[Location: Central Park, New York]

I strapped the scabbard to my hip, Muramasa sheathed. My carefree and sarcastic demeanour evaporated as I sensed some extraordinary changes to my Conqueror's Will after its fusion with the fragment of Ares's divinity.

Aside from levelling up, there was a massive qualitative shift.

Haki.

When the system gave me the chance to create whatever I willed, free of charge. With my demonic energy, equivalent of mana, gone from the ceremony, stripped bare without any sin affinity.

My thought quickly locked onto Haki. Nobody can take this from me because it came from my spirit, will, so as long as my will remained unshaken, so too would this power.

Before, it only had quantity after losing my virginity to Grayfia and having an unexpected Soul Resonance established, which added 1022 years' worth of Spiritual Energy reserve to my core.

Then, now by absorbing the fragment of the War God's divinity, that crude ember ignited into something primal. Something absolute.

Conqueror's Will no longer felt like a skill. It was an authority.

In terms of Conqueror Haki from One Piece, the quality of my haki stands at the same level as Shanks, a level below that of Roger or Joyboy, but leagues above anyone else walking this Earth.

The air thickened. Every heartbeat, every pulse of my own blood, resonated outward like the toll of a divine bell. I could feel it—the faintest quiver of intent from every being nearby. Zealots, Artemis, even Zeraphira's presence, all registered like tremors in a glassy lake.

I exhaled slowly, letting the Conqueror's Will swell, unrestrained. My aura wasn't just oppressive; it was declarative. It spoke: I exist. I lead. I dominate. And the world, in response, instinctively obeyed, if only for a heartbeat.

I smiled as a scene played in my mind— A badass walk of Silvers Rayleigh toward Teach, who was holding Hancock by her throat.

I thought of recreating it, the sword slowly leaving the scabbard as Conqueror's Will surging out with black lightning arcs dancing around it, affecting the surrounding environment.

"Darling—" Zeraphira's voice echoed but—

The words cut off as the air itself shifted.

A low hum rolled across the central park's area, subtle at first—like the groan of an old hull in the storm winds—then rising into an oppressive pulse. Pebbles scattered, the trees bent, and a crushing weight settled over the battlefield.

Every set of eyes turned.

Where I was.

Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar, the Prince of Hell, stepped forward. Not rushed—deliberate.

I let a fraction of Conqueror's Will leak, black lightning arcs dancing along the edges of my Muramasa's scabbard. It wasn't flashy—it didn't need to be. The effect was the point. Air compressed, pressure radiated, and a faint vibration rattled the Champion of Ares' teeth, forcing the grip on his weapon to tighten.

I exhaled slowly, letting the oppressive pulse swell, black lightning snaking along the scabbard, illuminating my grin. The Conqueror's Will wasn't just felt; it was seen, heard, and experienced. The Champion of Ares staggered slightly, his divine blood rebelling against an authority that wasn't mortal, wasn't even fully godly—it was mine.

The faintest flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes. That was all I needed. The battle had not yet begun, but victory—or at least fear—was already mine.

I could almost hear the scene replay in my mind: the iconic, deliberate step forward, Muramasa inching from the scabbard, arcs of black energy tearing at reality, the Champion of Ares frozen mid-motion, entirely aware of the invisible whip of my will wrapping around him.

The Champion's crimson eyes widened, just slightly, a micro-expression almost imperceptible to anyone else. But I saw it. Oh, I saw it. Every muscle in his body tensed, every fibre braced, every ounce of his divine presence screaming at me to falter.

I didn't.

Step by step, I moved forward. The scabbard slid slowly from my hip, Muramasa whispering free, a single, fluid motion. Black lightning erupted along the blade's edge, crackling with the hum of suppressed divinity. The air itself seemed to recoil, currents bending around the energy like it was alive, like it knew this power didn't belong merely to me—it belonged to the world I had decided to command.

Zeraphira, still hovering behind me in a protective aura, exhaled, violet storm flaring as if she wanted to crush the earth beneath the Champion's feet herself. Her hands twitched, ready to detonate—but I raised a finger. Patience. The moment was mine.

Artemis's silver gaze never left him. Her bowstring hummed as she instinctively drew an arrow, yet even she paused, sensing the weight of a Will that didn't bend, that didn't negotiate, that demanded obedience. She wasn't used to following anyone—least of all me—but the pulse of dominance radiating from my being forced her to acknowledge it.

The Champion of Ares shifted his spear, eyes flicking from my boots to the crackling Muramasa, measuring, calculating, anticipating. And then… he blinked. Hesitation. Just a fraction of a second—but in battle, a fraction of a second was an eternity.

I smiled.

The hum of Conqueror's Will surged outward, wrapping around the hundred zealots behind him. They didn't even need my blade to feel the authority. Knees buckled, fists clenched, breaths caught mid-chest. Fear, unfiltered and pure, spread like wildfire. Every divine oath they carried faltered, replaced by the primitive, instinctual recognition of a superior being.

The Champion barked a command, but even his voice trembled. "Stand your ground!"

It was futile. My aura of absolute authority wasn't polite. It didn't negotiate. It crushed.

I lifted Muramasa fully, letting the black lightning arcs leap from the blade to the air around it, twisting shadows into jagged, whispering shapes. Each step I took forward caused the grass beneath me to shiver, the pavement to tremble, and the trees to bow slightly, as if the very world acknowledged the emergence of its new apex.

Zeraphira's violet storm swelled behind me, almost indistinguishable from my own aura now. It wasn't about her power versus mine—she amplified what already existed. Her eyes met mine, and in that silent exchange, I understood: she would burn the earth to ensure I stood unchallenged, and I… didn't even need to ask.

The Champion's stance wavered. The golden armour he bore reflected the lightning, shadows flickering across his stern features. His grip tightened, spear shaking slightly. I could hear the subtle tremor in his body—an instinctive, primal fear that came from recognising a superior will.

I exhaled. Slow. Deliberate. Let the sound carry. The pulse of Conqueror's Will surged once more, snapping the air around me like invisible whips. Zealots groaned, falling flat onto their knees. Artemis barely flinched, but even she inhaled sharply, sensing the magnitude of the aura enveloping us.

"You… you're…" the Champion muttered, voice strained, eyes flicking between my grin and the blade that hummed with black lightning. "I can feel my lord's will, you will pay for this insolence," he finished, teeth gritted, but the words sounded hollow even to him. The tremor in his body betrayed what his armour could not hide: he had never encountered a will so absolute, so unyielding. Not in Olympus, not in battlefields stained red with divine blood.

I stepped closer, letting the black arcs of energy dance along Muramasa's edge, the smell of ozone thick in the air. Each footfall resonated, a percussion to the invisible drumbeat of dominance radiating outward. The Champion tried to steel himself, spear leveled, aura blazing—but even the might of Ares's blessing couldn't fully shield him from the truth: this fight was already lost before the first strike.

Zeraphira's violet storm pulsed behind me, crackling in sync with my own aura. "Darling… release them," she muttered, voice low, each word vibrating with predatory intent. "Make them kneel before you. Make them know who owns this world."

I didn't need encouragement. The Conqueror's Will surged, spilling outward in waves. The air warped around the Champion, his golden armour creaking like it was trying to hold itself together against some unseen force. The hundred zealots behind him screamed silently, collapsing to the ground, unable to fight the urge to bow, cower, or flee. Their divine fervour evaporated under the weight of my dominance.

The Champion's knees buckled slightly, but his pride refused to let him fall. He planted the spear, digging the tip into the cracked pavement for stability, forcing his body upright despite the tremor running through every fibre of his being. His crimson eyes, once full of warlust, flickered with uncertainty.

I tilted my head, grin widening. "What's the matter? Never faced someone… who owns the battlefield without even raising a hand?"

He growled, voice strained, but it lacked conviction. "You… are not a mere mortal. Not a demon. You… what are you?"

"Prince of Hell," I said, letting the words roll off my tongue as casually as if I'd commented on the weather. "But tonight? I'm your reckoning."

Black lightning danced along Muramasa as I drew it fully free, the blade singing with a hum that seemed to tear at reality itself. Shadows twisted around its edge, jagged and alive, stretching outward like tendrils searching for weakness. The Champion's eyes widened, a spark of true fear igniting behind his determination.

Artemis's silver aura flared at my side, tension coiling in her muscles. Her bow was drawn, arrows nocked and trembling with divine energy—but she didn't release. Even she, a goddess of the hunt, instinctively recognised that my Will dictated the flow of this fight.

I flexed my grip on Muramasa, letting Conqueror's Will radiate outward in pulses, subtle yet impossible to ignore. The Champion tried to rally, shouting orders to his zealots, but the words fell flat, lost in the oppressive authority of a power no mortal—or god—was meant to resist.

"Step forward if you dare," I said softly, letting the sound carry. The black lightning pulsed, arcs slashing through the air like living whips. "Show me your skill. Or kneel. The choice… is yours."

The Champion's hands shook. Spear raised, his aura flaring violently, but he faltered—just enough for me to see the fissure in his composure. His hundred zealots were frozen, a forest of kneeling figures, some whispering prayers, others muttering curses they didn't mean. All were aware, instinctively, that their leader had just met something beyond their comprehension.

Zeraphira's violet eyes met mine, pupils dilated, storm flaring. I reached back with a single thought: containment. Not a strike—yet. Just the promise of annihilation, the weight of inevitability. And she obeyed, letting her aura surge outward like a secondary pulse to my own. The Champion stumbled, caught in the psychic storm, gaze darting to the woman behind me, calculating threats, options, escape—none viable.

I let the tension build, every second stretching, the world holding its breath. Muramasa's blade hummed, black arcs snapping outward in microbursts, teasing, testing. My aura didn't just suppress—it demanded, carved a path through the night, marking the battlefield as mine.

Finally, I spoke, low, calm, deliberate: "You wanted a fight? Fine. But understand this—you're not just facing me. You're facing what I choose to let exist tonight."

Lightning arced from Muramasa's tip, black as void, humming with the resonance of Conqueror's Will fused with a fragment of the War God. The Champion's eyes widened again, the last vestige of defiance slipping, a flinch betraying the primal fear clawing through him.

For a heartbeat, everything froze. Zealots, trees, Artemis, even the subtle sway of the lake's surface—they all bowed, metaphorically and physically, to the singular authority that had manifested in the park.

And in that frozen instant, I knew: the battle had already begun. Not with swords clashing, not with arrows flying—but with the undeniable, absolute dominance of my will.

Observation Grid flared as the Champion vanished from his place—yes, vanished into an afterimage.

Armament Core surged from my core into my arm, covering my whole arm, holding Muramasa covered in a thin sheen of black substance.

The black sheen along Muramasa thickened, writhing almost as if alive, reacting to every pulse of Conqueror's Will coursing through me. It wasn't just a coating—it was an extension of my authority, a sentient aura that merged blade and spirit into a single, undetachable entity. Every microfracture of the steel shimmered as black arcs of energy snaked along its surface, whispering promises of devastation.

The Champion of War reappeared—well, an afterimage of him—just a step ahead, spear raised, eyes aflame with raw aggression. He lunged, a blur of crimson and bronze, every strike precise enough to cut the air itself. Yet the black lightning danced in tandem with Muramasa, bending subtly around his attacks, absorbing momentum, and feeding it back into my grip.

I shifted my stance with the casual grace of someone who knew the battlefield before even stepping onto it. The ground beneath my feet seemed to respond, tiny fissures radiating outward with each deliberate step. Conqueror's Will pulsed in waves, tangible, oppressive, forcing every enemy within radius to reconsider their definitions of fear.

Zeraphira's storm flared behind me, synchronized, not just amplifying my presence but acting as a secondary strike force. Each pulse of her aura rippled outward, making the Champion's afterimages flicker, stagger, and hesitate. She leaned forward slightly, claws sparking with violet energy, ready to strike the instant I gave the word.

The Champion's first strike sliced the air where I had stood a heartbeat ago. Observation Grid tracked every microtremor in his muscles, every shift in weight, every fraction of a second his mind predicted my movement. I didn't dodge. I phased—sliding through his strike without touching the path of steel, the black arcs along Muramasa leaving residual sparks that seared the very air in its wake.

He recoiled slightly, not fully understanding how I'd avoided him. Conqueror's Will pulsed again, subtle this time, a mental grip snapping around his consciousness. He froze mid-step, instincts screaming to attack, but a deeper, primal part of him forced compliance—even if momentary.

I let the pulse fade just enough to test him, stepping closer, Muramasa raised lazily, lightning arcs slashing across the blade like living, jagged shadows. The Champion's breath hitched. He gritted his teeth, aura flaring, and charged again, a perfect blend of divine speed and war-forged technique.

This time, I let him close. Armament Core enveloped my arm fully, extending into Muramasa, and the sword hummed with a low, resonant growl. I caught the spear with the flat of the blade—not fully blocking, not yet—but enough to feel the surge of force, to feed it back into my grip, my core. The aftershock ran through my body like wildfire, sending a pulse of Conqueror's Will outward. Zealots behind him stumbled; Artemis's arrows trembled slightly in their nocks; even Zeraphira's storm flickered in acknowledgment.

Then I let the true weight fall. A single forward step, deliberate, and Muramasa slashed. Not a wide swing, not a reckless strike—but a precise, slicing arc that cut the air, the sound screaming with black energy. The Champion barely managed to parry, sparks flying as his bronze spear met the blade, but even his divine reinforcement trembled under the force. His stance faltered—enough to expose a microgap, an opening no ordinary fighter could exploit.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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