Klaus continued his relentless assault, his cursed spear—Satan—striking again and again against Serka's radiant defenses. Each clash corroded the weapon further, her touch eating away at its blasphemous edge. Yet he pressed on without hesitation, as if the weapon's demise meant nothing to him.
It didn't make sense.
Serka narrowed her eyes, growing suspicious. Why does he persist with that same weapon? She could destroy it—no, she would, if given the chance. All it took was one slip, one misstep, and she could catch it. Dust to dust. So why risk it? Why act so recklessly?
Raising her hand, she summoned a cascade of divine light—glittering nails that rained from the sky with unerring precision, each one tracking Klaus like judgment from the heavens.
But Klaus was nimble, too nimble. He weaved between the searing trails of radiance, vanishing between blinks, his teleportation slipping him through space like smoke. Even if her light grazed him, it was diminished—his shimmering forcefield weakening their impact. And if all else failed, he could simply vanish into the intangible, letting the attacks pass through him like wind through a ghost.
He was infuriatingly hard to pin down.
She hadn't even landed a serious blow—just two strikes: one to the abdomen, the other to the chest. They hurt, yes, but not enough. He took them like someone far too used to pain, someone for whom agony was nothing but background noise.
"Interesting…" she murmured.
She could amplify pain tenfold if she wished—break his mind, not his bones—but something told her it wouldn't matter. He was growing tired though; she could see it. His breathing wasn't as measured, his movements slightly delayed. And when exhaustion will take him fully, he would have no choice but to gamble recklessly. He was bleeding from the eyes now, too. crimson threads trickling from cracked pupils.
That wasn't just strain—it was ability. Or perhaps a attribute. No ordinary Awakened could track her movements. Not unless he had some twisted form of hyper-perception.
Meanwhile, Klaus was running out of time and he knew it. He needed a single opening. Just one. But Serka offered nothing—no hesitation, no overreach. Not a moment to breathe, not a gap to exploit. To push, even slightly, to attempt to bait her, to draw her in, risked getting his heart torn from his chest.
Still, he glanced around, eyes occasionally darting toward the temple's core.
Serka noticed. Her voice rang out, cool and sharp.
"Not paying attention? Underestimating me? That's an insult, heretic. What are you searching for?"
Klaus smiled through the blood, his eyes wild, glittering with savage glee.
"Nothing. Nothing at all, you old bitch cultist. My knight just finished his part, so now—" he raised his arms as Satan dissolved into sparks, retreating into his spirit sea—"I don't have to hold back anymore. Whether this damned sect burns or not—screw it! I'm going all out!"
His laughter rang through the air, cracked and bloody, gleaming teeth shining in the gloom.
He wiped his mouth, coughed once, and took a stance, wild and loose.
"I'm gonna beat the shit outta you! Hell yeah—I'm throwing hands!"
Serka tilted her head, amused by his mad energy, and mirrored him with a smirk. They moved at once.
Klaus sidestepped her incoming elbow, seized it mid-swing, and kicked her in the gut while leaping back.
Serka grunted, pushed slightly off-balance, but grabbed his leg in retaliation. With a growl, she slammed him toward the ground like a ragdoll, her strength monstrous.
Klaus's eyes widened as he fell—more fractures etching into his irises. Time slowed.
His body flickered—and phased.
He slipped through the rooftop like a shadow through mist, reappearing behind her in the blink of an eye. With a snarl, he lashed out, his heel crashing against her shoulder. The strike was more than muscle—it was essence, finely tuned and released in a kinetic burst, blasting Serka back in a shockwave.
Klaus hit the ground, coughing violently. Blood dripped from his mouth, but he grinned as he looked up.
"How's that, grandma?"
Serka stood tall, barely ruffled. His grin faded.
"…What the fuck? That's cheating! You're fine?!"
She raised a brow, then turned and slammed her dislocated shoulder into a cracked pillar. A sharp crack echoed as it snapped back into place.
"Trust me, insolent pup. I am harmed."
Klaus blinked, sighed in relief and then laughed softly.
"Good. That's good. Phew…"
To her credit, Serka had never fought anyone quite like him. He didn't move like a warrior—he moved like a deranged acrobat, all unpredictable pivots and strange angles. A clown in motion, defying rhythm, abandoning tradition. Yet the damage he inflicted was real. His movements were misdirection, and beneath the chaos lay a terrifying mastery of essence.
But that would no longer be enough.
The game was over.
She exhaled and shifted her stance. No longer amused, no longer indulgent. She became solemn. Cold. Her every breath now deliberate, her presence sharpened into killing intent.
Klaus felt the change immediately. His spine tingled.
He forced a smile.
"Uh… can we… I dunno, take a five-minute break and come back fresh…? Ha… heh…"
Serka's smile was grandmotherly now. Sweet. Comforting.
"Yes. After death, you may rest."
She vanished. Twenty meters closed in a second. Klaus only survived by the narrowest of margins—his eyes flashing as he teleported just in time, disappearing from the rooftop and reappearing within the temple's heart. He raised his hand like a gun.
At the tip of his finger, a tiny orb of spinning energy took shape—crimson dust swirling like a galactic vortex, drawn into itself rather than expanding outward. It compressed tighter, denser, until it became no more than a grain of blood-colored sand, humming with barely-contained power.
"Bang," he whispered.
The orb vanished from his finger.
A second later—it detonated at the rooftop.
A burst of raw repelling force—like the inverse of a black hole, a white hole in miniature—erupted from the temple's crown. Matter exploded outward, shattered and flung like leaves in a storm. The rooftop tore away. Wind screamed. Stone cracked and twisted.
And Serka was thrown skyward like a ragdoll caught in a god's exhale.
Klaus dropped to one knee, hacking up a spray of blood that painted the cold floor beneath him. His breaths came ragged, His eyes—once sharp and gleaming—now blurred and crimson, rivers of blood streaking down his cheeks. The world around him trembled and shimmered as his Divine Eyes overloaded, nearing the brink of blindness. He'd overexerted them—again.
He would recover. Eventually. But not now. Not like this.
The battle raged on above, the air thick with the scent of ash and the reverberations of chaos. He couldn't even tell if Serka had survived Shiva.
Physically, he was holding together—barely. But his mind? It was on the brink, cracking under the immense pressure. He took a deep breath, centering himself, and smiled faintly.
"Heh... I won," he muttered to no one, a crooked grin tugging at his bloodied lips.
He forced himself upright, staggering slightly, using the broad blade of his dark sword as a crutch. The fight had been brutal, and he had been restricted from the start. Most of his abilities were still sealed away. Shiva had only been unleashed after Hassan completed his mission, and even then, Klaus had been running on fumes.
"That old hag was a beast... but I'm the fucking dragon."
At this point, only one of his spirit cores remained charged. The others were utterly drained. But what did it matter? Serka had fallen. That was all that mattered.
"This just proves it. Grandma's got nothing on me. Behold the majesty of Klaus, bitch-slayer supreme, kekekehaha... Bleh..."
He choked mid-laugh, eyes widening in disbelief as fresh blood surged from his mouth. His gaze dropped—and froze.
A hand. Piercing straight through his chest.
He turned his head slowly, as if in a nightmare, and met Serka's bloodstained, victorious smile. her expression painted in dark satisfaction.
"You won?" she echoed softly. "That doesn't seem to align with reality, boy."
In a flash, Klaus turned intangible, slipping free from her grasp and reappearing several meters away. He collapsed onto the ground, clutching his bleeding chest, cursing beneath his breath.
"You... old... cunt... Why won't you just die!?"
Serka tilted her head, her calm steps carrying her toward him.
"Oh? Are we angry now?" she cooed, voice honeyed with mockery. "Don't fret. I avoided your heart. Didn't I promise? I'll teach you... that pain is a blessing in disguise."
Panic flickered in Klaus's eyes.
"Uhm... You know? I don't really like pain. Actually—I'm allergic. Yeah. Full-body reaction. Swelling, crying, that whole mess. So I'm gonna have to politely decline your... generous offer."
Serka chuckled, leaning in. But the moment she stepped closer, Klaus's grin returned—manic and gleaming. In a flash, he slashed at her with his sword.
"Got you, bitch!" he howled, ecstasy igniting his voice.
With the same bored expression, Serka raised her hand, expecting to corrode another blade with ease.
"We've danced this dance already. When will you learn—wait...?"
She paused.
Her eyes fell to her arm.
Her arm... Severed.
So was her chest—slashed clean through.
The pain bloomed before the realization did. She stumbled, coughing blood, watching with horror as her dismembered arm hit the floor. Her breath hitched.
"H-how…?"
Klaus stood tall, presenting his blade beneath the moonlight, its dark edge shimmering with an eerie, pulsing void.
Her lips trembled. "A weapon... Created from true darkness?"
Klaus gave a dramatic nod, twirling her severed arm like a toy.
"Yeah, duh. You really think I'm stupid? I knew you could corrode ordinary weapons—but this? This isn't metal. This is darkness given form. You can't corrode that. Darkness doesn't erode—it devours. It consumes elements rather than being consumed."
He walked around her, explaining like professor.
"And this particular darkness? Granny, that comes from an Ascended Devil. Your equal in rank, sure, but far above you in class. You never stood a chance, you dried up prostitute."
He raised her hand, making her own fingers pinch his chin in mock contemplation.
"Let's have a moment of silence for your pride, shall we? Ah... bliss."
Then, he raised the blade. "Now do me a favor and die already—"
But the blade never struck.
A sudden detonation of green light erupted from Serka's body, knocking Klaus back. He tumbled across the floor, coughing violently.
He rose, weapon still in hand—but the temple was different now.
The shadows had fled. A strange, somber luminescence bathed the hall. Marble cracked and reshaped. A statue emerged from the ground like an omen—slow and terrible.
A woman, carved from sacred stone, stood veiled in divine robes. Her eyes were closed in eternal grief, her chest split open to reveal a crystalline heart glowing with green fire. One hand cradled the heart, as if to keep it from slipping free. The other held a long nail poised high, ready to plunge into her own soul.
Klaus stood frozen, breathless.
It was tragic. Beautiful. An image soaked in unbearable suffering.
As he stared, Serka rose slowly, stepping back toward the statue, reverence in her every breath.
"Welcome," she whispered, eyes shining. "To the Glorious Hall of Suffering."