[Location: Central Park, New York]

The ground still trembled with the echo of our last exchange, fissures spiderwebbing outward from where bronze had met cursed steel. The fractured pavement hissed, steam rising from the raw friction of divinity against will-forged chaos. The smell of ozone clung to the night, heavy, suffocating—every inhalation laced with the tang of violence waiting to erupt again.

Okay, the grin had been successfully transferred from my face to his.

What happened, you ask?

Well, the clash we just had wasn't a mere test of strength. It was a dialogue. No, more than that—a debate carved in sparks, lightning, and the raw shriek of steel biting steel. And in that dialogue, truths were exchanged.

The Champion of Ares, this gilded butcher standing before me, had glimpsed something. He'd seen the raw animal ferocity in my movements, the lack of honed technique, the absence of centuries of formal drills and perfected strikes. To him, I was a beast swinging a weapon I didn't fully understand. And in his grin was the satisfaction of a veteran who thought he'd mapped every weakness, every flaw.

But here's the thing about languages: you don't have to speak them perfectly to make yourself understood. Sometimes, the weight of your words—your conviction—roars louder than eloquence. And my conviction was written in every pulse of Conqueror's Will bleeding into the night.

I adjusted Muramasa in my grip, black lightning crawling across the cursed steel like serpents hungry for blood. The Replica pulsed faintly in my hands, its bound essence feeding off my willpower, whispering its unholy promises into my veins.

[Item: Muramasa – Venomfang Replica]

Bound. Loyal. Hungry.

The blade thrummed with the Venomfang effect. I could feel it—already thirsty, already coiling venom through its edge, eager to taste the vitality of my foe. Every second I held it in combat, the Malice effect sharpened it further, a cursed crescendo building minute by minute. That knowledge sat in the back of my mind, an anchor. I didn't have to win this fight instantly. Time itself would tip the blade further in my favour.

Observation Grid hummed to life again, weaving pathways and probabilities in my vision. The Champion hadn't moved yet, but his intent was loud, screaming through every micro-shift of muscle, every flicker of bloodlust in those crimson eyes. My senses drank it in, the battlefield unfolding like a web, each string vibrating with his killing intent.

He finally broke the silence."You have spirit, Prince of Hell," he rumbled, voice like war drums echoing across some distant plain. "But spirit alone does not win wars. Discipline does. Technique does. Legacy does."

His words carried the weight of centuries, of battlefields littered with bones, of wars decided not by passion but by cold, methodical slaughter. He wasn't just speaking to me—he was invoking the name of Ares himself, declaring that he was the embodiment of war's eternal discipline.

But I didn't falter. I tilted Muramasa, letting the black lightning flare brighter, arcs snapping out to scar the air."Maybe," I murmured, my voice soft, but laced with a certainty that cut sharper than the blade in my hands. "But tell me, Champion… how many disciplined soldiers screamed and died under the boots of madmen who refused to play by the rules?"

For just a moment—one flicker of a heartbeat—his grin twitched. His eyes narrowed, the faintest crack in that unshakable war-mask. Then he lunged.

The earth shattered. Pavement split apart like paper under his launch, rubble spraying outward. His spear became a streak of bronze, radiant with divine flame, the embodiment of perfected lethality. Observation Grid went wild—lines splitting into a dozen trajectories, each more lethal than the last, each testing me, daring me to pick wrong.

I didn't retreat. I didn't hesitate.

Armament Core surged, thickening around my arm, fusing with Muramasa until my blade wasn't steel anymore but an extension of my spirit itself. The black sheen writhed across its surface like a living organism, feeding on my willpower, resonating with Conqueror's Authority.

His spear came for my chest. Muramasa answered on instinct.

The clash cracked the air like thunder. A shockwave blasted outward, hurling zealots into the air like ragdolls, flattening grass, and bowing trees. Sparks of divine bronze scattered like fireworks, clashing against tendrils of black lightning.

He pressed forward, a storm of precision. His spear spun, thrust, slashed, and pivoted, every strike part of a deadly dance perfected over ages of slaughter. Each motion was poetry—disciplined, exact, merciless. I could almost admire it. Almost.

Muramasa howled with each interception, cursed steel screaming as it collided with divine bronze. My body burned under the sheer weight of his technique, but my grin never faded. Because each clash wasn't just a defence—it was an assertion. A declaration.

My Conqueror's Will rippled outward, infecting the rhythm. It wasn't just pressure anymore—it was disruption. His precise dance began to falter, microscopic shifts forced by the weight pressing down on his soul. The battlefield itself bent to my will; the air warped, the grass trembled, the night grew thick with static.

The zealots groaned, some collapsing outright. Artemis, silver eyes locked on me, flinched—not in fear, but in recognition. Even she, a goddess born and raised in Olympus, felt the truth echoing through the park. The Champion wasn't dictating this fight anymore. I was.

Still, his grin widened, and I caught the fire in his gaze. Not amusement now—acknowledgement."You fight like a beast," he spat between strikes, spear cleaving arcs of bronze fire through the night. "Clumsy. Untamed. But unyielding. Tell me, Prince—how long can your flame last before it burns you alive?"

Our blades locked again, sparks and lightning exploding between us. Our faces hovered close, crimson against violet, eyes burning.

I bared my teeth in a feral grin."Long enough to drag you into the fire with me."

The impact hurled us both backwards. Pavement cracked, fragments showering the ground as we steadied ourselves. He twirled his spear, crimson eyes blazing with exhilaration now, no longer mocking, no longer superior.

For the first time, the Champion of Ares wasn't smiling because he was amused. He was smiling because he had found a worthy predator.

Central Park wasn't a battleground anymore. It was a hunting ground. And only one of us was walking out as the apex.

The night pulsed with black lightning and divine flame, reality itself trembling under the collision of authority and war.

And this was only the beginning.

I could feel Zera behind me, wanting nothing but to finish this before I could get hurt.

Her storm flared, violet arcs spitting through the park like cracks in reality itself. I felt her impatience gnawing at the edges of my aura, a beast caged too long, desperate to rip and tear.

"Darling," Zera's voice was a whisper, a promise, "one word… and I'll erase him."

I didn't look back. Couldn't. My eyes were locked on the Champion, his chest rising slow and steady, each breath like a war drum, each exhale steaming in the night air. His grin was sharp now, no longer mocking but sharpened with hunger. He wanted me, not her. That much was clear.

"No," I said, my voice low but absolute, every syllable layered with Conqueror's weight. "This is mine."

Muramasa pulsed in my hand, venom slick on its cursed edge, black lightning dancing down the blade in jagged arcs. The Replica was feeding—on me, on the Champion, on the war itself. Every second that passed, the Malice effect deepened, the cursed steel hungrier, sharper.

The Champion twirled his spear once more, bronze light spilling in radiant halos across the shattered pavement. "Good," he rumbled, lowering into his stance, spearhead pointed straight at my throat. "Then don't die too quickly."

The ground trembled. And then—he vanished.

Observation Grid flared, a dozen afterimages screaming across my vision, trajectories slicing through the air with surgical precision. I spun, Muramasa carving through one—then two—arcs of divine light, the blade shrieking with venomous hunger as it bit the air.

But the real strike—ah, there.

I shifted, Armament Core hardening across my arm, Muramasa raised in perfect synchronicity with the spear. Bronze met black steel, and the collision detonated like a bomb.

Shockwaves ripped through the park, trees toppling, benches shattering into splinters. Zealots screamed, some crushed outright beneath the invisible gravity of our clash. Artemis braced herself, divine bow shielding her from the storm, silver eyes wide, not with fear—recognition.

She knew. She understood.

This wasn't war anymore. This was dominance.

The Champion pushed, muscles straining, divine energy flooding into his spear. Sparks flared, bronze fire clawing against the black arcs writhing across Muramasa. "You're strong," he growled, teeth bared. "But strength without mastery is wasted."

I leaned closer, lips curling in a grin sharp enough to cut. "Then let me show you… How wasteful I can be."

And I pushed back.

The black lightning roared, spiralling from Muramasa like a storm unchained. The Champion staggered a step, just one, but enough. Enough to feel the tremor ripple through his stance, enough for his crimson eyes to flicker with the truth he didn't want to admit.

He wasn't dictating the pace anymore.

I was.

Zera's storm howled behind me, violet arcs weaving into mine, amplifying the chaos until the park itself felt alive, vibrating under the weight of colliding authorities. Grass bent, pavement cracked, water from the lake rippled violently, as if nature itself bowed beneath the pressure.

The Champion lunged again, faster this time, spear splitting the air in a blur of bronze afterimages. But Observation Grid sang, threads lighting up like constellations, each movement predicted, each opening revealed.

I moved.

Muramasa's cursed edge slashed across the night, black venom trailing like comet tails. The blade scraped his armour, not piercing yet—but enough. Enough to leave a smear of venom seared into divine bronze, sizzling, hissing, spreading.

His eyes widened. Not in pain—no, not yet—but in realisation. The venom was already threading through his armour, crawling like a parasite, eating away at vitality and regeneration alike. Even a Champion, even an avatar forged from Ares's war-furnace, couldn't ignore that creeping corruption.

"You—!" His voice was a thunderclap, half snarl, half disbelief.

I didn't let him finish. Muramasa sang again, black lightning and venom coiling in tandem, each swing heavier, sharper. The Replica was evolving mid-battle, the Malice effect stacking like a drumbeat of inevitability. Every second dragged him closer to disadvantage.

He stepped back, spear spinning to carve a defensive halo of bronze fire, severing the air with disciplined arcs. But the rhythm was broken. My Conqueror's Will pressed down harder, oppressive, suffocating. His technique wasn't flawless anymore—tiny hesitations bled into his form, and Observation Grid drank them in, marking openings like constellations etched across the battlefield.

I lunged.

Muramasa's venom-tipped edge scraped against his cheek, drawing a line of crimson that hissed as poison sank in. For the first time, the Champion of Ares bled.

The grin on my face widened, feral, unyielding.

"Looks like your discipline isn't immune to rot," I whispered.

And in that moment—his war mask cracked.

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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