The air between them had become unbearably dense, as though the entire forest sensed the clash that was about to unfold. The night stretched above them like a black tapestry, and the only source of light was the soft, cold glow of the moon slipping through the branches. Even so, it was enough for both figures to see each other clearly. Two silhouettes stood facing one another—one calm, one eager, and both carrying an aura that did not belong to ordinary men.

Allen's lips curled into a sharp, excited smile. There was no malice in that grin—no cruelty, no arrogance—just pure anticipation, the kind a predator felt when it finally encountered prey worth devouring. Something about this human stirred ancient memories inside him, faint echoes of a time when he had fought beings with pure, untainted souls. Yoruichi's aura felt similar—clean in a way that was unsettling. Not holy, but honest. Not bright, but painfully steady. It was an aura Allen had not encountered in centuries, and it made his heart beat faster.

Yoruichi, however, displayed no reaction. His posture remained tranquil, his expression unreadable, his breathing as even as the wind that rustled the leaves. There was no fear in his eyes, no aggression either—just a cold, almost frightening awareness. And then, without any warning, without even the slightest shift in the air, he vanished.

Allen's eyes widened. He did not blink. He did not hesitate. Yet Yoruichi was simply gone.

A presence appeared behind him.

Allen's instincts roared, and he spun around with supernatural speed, swinging his claw to intercept whatever approached. Steel met demonic flesh with a burst of sparks. The force of the clash pushed Allen back a single step, and in that single step he realized something was profoundly wrong. Yoruichi's sword carried a sensation he could not immediately interpret. It was not magic. It was not demonic. It was something far more dangerous—discipline forged into steel.

Allen's smile faded into seriousness. His posture changed, shifting from curiosity to true combat intent. Dark mist seeped from his skin like smoke from a dying star, and the puppet he had summoned earlier disintegrated behind him. In its place emerged his true weapon—a massive, blackened claw, twisted and sharpened by demonic essence, large enough to tear open the earth itself. With a roar, Allen lunged forward, unleashing a flurry of strikes that tore through the night like storms.

But Yoruichi blocked them all.

There was no dramatic flourish in his movements—no wasted strength, no exaggerated footwork, no unnecessary sparks of power. Every motion was clean, minimal, and impossibly precise. Allen slashed with the ferocity of a monster born for war, yet Yoruichi parried with the calmness of a man slicing vegetables in a kitchen. It was almost insulting. A mere human—matching him blow for blow.

Even if Allen was holding back some of his true power, even if he believed humans were weak, this should not have been possible. And yet it was happening. The forest trembled under Allen's strength, but Yoruichi remained unaffected, as though the battlefield itself bent to his rhythm.

Allen's eyes narrowed as he watched the movement of Yoruichi's sword. There was something in the way the blade breathed—yes, breathed—almost as if it carried a will of its own. A faint pressure rippled through the air every time the edge shifted, and Allen felt his instincts coil like a threatened beast. His voice came out low, almost unwilling.

"The Will of the Sword… How did you obtain that?"

Yoruichi gave no answer. His silence was not arrogance; it was genuine ignorance. He did not understand the term Allen used, nor did he recognize the frightening potential sleeping inside his blade. The only thing he understood—deep in his bones, deeper than memory—was that this sword was the only weapon in existence that could kill Allen. And Allen knew it too. That realization alone planted something unfamiliar inside the demon's chest.

Fear.

Yoruichi moved before the emotion fully formed. His body blurred like a streak of moonlight, his sword angled to end the fight in a single stroke. Allen twisted at the last possible heartbeat, narrowly avoiding the slash, his own claws swinging in retaliation. In an instant, the quiet forest erupted. Stones shattered, tree trunks split like paper, and the earth trembled beneath the relentless exchange of blows. Every clash carved another scar into the landscape, yet neither fighter slowed.

Then Allen decided to stop playing.

A surge of demonic pressure flooded the area as he raised his arm, dark veins crawling across his skin like living shadows.

"Dark Beam."

The air distorted. A column of darkness—hotter than molten metal, denser than compressed lava—erupted from his palm and tore toward Yoruichi like a screaming star. Anything it touched melted, burned, or simply ceased to exist. It was a technique feared even among demons.

Yoruichi stepped into the attack.

His blade lifted—calmly, without hesitation—and met the infernal beam head-on. Sparks of black fire scattered around him, but his stance didn't waver. Instead of fighting the force, he allowed his breathing to deepen, slow, and connect with something older than his bloodline. Allen watched with disbelief as the sword began to hum—not magically, but spiritually.

It clicked in Allen's mind.

Aura Blade.

A technique reserved for Eden soldiers. A technique only the elite were permitted to learn. A technique that allowed a swordsman to pour their very spirit into a weapon and elevate each slash into devastation.

A human using it was absurd. Unacceptable. Impossible.

Which was why Allen attacked without waiting another second. He lunged, claws wide, intending to kill Yoruichi before the technique completed—

But Yoruichi opened his eyes.

They were glowing. Pure gold, bright enough to reflect across the entire forest. His sword responded, its blade bathing in the same divine radiance. The world seemed to inhale, freezing for a breath that felt long enough to swallow time.

Then Yoruichi moved.

A single slash.

The world answered.

Allen didn't even feel pain at first—just an overwhelming force that tore through land, sky, and atmosphere. The explosion of light was so immense that for an instant, Japan believed the sun had erupted. Trees vanished. Stones disintegrated. Caves collapsed. Birds and animals were hurled like dust in a storm. Even the clouds above were shredded by the shockwave.

When it finally ended, an area of one and a half kilometers had been erased from existence—nothing left but scorched earth and silence.

And at the center of the devastation stood one man.

Yoruichi.

His golden eyes fading back to black.

His sword humming quietly in his hand.

The moonlight returned, touching him like a blessing—though none who saw him that night would ever mistake him for a man being blessed.

He looked like the one delivering judgment.

Yoruichi searched the field with trembling eyes, trying to sense even the faintest trace of Allen's presence, but all he found was emptiness—an unnatural stillness that swallowed the forest whole. His breath finally escaped him in a long, exhausted sigh as his knees buckled. He fell forward, one hand sinking into the dirt to steady himself.

Blood dripped from his leg, staining the soil. The wound wasn't from Allen—it was the backlash of forcing Aura Blade into existence on Japanese soil where the mana was thin, unstable, and unforgiving. Only someone who mastered perfect internal discipline could draw that technique without tearing their own body apart. Yoruichi had done it anyway. And now his muscles trembled violently, nearly refusing to obey him.

But he smiled.

A tired, gentle smile—strange for someone who had just cut a demon-king's body in half.

He imagined a future where the world no longer bent under the weight of Allen's influence. A future without demons whispering sins into mortals' ears. A future where contractors were not forced into committing evil just to feed their masters. Allen had corrupted countless humans this way—feeding off violence, crime, and tragedy. Wars, riots, killings, drug trafficking, slavery… so many of these horrors were born because Allen needed 'fuel.'

Yet the world government eventually learned to sabotage him by reforming society. They banned slavery, strengthened laws to protect women, cracked down on criminal networks, dismantled drug routes, and exposed corrupt systems. For a time, it starved Allen's power. But the Demon King always found new ways… new people to corrupt… new sins to devour.

Not anymore.

Not if Yoruichi's final slash truly ended him.

"So this is… peace…" he whispered to himself, eyes softening.

But then—

A low, chilling chuckle rolled across the barren field.

Yoruichi froze. His heart punched against his ribs as he forced his head upward. At first, he saw only moonlight… and then he saw a shadow descending. A shape falling slowly from the sky.

Allen.

Bruised, burned, bleeding—but very much alive. He landed with a dull thud, dragging behind him his puppet master, the mafia contractor he controlled like a toy. The puppet's limbs dangled lifelessly, but Allen dropped him with casual irritation, as if annoyed the fight wasn't over.

Then he began humming.

No—singing.

"You think the devil was gone—so did I…

But I was flying above the sky…

Hide, survive from your fight…

Catch you by surprise…"

He laughed between lines, the sound warped and unhinged, echoing across the ruined earth like a nursery rhyme twisted by a nightmare. Yoruichi tried to rise, but his body refused. He could barely lift his head when Allen's claw wrapped around his skull, fingers digging into his scalp.

"Do you really think you've caught me off guard?" Allen asked, laughter echoing between the ancient trees. His voice carried amusement, yet there was a glint of danger layered beneath.

Yoruichi didn't answer.

He stood still, sword lowered, breathing steady.

But his eyes overflowed with disappointment—toward himself.

Allen noticed the expression and tilted his head.

Yoruichi whispered, "Tch… I let you land the first strike. That alone is shameful."

Blood dripped from Allen's arm—thick, dark, almost glowing. The cut was shallow, but real.

Allen glanced at it with mild surprise.

"…Impressive," he murmured. "I haven't bled in a thousand years."

His smile widened, fangs visible. "Be grateful, samurai. You've forced the Demon King to bleed as a mortal. That alone is worthy of recognition."

Yoruichi finally cracked a faint smile.

"I knew you were strong long ago," he said quietly. "Yet you were kind to me. Kinder than a demon should ever be. I suppose… you weren't as terrible as the world believed."

Allen's expression darkened.

"Kind?" He chuckled. "No. I was curious. Your sword technique fascinated me. I only spared you because I wanted to learn more."

His eyes narrowed, glowing a deep crimson.

"Now tell me," Allen continued, voice dropping into a dangerous whisper, "how did you come back here…

warrior from Eden?"

The forest froze.

Even the stars seemed to dim at that word.

Yoruichi tightened his grip on the holy blade as its faint radiance pulsed brighter with every heartbeat. His arms trembled—not from fear, but from the aftershock of the strike he had landed moments ago. He lifted his gaze and met Allen's eyes without flinching.

"What are you talking about… Eden? Aura Blade?" Yoruichi's voice wavered, but his stance remained firm.

Allen's expression darkened, rage twisting across his face.

"Tell me, Yoruichi. How did you learn the Aura Blade? Who taught you?"

"You want answers?" Yoruichi said coldly. "Figure it out yourself, demon."

Allen snarled, the forest trembling around him.

"If you tell me honestly, I may spare your life."

Yoruichi let out a breath—a soft, almost tired laugh.

"I don't need your mercy, Demon King. My role is already complete. Fate was written the moment I came here."

Allen stepped forward, voice sharp.

"Then tell me how you opened the portal… which Hero Kingdom sent you? How did a warrior from Eden enter this world?"

But Yoruichi remained silent.

He had lived long enough to understand one thing: a demon who desperately wanted answers would hesitate. And hesitation meant time. Time for the one person he wanted to protect.

He sensed it—a faint presence watching from far behind the trees.

He narrowed his eyes, turning ever so slightly.

On an old cedar tree, a tiny figure clung to the bark, trembling.

His daughter.

She was barely eight years old, yet she had followed him here… watching her father fall. Her small shoulders shook with quiet sobs, but her eyes—her eyes burned with the same rage he once carried when he first picked up a sword to slay demons.

Yoruichi's heart tightened.

He whispered into the glow of his blade, so soft only the sword could hear:

"Will of the sword… guide my daughter to end this demon, and protect my daughter, Ayaka."

The holy weapon answered him with a faint, sacred hum.

He looked back at Allen. Whatever Allen had said about Eden, about portals, about forbidden techniques—it had shaken him. There was fear in the Demon King's eyes, buried deep, but unmistakable.

Yoruichi's lips curled into a small, almost peaceful smile.

"This is enough," he murmured, lowering his guard—not in defeat, but in acceptance.

And with that, he surrendered himself to fate.

"Do you have any last wish?" Allen asked, voice calm, almost kind—like he was offering mercy to a dying friend.

Yoruichi didn't tremble. He didn't beg. His voice remained quiet, steady, almost amused.

"You should've looked at my sword… idiot."

And with the last of his strength, he threw his sword.

Allen instinctively thought he was aiming for the mafia puppet—but he was wrong.

The blade flew past them, spinning through the air before embedding itself deep into a distant tree. Yoruichi's eyes softened as he whispered his final words, not to Allen… but to someone far away.

"Daddy always loves you, Ayaka… Be strong."

Allen crushed his skull.

The sound was wet, final, absolute. The body of Japan's strongest samurai demon slayer fell limp, ending the legacy of Kisaragi Yoruichi.

For a moment, Allen simply stared at the corpse he held. Confusion flickered across his face. Then—a scream tore from his throat, raw and furious. He had expected this man to be from Eden… some divine warrior, some celestial soldier… something he could understand.

But no.

Yoruichi was nothing more than a human.

A normal human.

A rare human who somehow learned Aura Blade—something even demons feared.

And Allen realized, too late, that he had just killed one of the rarest treasures in existence.

Not because he wanted to…

But because he had to.

And that reality infuriated him.

Allen wiped the blood from his claws, irritation flickering across his face. The thrill of victory faded quickly, replaced by a nagging thought—Yoruichi's final words.

"You should've seen my sword… idiot."

Allen's eyes narrowed. He replayed the moment in his mind, the arc of the blade, the direction it flew, the strange confidence in the samurai's dying voice.

Then it clicked.

The Will of Sword.

A rare, forbidden smithing technique—one that allowed the sword to carry the user's final wish. The blade would seek the next rightful wielder, someone who would inherit the owner's hatred… and complete the unfinished kill.

Allen's expression darkened.

"Will of Sword… so that's what you meant," he muttered.

And then another realization struck him—Yoruichi's last whisper:

"Daddy always loves you, Ayaka… Be strong."

Someone had heard it.

Someone was watching.

A chill ran down Allen's spine. He turned sharply toward the tree where the sword had landed and launched himself forward, tearing through the forest in seconds.

When he arrived, he stopped cold.

A small girl—no older than eight—stood at the base of the tree, clutching the glowing sword with trembling hands. Her cheeks were soaked in tears. She hiccupped between sobs, staring blankly at the ground where her father had fallen.

She must have followed him into the forest.

She must have seen everything.

The moment Allen landed in front of her, her body stiffened. She felt it—the demonic pressure crushing the air around her. But even through her fear, the sword moved her hand, lifting her tiny arm into a stance far too refined for a child.

She didn't want to attack.

But the sword did.

The Will of Sword reacted to the presence of its target—the demon who killed its master.

Allen tilted his head, amused despite himself.

"So… this is the successor," he murmured, smirking. "An eight-year-old girl."

He raised his claw, preparing to end her life with a single strike.

The girl's knees trembled, tears spilling freely, but she didn't run. She screamed through the shaking in her throat:

"I—I will kill you, demon!"

She dashed toward him with reckless courage, guided by the blade, not by her strength. Her fear turned into rage, her grief into fire.

For a split second, Allen was genuinely impressed.

But he still moved to crush her.

Then—he stopped.

His claw froze inches from her head.

A faint vibration trembled through the air. Allen recognized it immediately—the sensation of an approaching presence, one he knew far too well.

"Tch… Libesus Agency," he clicked his tongue. "Those troublesome dogs again."

He stepped back, annoyance twisting his features.

He looked down at the girl—this tiny, fragile creature holding a sword far too heavy for her small hands—and smiled with slow, terrifying delight.

"Well then, little Ayaka… survive," he whispered. "Grow strong. Find me one day… and I'll kill you the same way I killed your father."

The girl screamed after him, voice cracking with fury and heartbreak.

"Don't run away, demon!

I'll kill you! I swear I'll kill you one day!"

Her vow echoed through the forest, but Allen was already gone—vanishing into the night as Libesus agents rushed toward the clearing.

He would remember her face.

He would remember the sword.

Because the blade now lodged in his chest—years later—was the same one he saw in that little girl's trembling hands.

Will of Sword.

The blade that always finds its target.

And its current wielder was no longer a child.

She had grown.

She had come for him.

"That little girl… became strong enough to kill me? Kisaragi Yoruichi daughter…" Allen chuckled weakly. "I never expected this, you will be there kisaragi Ayaka or I say Fiona ."

His body glowed brighter, fragments drifting upward like embers from a dying fire. Leaders across nations watched in stunned silence. Even the soldiers who had pretended to be dead lifted their heads, witnessing the end of the Demon King—an era closing.

As he dissolved into golden dust, Allen whispered something no one could understand.

"My role is done… I hope I played it well."

His final smile lingered for a heartbeat before his entire body vanished, leaving behind only the fallen broken holy sword only the Balde was remained —an artifact destined to become legend.

A legacy.

A story that generations would read in novels and watch in anime.

And the battlefield… finally fell silent.

The world erupted in celebration.

For the first time in two thousand years, the great terror—Allen Manster—was gone.

Government leaders stood on their podiums with trembling smiles.

Agencies cheered, soldiers wept, and the crowds outside roared as history rewrote itself in golden letters.

The end of an era.

The birth of a new age.

But amidst the thunder of victory…

Sara Venom couldn't breathe.

While everyone around her cried with joy, embraced loved ones, or shouted Allen's name in triumph, she stood frozen, her hands shaking violently.

Her voice trembled as she whispered to herself, unheard by all the celebrating humans:

"W-What… what did I just do…?"

Her legs nearly gave out.

She grabbed her head, fingers digging into her scalp as if trying to stop her own thoughts from tearing her apart.

This wasn't pride.

This wasn't victory.

This was fear.

Because only Sara understood the gravity of the mistake.

Only she knew Yuuta's condition, the terrifying truth hidden deep inside him—his spiritual bond with Allen. If the Demon King died… if that connection snapped abruptly…

Yuuta would feel pain beyond imagination.

Pain capable of killing him instantly.

And worse—

Erza.

The thought of Erza finding out that Fiona had delivered the killing blow, that the original plan had shattered… that Yuuta might die from the backlash…

Sara felt her stomach twist.

"What should I do…? What do I even say…? How do I fix this…?" she whispered, voice cracking. "Erza will destroy me… she'll destroy the world if she loses him…"

Her body trembled as the cheers around her felt more and more distant—like she was sinking underwater while everyone else floated above, celebrating a victory she prayed wouldn't turn into a tragedy.

Meanwhile — Kounari Residence

(Yuuta POV)

I stood at the doorway, staring at my little family—Erza and Elena—bathed in the warm glow of our home.

I wanted to step inside.

I wanted to smile.

But something… something strange pressed against my chest.

A weight.

A cold shiver running down my spine.

My knees buckled.

I dropped to the floor in front of Erza before I could even understand what was happening.

"Yuuta?"

Erza's voice sharpened instantly. "What's wrong?"

I tried to speak, but my breath hitched.

A pain—sharp, distant, impossible to describe—cut through my soul like invisible claws.

I swallowed, clutching my chest, staring at Erza as fear crawled up my throat.

"This feeling… Erza… what is… this?"

Her eyes widened.

And then I understood—

Something was terribly, horribly wrong.

---

To be continued…

End of Chapter

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