as if the King himself had designed this trial to answer a question buried deep within Micafer's soul—time did not stir. There was no past or future, only this moment, unmeasured.
The King struck first. With his right blade—Justice—he brought it down with ominous grace. For a monarch of such Satanic rank, his movement was sluggish, almost ceremonial, like a relic waking from centuries of stillness.
Micafer sidestepped easily. His stance was uneven, but the motion carried a silent mockery—as if the King's majesty no longer warranted fear.
It was clear now: Beelzebub hadn't risen from his throne in an eternity. His limbs had stiffened, calcified by pride and patience. He had waited—for what, no one could say. Perhaps a prophecy. Perhaps a rival.
And yet… this was the day.
Or rather, in a realm where time did not exist—this was the fracture in forever.
The blade crashed into the ground, cleaving molten stone like stale bread.
Micafer smirked—not out of arrogance, but understanding. If this pace continued, the King's stiffness would slowly be worked out. But the danger was far from over.
A second strike came from the left—Vengeance. The blade howled through the air, but Micafer, wiry and light, darted beneath it. Now both blades were buried deep in the earth, crossing in front of their wielder like shackles forged by his own pride.
The opportunity gleamed.
Micafer lunged forward, closing the gap in a heartbeat. The strike was perfect—a clean path to the King's head.
But something shifted.
Not in space.
Not in time.
In meaning.
The certainty blurred.
Beelzebub's other two arms descended.
In a flash, the predicted blow became a dodge. Micafer skidded beneath the behemoth, sliding between legs the size of tree trunks. He struck upward with the shard of obsidian—the one friend he'd carried since his descent into the Veil.
Crack.
The shard exploded on impact. His knuckles crashed against infernal bone. Pain lanced through his hand as he backstepped, regaining distance.
Beelzebub hadn't even flinched.
No anger. No wound. Only a slow turn as he dragged both blades from the rock—each movement like a mountain shifting.
His gaze met Micafer's—not with rage, but with pity.
And shame.
Not for Micafer… but for himself.
His own degradation. His own rust. The crumbling majesty of a forgotten King.
Then, as if thoughts were commands, one of his underlings stepped forward—a Satanic-ranked purgator. It extended an object toward Micafer: a staff forged from shadow and silence, its presence born from the darkest pits of Hell.
Micafer hesitated.
He knew such a gift could not be trusted. But still… in this realm of despair and fire, perhaps even a cursed relic held meaning.
At least until I figure something out, he thought.
Then, willfully, he accepted the staff.
The moment it wrapped into his grip, something awakened within him.
Looking deeper, it felt like the equilibrium between good and bad had been disrupted—the bad echoing louder. If compared to a pH scale, where 1–6 was good and 8–14 was bad, his internal neutral of 7 had shifted to a 3, compressing the good within him.
He tried to drop the staff—but instinct stopped him.
A supersaturated solution could still be diluted by adding more solute.
He let it all wash over him for a moment.
He allowed himself to feel the glory— intoxicating and undeniably
A wicked smile crept onto his face.
This time, he spared no effort—no sidesteps beneath attacks—but met Beelzebub head-on.
The stiffness in Beelzebub's joints was forced to adapt, barely blocking the full strike at the cost of one arm.
The arena fell silent.
All purgators stared, mouths agape.
Yet something remained uncertain.
Beelzebub's smiled. It was not forced. Not terrified. It carried a mixture of interest and enthusiasm, as if decades of waiting had not been in vain.
His heat surged; molten magma coursed through his body once more, as if a blockage had been removed.
The King turned, his smile twisting into devilish laughter—the source of all others echoing among the purgators.
Micafer knew the match had truly begun. The taste of power filled him, blinding his caution.
In a heartbeat, swords and staff clashed—flames of divine order erupting around them.
Thanks to his nimble frame, Micafer sidestepped quickly and struck Beelzebub's shoulder.
But the King's reaction was indifferent.
An extra arm swung back to land a punch—but Micafer blocked it with his staff.
There was no tension—only amusement.
Then Beelzebub spoke, his voice calm but commanding—a rarity:
"Let me show you why they call me Beelzebub."
In an instant, he vanished, canceling his presence completely.
Micafer stood, eyes darting, searching for what was to come.
But his instincts deceived him.
A flash of black light fell from the infinite sky, crashing with thunderous impact.
As the dust settled, Beelzebub reappeared—now in a humanoid form with two arms and one head, surrounded by flies swirling in a circular path.
Each fly held a human soul. Their eyes shone with light capable of seeing into the soul of a living man. Their wings reflected impossible colors, having dagger-like bodies numbering in the millions—the countless souls Beelzebub had devoured.
With a stretch of his arm, the swarm spun toward Micafer.
Slowly, Micafer's heat cooled.
It was clear: he was no match for the King.
Yet, a few steps away, a plague awaited.
Micafer slashed the air, sending beams of exploding shadows in different directions.
He tried to defend, but the attacks shattered quickly—too fragile against the King's power.
Woosh.
Some flies pierced his body—not retreating, but depositing darkness that seemed to weigh him down.
Micafer stumbled, collapsing to one knee, overwhelmed by pain that sent chills down his spine—accompanied by flashing memories:
"Get away, you cursed!" his uncle had shouted.
"You thief, ungrateful being!" his adoptive mother had accused.
"I bet this penny would solve a life problem for you," a rich man once sneered.
"You are a Child of the Veil," his divine masters had echoed.
The memories slid like a film through his mind—the last one striking hardest, like it had been forgotten for decades.
He lifted his head and whispered:
"A trial."
Just then, he saw Beelzebub descending from the sky with a powerful strike.
Reluctantly, Micafer grabbed the staff with both hands, holding it horizontally.
Beelzebub descended with the strike,
Crack.
The staff broke in two.
A line of blood traced down Micafer's body—but the scratch was shallow.
More than the pain, an illusion shimmered in the strike's wake: Lucifer, offering him a blade of total darkness.
Not distracted, Micafer leapt back, dodging another attack—this time an illusion of Michael, offering a blade of pure light.
Strike after strike. Dodge after dodge.
The same scene repeated.
Chaos consumed the battlefield, inflicting both external and internal conflict.
His limbs trembled. Questions rose inside:
"What do I choose—light or darkness?"