Armada was sent hurtling through the air, his body a blur against the skyline as he rocketed past even the tallest towers of Arcadicia. Smoke trailed from the scorched dent in his chest plate where his own pistol shot had struck. Gritting his teeth, he twisted midair, forcing his body to stop spinning. His head snapped toward the distant point where he'd stood moments ago—just in time to see X streaking after him, fist cocked back.
Armada barely managed to raise his dao. The blade caught X's punch flat, and the impact sent a shockwave through the air that cracked like thunder. The Demon Lord was driven straight down, the speed of his fall breaking the sound barrier. He slammed into the streets hard enough to leave a crater spanning half the block, the surrounding buildings tilting under the force but managing not to collapse.
He coughed up blood, pushing himself upright with trembling arms. "What even happened…?" he muttered, spitting to the side. His mind reeled—he remembered the charge, the shot, and then pain—his own round slamming into him before the world turned into chaos.
A shadow fell across him. He looked up just in time to throw himself backward as X crashed down where he'd been standing, the impact splintering stone beneath his boot.
"I could've hit you even with that jump," X said, straightening. His distorted voice carried a mocking tone through the skull mask. "I just didn't. Thought I'd give you the illusion of choice—that your power or skill actually matters." He gave a small shrug. "It doesn't. Not really."
"You sure love hearing yourself talk, don't you?" Armada growled, raising his dao. "You landed two hits—one of them with my own shot, somehow. Don't get cocky." The irony didn't register with him.
X leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to mock agreement. "You know what? You're right. I shouldn't get a big head after one hit."
He clapped once—softly. And then he moved.
To Armada's eyes, X became a blur, his movements skipping like a recording played at five times speed. The Demon Lord barely had time to process it before a flurry of one-handed jabs smashed into his face—dozen after dozen—each strike sharp and precise, but disturbingly casual. Armada stumbled back, teeth clenched, then swung his dao in a wide arc where X's head had been—only to slice through empty air.
Then—an elbow struck between his shoulder blades. His armor absorbed most of it, but the intent was clear. X wasn't trying to hurt him. He was playing with him.
"You little—!" Armada snarled, spinning and swinging his dao in a wide horizontal cut. X vaulted clean over his head, twisting midair before kicking him square in the back of the skull. Armada stumbled forward, the hit more humiliating than painful.
X landed lightly, both feet touching down with a deliberate flourish. "And he sticks the landing!" he said, spreading his arms before crossing them with a tilt of his head. "So, with all those hits—can I make fun of you now, or do I need a few more first?"
Armada's body trembled—not from fear, but from boiling rage. Then he laughed, sharp and bitter, before turning back toward X with a glare. "Congratulations," he hissed, voice deepening. "You're about to make me stop holding back."
Demonic energy erupted from him in a sudden, violent pulse. X watched as the transformation took hold—Armada's platinum hair darkened to ashen grey, two horns tearing through his skull. His eyes slit into sharp, predatory lines, their blue glow hardening. Skin flushed to a pinkish hue as muscle tightened and his frame expanded, his height shooting past seven feet. Claws formed at his fingertips; his features sharpened into something regal, yet menacing.
X let out a low, distorted whistle. "Looks cool," he remarked lazily. "But how much is it actually going to help you?"
Armada cracked his neck and flexed his hands around the dao's hilt. "You tell me."
He vanished from sight.
X barely twisted aside as the dao sliced past his throat, the edge missing him by inches. The air where he'd been standing split with a shrill hiss. X blinked, brushing his gloved fingers along his neck. "Looks like it'll help a lot," he muttered, eyes lifting to meet Armada's as the Demon Lord turned, blade raised and stance coiled tight.
"Good," Armada said, his tone calm but deadly. He flipped the dao into a reverse grip, planting his feet. "Then let's start this fight proper."
Both men dug into the ground—cracks spidering beneath their feet—before surging forward at once.