A Life Kept Simple (DxD/Hentai Chaos Gacha OC-SI) — Chapter 36 (Patreon)

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Murata

“Mary Naamah’s Queen has been retired.”

Murata almost tripped over his own feet.

“Mary Naamah’s Rook has been retired.”

“Leona?! Saki?!”

“Murata!” Seto barked out a warning. He threw himself down. A lance of blue fire ripped through the space his head had occupied, taking a chunk out of the ridge behind him. Murata hit the dirt and kept moving, scrambling after Seto as another explosion went off somewhere to his right. They’d been running from Coriana Andrealphus for what felt like fucking forever.

The blonde Bishop floated high above the ridge, wings spread behind her as dozens of glowing circles filled the air. She was nice enough about it, and it didn’t hurt that she was pretty, with long blonde hair and purple eyes. Not that it mattered when fire, lightning, ice, wind, and fucking everything had been raining down on them since they’d rushed up the mountain and into her line of fire. Though mostly at Seto. A bolt of magic lightning came down, and Seto juked left. The ground exploded behind him.

Murata laughed madly. “Why does she hate you so much?!”

“Would you rather this were you?” he said exasperatedly, pushing the glasses up his nose. “Besides, last I checked, you can’t do this.”

Seto spun around, stretching an arm out and tugging on the air with the other. Water condensed into an arrow between his fingers, and the spectral bow formed afterwards as he took aim. Coriana banked sideways, but the arrow curved after her. She raised a hand, blasting it apart with fire.

“See?” his friend said.

“Yeah, alright!”

Murata couldn’t do shit at this range. He’d spent the month and a bit since becoming a devil focusing entirely on figuring out touki. When Arima asked if he wanted to cheat via Waterbending, he’d refused. Initially out of pride. He wanted this to be the one thing he didn’t have to rely on anyone for. Secondly, though, it required him to spend time contributing to the Covenant, which wasn’t a bad thing. Murata liked helping people. But that was less time spent on figuring out his base of life. And what did he have to show for it? Seto was further along the path than he was. All thanks to taking the offer to acquire Waterbending.

Though that wasn’t why Coriana had been targeting him. Of the two of them, Seto was the mage. Murata preferred punching, and while magic was cool, he’d put his all into learning touki… which wasn’t exactly paying dividends right now. She’d figured that out within about thirty seconds and had been trying to erase Seto from existence ever since.

A dozen bolts of light appeared around Coriana.

“Oh, fuck!” Both boys dropped. The ridge disappeared. Murata covered his head as rock and dirt rained over him. Seto landed beside him. It was too dusty to see much else besides him, but his friend was about as out of breath as him. His clothes were torn, there was blood running down one side of his face, and his bow arm was shaking.

“I-I’ve got a plan,” Seto huffed out between breaths.

Murata struggled to his feet. “Is it a good one?”

“...No.”

“Great.”

Another magical circle appeared overhead as the dust cleared, forcing them to move. Seto caught Murata’s shoulder as they ran. “She’s going for me.”

“No shit!”

“So let her.”

Murata looked at him as they sprinted away from a wave of wind meant to clear the dust, with a side effect of catching them in its gale. Seto pointed ahead. The ridge curved around into a narrow stretch of rock, with forest on one side and a sheer drop on the other. They booked it to the forest, hiding behind the tree cover. It wouldn’t buy them much time, seeing that Coriana could still sense them, but they weren’t trying to run.

“I run out first; she follows me. You go around.”

“Then what?” Murata asked.

“Hit her.”

“...That’s your plan?”

“What?” Seto pushed his glasses up his nose before they fell. “You’ve got a better one?”

Murata looked away sheepishly in time to spot the fireball bursting through the ridge. They ran further into the forest, looking back every so often.

“If we keep running, Misteeta will catch up eventually,” Seto said. “Then it’s really over for us.”

Murata grimaced. Right, because Leona and Saki were gone. One Bishop was already too much. As he was now, Murata was mid-class, but he still had Possessing Spirit in his pocket. He’d been using it, but given the damage it did to his body, opted to turn it off rather than burn through Seto’s magical energy to heal him through Waterbending.

Seto wiped the blood from his cheek with his sleeve. “I’ll get her low. You wait until I give you the signal and go as hard as you can.”

“What signal?”

“...Probably my elimination.”

“The fuck? That’s not a signal!”

“It’s good enough. Besides, I’ve got less than a third of my magical energy. Murata, I’m spent. I dunno how long Arima needs, but I’ve done my part. If this goes well, we’ll be able to eliminate Coriana, whatever her last name is.”

“What about the other Bishop? I bet both my balls he’s coming to find us!”

Seto gave him a dry look. “...You know this is televised, right? Guess how many people heard you stake both your testicles.”

“We’ve got bigger fish to fry, man!” Another volley was coming.

“Look, I’m not looking to get eliminated,” Seto said, as they pivoted and ran towards the right, rather than just deeper into the forest. “There’s just a decent chance I might, because she’s going after me.”

Fuck it. It was better than any plan Murata could come up with.

Lightning screamed through the forest, and the two of them split in different directions. Leathery wings burst out of Seto’s back as he took flight, while Murata kept to the ground, watching. Coriana immediately turned as he rose to meet her, turning her spellfire onto him. Murata dropped behind what remained of the ridge and ran, feeling like shit. Liban’s gravity had fucked him up before this fight had even properly started, and Coriana had spent the rest of it making sure he didn’t get a chance to recover. Murata could feel his heartbeat everywhere. In his chest, his neck, behind his eyes. If he pushed it further, he could tap into Possessing Spirit and bump himself up to high-class, but he had to time it.

In the worst case, there’d be no Seto to heal him if things went horribly wrong.

As he glanced up, Coriana came back into view while Seto was flying around like a maniac, letting loose volleys of elemental arrows without any care for reserving his magical energy. Coriana knocked the arrows aside while Seto charged up what had to be his final move. Water gathered around the bow into an aura as it streamed in, born of not just his own magical energy but also the water discarded in the battle so far. Coriana and Seto’s spells, as well as the moisture in the aura following the clashes between fire and water.

It all gathered  around Seto until it looked like he was holding half a river against the string. He drew back his bow, and the water froze into a vast icy spear.

That had to have been the signal, but just so there was no mistake, Seto yelled, “NOW!”

Wings burst out of Murata’s back, his heart beating harder than ever before. Heat, built up within it, spread to his skin, and his vision tunneled as Seto loosed the arrow and Coriana fired her magic at it, shaving it down with each volley. She fired a fireball as large as the icy spear, melting it and swallowing Seto in an explosion.

“Mary Naamah’s Bishop has been retired.”

Murata burst out of the smoke, bringing all his magical energy to bear. At this range, Coriana was forced to block. His fist smashed into both of her arms. The impact threw her backwards but not far enough, and she recovered almost immediately, thrusting one hand towards him.

Murata ducked underneath a blast of fire, feeling it warm the crown of his head, and came flying in again. A blast of wind caught him in the chest and sent him straight back down. Murata hit the ground shoulder-first, feeling something pop inside his shoulder. Still, he had to roll, or otherwise eat the lightning descending where he’d been. His right arm hung uselessly as he stood and took flight once more. Coriana aimed, another spell charged, this time of the earth variety.

…Seto had done all that for this, getting himself eliminated without Murata landing a significant hit. Murata threw himself aside. Fire washed past him, but he banked left to avoid it. His heart roared like an engine as he pushed past Second Gear. Possessing Spirit pushed blood through him faster than it had any right to move. His skin burned and his vision narrowed even more.

Still, he needed more of everything: strength, speed, something, anything. Without leverage, his punches lacked the bite they’d have on the ground, but he couldn’t just let her pelt him with spells. He reached deeper into the well of his energy, blood roaring in his ears, and found more. Murata didn’t know what it was. It spread out of somewhere deep inside him, flooding through his legs, his torso, and down his one working arm. When he brought his arm back, it felt like he was tugging on the wind itself, making his eyes widen. Coriana hurled a shower of icicles down at him while Murata roared and swung.

The icicles shattered upon the speartip of his fist. He ploughed through her hastily raised defence and folded her over. The air burst, and she swiftly disappeared. Murata hung in the air, looking at himself. His demonic power, when visible, took on a reddish hue… but now it was more pink, threaded with something more than just magical energy.

Murata coughed up blood, the backlash from pushing Possessing Gear far past the advised level finally coming due. The overflowing power vanished, and he plummeted. The only thing stopping him from splatting on the ground and taking himself out was his wings, beating the air feebly to slow his fall. He immediately tipped over once his feet hit the ground, throbbing from head to toe. Whatever he’d just done was gone… as was everything else he had left in the tank.

“C-Come on…!” His fingers twitched against the upturned earth.

Footsteps approached, and he slowly but surely forced his head up. Coriana looked awful. Her clothes were shredded around her stomach. Blood ran from her mouth, and one hand was pressed against where he’d punched her, but she was standing, and he was not.

Murata laughed weakly. “You guys are bullshit.”

“That was touki.” Coriana wiped her mouth. “I-I didn’t expect you knew how to use it.”

Murata blinked. “I-I did it? Fucking finally!”

“Wait, you just learned to tap into it right now?!” She shook her head bemusedly. “...Damn those elders and their petty maliciousness.”

“Without you, I wouldn’t have been pushed far enough to learn it.” Despite feeling guilty that he couldn’t take her out and make something of Seto’s sacrifice, he hadn’t wasted it either. He certainly wouldn’t lose again. The first thing he’d do after this would be learning magic.

“Still, I’m really sorry…”

“This sucks but… thanks!” Murata grinned at her, but with the blood in his mouth, he probably looked crazy… which he kind of was. “Tell you what, if you feel so bad, how about you go out on a date with me to make up for this shit?”

Coriana blushed. “Y-You’re seriously asking me out in the middle of a Rating Game?!”

“Why not? Might as well shoot my shot. So?”

“Sure,” she said, shaking her head with a giggle. “Don’t think I’m not gonna eliminate you just because you’re cute.”

“Lay it on me!” Murata was laughing, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t frustrated at the loss. All things considered, though, this wasn’t the worst way to go out. He closed his eyes, feeling the light of her magic circle flare against his eyelids, and prepared himself for the inevitable.

“Sairaorg Bael’s Bishop has been retired.”

Murata’s eyes widened to find Coriana still there.

“Misteeta?” she muttered with a frown. Her head had turned, and she wasn’t looking at him. Murata’s arm trembled against the ground in an attempt to rise and maybe book it. 

“Come on, you useless fucking—”

Coriana looked back, and the opening vanished.

He let his head drop. “...Fuck.”

She gave him a tight-lipped smile and readied her spell once more. The magic circle flared again, and he closed his eyes, feeling a heat wash over him. Demonic power followed, making his skin prickle.

“Sairaorg Bael’s Bishop has been retired.”

Coriana disappeared in blue light that he barely missed. Ibaraki appeared in the light behind her, looking over her shoulder. “Oh. You yet live.”

“Was that you?”

Ibaraki frowned. “Obviously. Who else would I be but myself?”

“No, I mean before! The mountain! The fucking sky!”

“Ah! You witnessed my great technique?” Her expression brightened immediately. Ibaraki barely had time to turn before an invisible Mary pulled the cloak off herself, looking very, very angry by the looks of it.

“You absolute fucking lunatic!”

“What? I told you to begone.”

“You nearly caught me in your calamity!”

“And yet you remain unharmed.” Ibaraki crossed her arms.

Murata looked between them. “That really was you? I… didn’t know you were that strong.”

“You appear impressed.”

“...I am.”

Ibaraki grinned, hands on her hips.

“Seto got Coriana occupied enough for me to hit her,” Murata said. “Then I tapped into my life energy and used touki...”

Mary’s wings folded as she landed properly. “We can figure that out later. Miyata’s still in. Come on. We ought to see if he needs help.”

Murata stared at her.

“My arm’s fucked, I’m out of magical energy, and you want me to come help Miyata?”

“Oh! Wait just a sec.” She fished inside her pockets, pulling out a vial of blood-red liquid. “Here. Phoenix Tears. Saki and Leona got eliminated before I made it there, and with Seto out, why not use it on you?”

“And if Miyata needs it more than me?” It burned him to admit it, but Murata didn’t know if he could tap back into his touki right now. Miyata’s werewolf form made him about that strong without the unreliability factor.

Mary smiled. “I’ve still got one more. Drink up!”

He popped the cork and downed the blood-red liquid, feeling life return to his aching body. It was like a good night’s sleep and then some. As they flew over the forest, back down towards the plains they’d initially been teleported to, Murata immediately spotted the dragon. Ladora Buné’s brown-scaled body twisted through the air above a ruined stretch of forest. Trees had been flattened for hundreds of metres, and what little remained of the temple they’d passed earlier on their way was scattered around in chunks of white stone.

Murata squinted. “Is that… Miyata?”

“Where?” Mary followed his gaze.

“On the dragon.”

“Huh?!”

Sure enough, a grey werewolf dangled from Ladora’s neck, both clawed hands buried between his scales. The dragon twisted violently, wings beating as he tried to shake him loose. Miyata swung underneath him. Ladora’s head dipped to follow.

“What the fuck is he doing?” Murata muttered, watching Miyata swing to and fro. Watching a werewolf with leathery bat wings dangle from a man-turned-dragon was… an experience. Until Miyata hauled himself upwards with both arms, using the momentum to swing his entire body around and smash both feet into the side of Ladora’s head. The dragon’s neck snapped sideways, careening towards the ground as they both fell. Ladora hit the ground first. The ground shook hard enough that Murata felt the impact through the air. Miyata crashed down a moment later, falling below the treeline.

“Sairaorg Bael’s Rook has been retired.”

Murata grinned as they dove down.

“Mary Naamah’s Rook has been retired.”

His grin disappeared.

Mary stared down at the two patches of blue light. “Double knockout.”

Murata looked up as a gigantic crimson arm shot past them. Ibaraki rode atop it with her arms folded, rushing towards the mountaintop.

“...I wanted to slay the dragon, but I will settle for an ambush, as per the oni way!”

Mary’s wings spread. “Come on!”

“W-Wait!” Murata followed a second later, newly healed wings beating hard as he climbed after her, towards the mountaintop.

【—〄—】

Sairaorg Bael

Only recently did Sairaorg Bael come to love violence—or more accurately, combat. His first memories of violence were far from positive, owing to years of bullying in the recesses of the Bael clan’s territory. After his lack of the clan’s vaunted Destruction was clear for all to see, he was swiftly removed from the position of clan heir, replaced by his younger half-brother, Magdaran. And, with his new wife and heir to replace Sairaorg and his mother, the two were sent to the far-flung reaches of the clan’s lands, where none would contest his bullying at the hands of branch clan members.

Back in those days, he was weak-willed, weak in the heart, and most importantly, too weak to defend himself. Before his mother succumbed to Sleeping Disease, in fear for him, she made Sairaorg promise to be strong. From there, he learned to love violence. It became the crucible to forge himself into the man he promised his mother he would be. And, with that strength, perhaps he could find someone to heal her of her illness and see her smile once more.

That being said… Sairaorg wasn’t ashamed to admit that those lofty ambitions were the furthest thing on his mind right now. He laughed as the flat of Arima’s bronze blade glanced off his forearm. The sword spun with the deflection. Arima let it, turning with the weapon instead of fighting the momentum. Magic energy burst from beneath his feet and accelerated the turn, and his shield came around from the other direction. Sairaorg caught it. The marble beneath him shattered.

Arima grinned, but Sairaorg grinned wider once he buried his fist in the shield. The impact sent Arima skidding halfway across the throne room, shoes scraping twin lines through the marble. He barely came to a stop before Sairaorg was on him. Riptide thrust for his chest. Sairaorg slapped the point aside, stepped around the shield, and threw a hook. Arima ducked, and the punch carried over his head to strike one of the marble pillars behind him, turning the section to dust. Arima came up through the falling rubble and drove his forehead into Sairaorg’s face.

His nose broke. Sairaorg stumbled back, pinched it between two fingers, and snapped it straight with a pained chuckle.

“Excellent!” The bronze sword’s pommel hit him in the mouth. Arima followed with his shield. 

“You’re welcome, but I’m not gonna let you compliment me without letting me hit you first!!”

Sairaorg’s head snapped back from the pommel strike, but he managed to catch the shield by the rim, tugging on it hard. Arima came with it, unable to do anything when Sairaorg’s knee crashed into his stomach. The air left him in a grunt. Sairaorg pulled him closer for another, only for Arima to release the shield entirely and plant both feet against his chest. A stream of water erupted out the soles of his feet, blasting Sairaorg back and freeing his shield. He twisted before hitting the floor, caught himself on one hand, and sprang upright. 

Arima pointed his sword, and from its tip screamed a narrow jet of water. Sairaorg crossed both arms, drilling against his forearms while driving him back. It was so narrow, in fact, that it sprayed apart around his body, frothing white. Sairaorg pushed into it, muscles straining as he took one step, then another, bracing himself enough to punch through the stream.

The touki-infused demonic power around his fist tore the water apart. By then, Arima had already retrieved his shield, bringing it in the way of Sairaorg’s fist, launched through one of the empty thrones. Sairaorg followed through the dust, eager to press the advantage. A sword thrust pierced through the smoke. He leaned away from the point and grabbed his sword arm. Arima immediately released his blade and punched him, and Sairaorg punched back. Their fists collided, blasting out a concussive ring of magical energy that would’ve blown out any windows the room possessed, only there were none. They both flew apart, tumbling and bouncing off the marbled ground like skipped stones.

Regulus remained seated by the central throne, arms resting across his knees while the throne room steadily ceased to resemble a throne room. Sairaorg had almost forgotten about him. He’d forgotten about most things, actually.

Arima shook out his hand with a grimace, while Sairaorg did the same.

“You’re extraordinary,” Sairaorg said.

“Thanks, you too.”

Sairaorg rushed him. The shield intercepted his first punch, masking the stab beneath its gleaming surface. Sairaorg twisted away too slowly. The blade carved a smoking line across his side, sizzling the demonic flesh beneath his shirt. He answered with an elbow. Arima’s head snapped sideways, planting his foot and hiding behind his shield. It hit Sairaorg’s jaw, receding to give him the space to sweep around with his sword. Sairaorg ducked and punched him in the ribs, feeling several bones crack. Arima grunted and brought his knee up anyway. When it was caught, he hopped, using the hold as leverage for a head kick.

Stumbling, Sairaorg released him. Arima hit the floor on one hand, rolled, and sprang back to his feet. Arima’s hoodie was barely a hoodie anymore. One sleeve had been torn away completely, the front was hanging open, and blood stained the teal fabric a much darker shade around his ribs. Sairaorg had lost his shirt somewhere in the exchange. Blood ran from his mouth and several shallow cuts across his torso.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed himself this much.

“You continue to surprise me.” Sairaorg wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Even with everything I have, you’ve matched me blow for blow. To think you could use touki, too!”

“...Well, it’s not like you’ve got a monopoly on it.” Arima’s breathing steadied. Then his eyes flicked past him to Regulus.

Sairaorg laughed. “...I’d like to amend my earlier statement. Now I’m going to hit you with everything I’ve got. Apologies.”

Sairaorg looked down at his own hands. He had wanted this. For all his talk about casting aside victory and defeat, he wasn’t entirely innocent himself. He had fought seriously. But going all out? He couldn’t, because then it would end. The same applies to using touki. Of those he could call his peers, only Notus managed to fight back against it, and once he used his Balance Breaker, it ended.

And now, so would this.

“Sairaorg Bael’s Rook has been retired.”

“Mary Naamah’s Rook has been retired.”

Not long before that, Kuisha and Gandoma had both fallen. Coriana, Beluga, and Liban were gone, along with a smattering of Mary’s own peerage. Though now, the only people left now were himself, Regulus, and Misteeta—

“Sairaorg Bael’s Bishop has been retired.”

Sairaorg exhaled through his nose. That left him and Regulus, compared to Arima, his oni familiar, Mary Naamah herself, and her sole Knight. Unlike the half-devil, he did not have any contracted mages.

…And so the fun would end regardless.

Sairaorg looked at his opponent forlornly. “...My apologies.”

“For what?”

Regulus looked up, already smiling.

“My lion…. O, King of Nemea! Answer my howl and become my armour!”

Golden light swallowed the throne, and Regulus disappeared within it, turning to a torrent of light rushing towards Sairaorg as their hearts became one. Gold crashed over his body piece by piece. Greaves enclosed his legs. Armour locked around his waist and torso. Great golden pauldrons formed across his shoulders, followed by gauntlets; the face of the Nemean Lion was worked into his armoured chest. The mane erupted behind him in a great mass of blazing gold as the helmet closed around his head.

Power, of course, followed, making the damaged throne room groan beneath the weight of his existence. Arima’s hoodie whipped violently around him. He leaned into the pressure, shield raised as dust and broken marble swept past. Sairaorg closed one gauntleted fist, relishing in it. Beyond the power, the sense of unison, of their wills combined, was intoxicating.

“There’s another matter for which I owe you an apology,” Sairaorg said, clad in gold. “This Rating Game should never have been arranged for the reasons it was. The anger of the Great King faction is not yours to bear, nor your King’s.”

Arima’s expression flattened slightly. “Kind of a dick move.”

“That’s one way of putting it… but I intend to become Satan. I cannot afford to fall here for the sake of my own enjoyment.”

His opponent looked over with caution and raised his weapons once more. Arima’s skin was already reddish from whatever technique made his heart beat loudly enough that Sairaorg could hear it across the room. That red turned a dark, bloody hue. Red bled across his body until he looked horrifyingly burned, and the whites of his eyes turned a frightening black, visible even from a distance.

Sairaorg’s smile faltered.

Arima’s breathing roughened. His fingers tightened around Riptide until his knuckles cracked. He threw his head back, laughing loudly enough for it to echo through the ruined throne room. There was a slight, mad wheeze to it that set his teeth on edge, just from the tonal whiplash. The contrast between the calm, collected, but eager fighter from just moments before was off-putting.

Like he’d been possessed by some malevolent spirit…

“Why?” Arima lowered his head, still grinning. “Why does the fight have to end here?”

Sairaorg’s heart hammered as Arima vanished from view. Their fists met in the middle of the throne room, cratering the floor till they were in a hole up to their knees. Arima’s shield smashed into Sairaorg’s helmet. Sairaorg barely moved, countering with a punch that Arima managed to block. Though his shoes tore through marble to steady himself before stabbing forward. Sairaorg caught the blade, so he let the sword go and punched him in the throat.

Discarding the sword, Sairaorg stepped forward to return the blow in kind, only for that pesky shield to get in his way. Under the weight of the blow, a crack appeared on its surface. Sairaorg punched again, and the crack spread. Arima laughed madly behind it, coming forward rather than continuing to retreat. He smashed the shield into Sairaorg’s face, driving behind it, making him stumble so hard he almost missed the sword tip creeping over the shield’s top.

A torrent of water exploded against his breastplate, far less narrow than the last, but somehow more powerful due to the sheer mass. Sairaorg was carried backwards through the centre throne. He dug his heels into the marble and stopped himself amidst the rubble, cast in the throne’s grand shadow. Sairaorg glanced down, watching the shadow at his feet thicken, like the surface of some kind of stygian pool. In it, he saw two baleful yellow eyes, slitted and malevolent.

Out burst a giant snake’s head, its maw snapping shut right as Sairaorg sprang to safety. He fired a ball of demonic energy at the head before he even hit the ground, but the snake returned to the safety of the shadows. Arima stepped in to swing down, already behind him thanks to the snake.

“A friend of yours?” Sairaorg’s fist caught him across the face, spinning around completely.

“Y-You’ve got your lion, I’ve got Orochi.”

“His name is Regulus!”

To that, Arima laughed that offputting, wheezing laugh and brought his sword down once more. It hit Sairaorg across the helmet. Sairaorg answered with a straight punch, gritting his teeth as the shield came up, and committing regardless. Arima’s only visible eye widened, seeing Sairaorg’s gauntlet burst through the other side. Sairaorg ripped the broken shield off Arima’s arm and threw it aside. To his credit, he swiftly returned to the attack, aiming for his eye. But Sairaorg batted the sword aside and stepped in, hammering into Arima’s unguarded body.

He lifted up off his feet with an uppercut and smashed his boot into his once again unguarded body to send him across the destroyed throne room. Sairaorg appeared above him and brought his heel down. The floor collapsed as Arima rolled to safety. A powerful jet of water smashed into him, holding him still and filling the cratered ground to create a shallow pool, almost. Then, in a baffling move, Arima set his sword down and made a sign with his hands, grinning like a loon.

“You’re up, Nue!”

A red bird burst out of his shadow, with sparking wings. Before Sairaorg could spring away to safety, he caught Arima lifting his sword and was forced to brace against yet another pressurised jet of water. The bird screeched, buffeting its wings and letting loose two streaks of purple lightning. It veered overhead and came back once more, striking Sairaorg’s armour with waves of its lightning. Nue came around for another pass, its wings crackling with purple lightning. Sairaorg raised one arm to protect his face as the bird descended. 

Lightning struck his armour, running along its golden surface, but he reached through it and caught the bird by its neck. Its wings beat furiously, sending sparks across his helmet. Sairaorg pulled it down, raising his other fist.

Arima’s grin vanished. “Shit!”

The bird disappeared in darkness before Sairaorg could bring his fist down. He turned towards Arima, only to find the water pooled around his feet freezing solid. Ice climbed past his ankles, thickening around his greaves as Arima thrust both hands towards him. Sairaorg flexed his legs. The ice cracked.

Arima stamped, reinforcing it with the puddles of water scattered around the room. Sairaorg felt the pressure around his legs increase considerably, but he was already gathering demonic power through his body. Arima’s black eyes flicked around the room in thought. Eventually, he brought his sword up, water gathering around the tip. Sairaorg punched down. The ice shattered beneath the blow, taking a sizable chunk of the floor with it. Arima fired, but Sairaorg was already moving, twisting past the crescent water blade. He entered Arima’s range before he could bring his sword around and hit him straight in the chest, crushing his ribs even further.

Arima flew back, and Sairaorg overtook him before he could hit the wall. His fist drove into Arima’s stomach. Then his hands locked together and smashed Arima into the floor so hard that he bounced up. Yet somehow, he got one knee underneath himself and rose. Still? Sairaorg pulled him up by the hoodie, even as Arima punched him in the face over and over again. Then, when their faces lined up, he headbutted him.

“HA!” Sairaorg took the blow with a laugh and sank his fist into Arima’s stomach, watching his mouth stretch open soundlessly. The dark red tint across his skin faded a little. Letting go, Sairaorg pivoted and thrust his palm into the falling man’s chest, shaking the throne room’s very foundations.

Marble burst outwards. Arima disappeared into the far wall. The impact left a crater several metres across, Arima buried at its centre with his arms hanging loosely at either side. His sword lay at Sairaorg’s feet, discarded. His own chest rose and fell more heavily than he would’ve liked. Arima’s head lolled forwards, and the red faded from his skin completely.

“...Magnificent.” Sairaorg lowered his fists and appreciated the ache running through his body as he twisted away right as something hit him in the back.

Sairaorg’s eyes widened. He went through what remained of the central throne. First, his shoulder made contact. Gold and marble exploded around him as he rolled and caught himself. He turned to find a bronze point filling his vision. Sairaorg jerked his head aside, hearing the sword wail itself into the wall behind him, and looked up.

Arima walked towards him, tearing the strips of his hoodie and shirt off and stretching both arms wide. His smile made something in the back of Sairaorg’s mind stir. It was calmer than the mad grin he’d been wearing so far, but no less intimidating. The power rolling off him was stronger than it had been before, yet more understated. Touki and magical energy leashed tight against his skin, shimmering in the air like the summer heat. Sairaorg felt an instinctive recognition that the thing walking towards him was dangerous.

He pushed himself upright, chuckling as Arima rushed at him. His fist struck his breastplate. Sairaorg struck his cheek, but neither stopped. Sairaorg drove a knee into Arima’s stomach. Arima caught his leg, dragged him forwards, and smashed his forehead into the faceplate. Sairaorg broke the grip and hit him across the temple. Arima stumbled and came straight back, fighting without a sword or shield as he had been, yet seemed infinitely more dangerous somehow. Compared to the earlier malevolence, the unease was more understated, but no less dangerous…

Sairaorg blocked one punch and took another against the armour. Arima ducked underneath his hook and hammered his side twice. Sairaorg caught the third and threw him. He came back feet-first. Sairaorg crossed his arms as both heels hit. He skidded backwards, resetting, then Arima landed, bringing both palms together. Water was pulled from the air and forcibly melted from the ice behind them to gather between his palms.

Arima’s eyes were glassy, yet simultaneously focused as he intoned, “Piercing Flood...”

Sairaorg barely brought both arms across his face. The needle-thin beam carried him through three pillars and out into the open courtyard beyond. Sairaorg crashed down amongst the remains of the statue Beluga’s body had brought down and looked up. Arima descended upon him. Sairaorg grinned and thrust his cupped hands upwards, letting loose another ball of demonic power. Arima hit the ground and rolled beneath it, but the blast chased him through the courtyard, tearing a trench through the marble before detonating against one of the enormous statues lining the summit.

The stone god toppled. Arima jumped and landed on its falling shoulder, then he jumped again, clearing the rest of the distance between them. They engaged once more, trading blows and kicks over and over. Sairaorg’s head snapped sideways.

“More!”

Arima said nothing and hit him again, only for Sairaorg to answer with enough force to lift him from the ground. He headbutted Arima hard enough to split his forehead, but he merely fought through the downpour of blood.

Sairaorg’s grin stretched wider. “Just what are you?!”

Arima ripped his hand free and punched him in the mouth. Sairaorg tasted blood. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tired, and that only made him happier. Whatever had happened to Arima had restored him. Not healed him—the broken ribs and blood made that clear—but the exhaustion from before was simply gone. His magical energy had recovered somewhat, and he returned, powerful enough to fight back against his Balance Breaker, even if he was still losing.

Sairaorg ducked and drove into Arima’s liver. He buckled a step and leaned into an overhand punch, stumbling when Sairaorg evaded it. As if it was simply natural to him, he then stumbled around into a spinning elbow, leveraging both his momentum and wooziness for maximum efficiency.

Marvelous was the only word for this battle!

Arima flew back into the throne room following a kick from Sairaorg. Inside the thoroughly destroyed room, their fists met again. Sairaorg felt his gauntleted fist crack, even as Arima’s knuckles split on the golden armour. His fist came up underneath Arima’s chin. Sairaorg grabbed his ankle before he could fly away and swung him into the floor. Arima’s hands caught the ground on the second swing. He flipped upright and kicked him in the face.

While Sairaorg stumbled, Arima couldn’t balance his landing, his knee nearly giving out while Sairaorg found his footing and moved, sprinting into a front kick. Arima’s unconscious body struck the crater he’d already made in the far wall and stayed there.

But eagerly, he waited and waited…

Arima’s head lifted as he feebly tried to claw his way out. His body desired to continue even if his mind-body connection had been severed. Still, almost like a father watching their child stand, Sairaorg stepped forwards with hopeful eyes as the unconscious human tried to pull himself free, but his body failed him in the end.

Blue light descended to swallow him.

“Mary Naamah’s contracted mage has been retired.”

Silence fell across what remained of the throne room Sairaorg stood within, breathing heavily. Very heavily. Arima was gone. What remained was an impression of his body in the marble. Sairaorg frowned. More noticeably than anything else was the indentation from his back, tattooed upon the wall in blood and a mixture of sweat.

It was the face of a demon.

…Was he not entirely human on top of being a demigod? Sairaorg resolved to ask him following the Rating Game. He smiled and turned towards the opening overlooking the mountain.

“But first...”

There was the matter of his remaining opponents to consider, to at least repay the favour done to him by his peerage. They had let him have the fight of his life… so he would resolve their losses for them.

Sairaorg planted a foot. Purple demonic power rose up around him, he braced, only for the armour around him to glow and scatter on the wind. It broke into particles of golden light, starting at his shoulders and racing down his body. The Iron Skin of the Lion King disappeared piece by piece until Sairaorg stood bare-chested in the ruined throne room again.

Regulus materialised behind him, fallen on a knee as he heaved for air.

“I-I’m sorry, Master...”

Sairaorg stared at his body. He couldn’t maintain Balance Breaker. Arima had pushed him that far. Truly?

“Master?”

Sairaorg laughed harder, pushing his sweat-soaked locks out of his face. “...Man. What an extraordinary guy, eh, Regulus?”

Sairaorg’s head snapped up as a gigantic red fist punched through the throne room. He threw himself aside right as the arm cratered the floor. A muscle-bound oni woman jumped from atop it.

“FOUND YOU!”

Ibaraki brought her massive bone blade down. Sairaorg crossed his arms, summoning the dregs of his touki and demonic power. The impact sent him backwards, but he dug his feet into the floor and stopped. Ibaraki landed on all fours. Her detached arm shrank as it flew towards her, locking back into place with a meaty snap. She looked around with a predatory gaze as she ran her tongue along her bottom lip.

“It seems Arima succeeded in weakening you both for slaughter. Kuhaha! How oni-like of him!” Her eyes settled on Regulus as her grin became enormous. “I’ll start with the lion, then!”

Regulus forced himself to his feet, but he was beyond exhausted. The air beside Ibaraki shimmered with heat. Mary Naamah descended through the open ceiling, followed by her Knight, Murata.

“You really couldn’t wait five seconds?!” the short, red-haired half-vampire snapped.

“I have waited long enough!”

“That’s not what I—”

Sairaorg stepped in front of Regulus and raised his fists. He could sense all three clearly. Ibaraki, the oni familiar, was the strongest, though Mary Naamah wasn’t far behind. As for the Knight… Sairaorg’s eyebrows rose. The last time he’d seen him, he wasn’t able to tap into his base of life. Interesting. Seemingly, today was chock-full of surprises. Ibaraki set herself alight and rushed at him first. He ducked beneath her bone sword and jumped over Ibaraki’s return swing. Oddly, Mary Naamah hung back, entering a low stance, reeling her arms in.

His body… it struggled to obey him, momentarily, as Ibaraki’s sword came down. He wanted to bat it aside and instead had to settle for rolling away as it bit into the decimated flooring.

“Oh… Arima, I love you!” Mary laughed as she darted in. Was this his doing somehow? All these powers—summoning, control of water, a blessing from a god, the Satans’ favour, and a Greek holy sword, to boot. He was becoming more fascinated by the minute!

Mary’s fist caught his cheek as he rose. She spun and kicked him across the jaw, and he slid away. Ibaraki attacked with little care of who she hit on the way there. Of course, Mary Naamah ducked without looking, leveraging her clan’s ability to stay away. The same, however, could not be said for Mary’s Knight, who very narrowly avoided a wave of fire by jumping. Sairaorg blocked the following sword on one forearm and punched Ibaraki in the face.

Mary attacked immediately. His fist passed her nose by inches as she dodged with ease. Sairaorg attacked again, but Mary moved before he’d committed to it. His fist missed because she’d dropped flat onto her stomach. Behind him, Ibaraki roared as she soared into the air.

“...Oh.” Sairaorg looked over his shoulder.

Fire swallowed the throne room. Sairaorg crossed both arms as the flames crashed over him. Heat washed across his skin. Through his squinting eyes, he saw the broken thrones melt, and marble blacken. He couldn’t protect Regulus completely, not without risking himself and, therefore, the Rating Game. Still, when the flames abated, he turned, hoping for the best…

Blue light shone through the flames.

“Sairaorg Bael’s Pawn has been retired.”

Another flash appeared almost beside it.

“Mary Naamah’s Knight has been retired.”

The flames receded.

Ibaraki stood in the middle of the scorched throne room, bone sword resting against one shoulder.

Mary slowly turned towards her. “You eliminated Murata. He was on our side!”

“He ought to have moved.”

“Ugh! You didn’t warn him. Arima’s seriously going to have some words with you after this.”

Sairaorg laughed, despite the situation.

“...Sorry,” Mary said, looking over at him.

“No need.” He experimentally rolled one shoulder; everything hurt. “Please continue.”

Mary sighed, muttering something beneath her breath as they attacked at once. Sairaorg met Ibaraki first, seeing she was somewhat of a loose cannon. He moved inside her sword’s arc and punched her stomach. She folded slightly with a wet cough and grabbed his wrist. Nearby, Mary stomped down, using Earth magic to create a jagged point that raced up to his outstretched arm. He scraped the bottom of the barrel, where his reserves were concerned, gritting his teeth to break the oni’s hold.

Sairaorg smashed through the jagged spike. There wasn’t much to grab Ibaraki by, seeing all she wore above the belt were bandages around her chest. But he took her by the arm regardless and hurled her into Mary Naamah. She jumped, letting Ibaraki fly underneath her, and Sairaorg followed with a blast of demonic power. Mary twisted aside, while Ibaraki jumped over it, landing on all fours and continuing to bound towards him in the same manner.

Blackened nails crunched into the ground as she flipped into an axe kick. It struck his shoulder, but in return, he caught her leg and whipped her into the ground continuously like a rag. Mary attacked his exposed side. He turned, only for her to change direction before he did. Sairaorg’s eyes narrowed. Ibaraki tried to kick him with her free leg, so he threw her once more. Mary ducked without looking, making him smile.

He rushed at her, ignoring the roaring oni. She dodged the first punch, and the second, too. The third scraped her cheek, and in its success, Sairaorg pressed harder. He was running on fumes, so it was in his best interest to end things quickly.

“You’re reading me.” Mary bent backwards beneath a hook and kicked him in the chest, making him stumble to the side. He blocked the follow-up kick and relished the surprise on her face. “But you’re not fast or strong enough for that to matter if I pile on the punches!”

He swung, but Ibaraki’s sword almost took his head off, forcing Sairaorg to release Mary and duck. She stepped underneath the sword with an annoyed expression on her face, aimed at the only other woman in the room. Sairaorg laughed. They were both fighting around a loose cannon. Mary weaved around a wave of fire while Sairaorg cleared it with a jump, whipping a kick into the bulldozing blonde-haired woman. She grunted, ribs thoroughly broken, and grabbed hold of him as they fell. On the ground, his fist caught her shoulder rather than her chest, but it was enough to send her tumbling off his body.

Sairaorg turned and caught the whistling bone sword between both palms. The blade stopped inches from his face.

Ibaraki grinned as fire ran down its length, detonating. He came out of it first, skin burning, while she landed, singed and a little scorched, but less harmed than him. Sairaorg lowered himself into a stance, blood streaming freely down his arm, as they came again. Ibaraki from above and Mary from below. She pulled a clawed hand in, drawing the blood of his body and fashioning it into needles. He brought his elbows in to protect his ribs and covered his face. The needles pierced his skin, drawing even more blood.

In the lull, the oni’s knee slammed the air out of his stomach. Though, in return, he took her by the throat and drove her into the floor. Mary fashioned his blood into a rope to stop him from landing a blow on her downed ally. He swept an arm through it, destroying the construct, and moved to pursue her. If he beat her, the match would end.

But Ibaraki grabbed his ankle, and he fell flat on his face. She punched him when he rose, snapping his head back. Growling under his breath, Sairaorg momentarily focused on her, trading blow for blow. He was annoyed, not at them for ambushing him. But he wasn’t used to being this weak. Her bone sword plunged into his side. She pulled it out of him without even touching the blade, but he caught it, hurling the bone sword like a javelin at Mary Naamah. Sairaorg slipped past Ibaraki’s punch and punched her across the room, heaving for air.

…And now he was on an even stricter timer. Either he won, or the Rating Game’s retiring system would extract him if he suffered too much blood loss. Thankfully, the moment he punched Ibaraki away, Sairaorg pursued the sword he’d thrown after Mary, expecting her to come to her ally’s rescue. Her eyes widened, but she raised her guard just in time to catch his fist. Though he could feel her arms buckling. She flew through the remains of a throne. Sairaorg took one step after her, but his leg failed, even though he caught himself.

Ibaraki laughed behind him, and he turned into her punch, stumbling. His knee wobbled, but he roared and slammed into her, wrapping his arms behind her knees to tip her over headfirst. Mary emerged from the rubble, remaining at a distance as she created several magical circles. Sairaorg didn’t know how long the final exchange lasted. Ibaraki broke through his guard. He collected himself, and right when he broke hers, Mary Naamah hurled a distractingly powerful spell to allow the oni to collect herself and try again. Ibaraki’s fist crashed into his chest, and he was soon swallowed by several spells of every elemental flavour. He skidded back, still on his feet… alas, his body refused to move.

But through sheer will, and yes, joy, he made it, one step at a time, until he fell on one knee. His palm trembled against the floor. This time, when he tried to stand, Sairaorg found that he couldn’t. While Arima had exhausted him, his own peerage had fallen one by one, and at his weakest, Mary Naamah struck. There was no shame in it; this was a Rating Game. Sairaorg smiled as blue light began to gather around him.

Mary Naamah stood opposite him with Arima’s grinning oni familiar, both exhausted and bloody as the light enveloped his broken body.

“King Sairaorg Bael has been retired.”

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