Arkanis staggered back.
One step. Then another.
The blade was still buried through his palm and into his chest, lodged deep where it had pierced his heart. His body trembled, not from weakness alone but from the disruption, from the damage interfering with his control. His free hand twitched, starting to move toward the weapon—toward tearing it out.
Prince Mark did not give him the chance.
The instant he saw the Demon Lord remain standing, he moved. His body surged forward in a sprint, closing the distance before Arkanis could recover. The Demon Lord reacted on instinct, his free hand snapping up as flames gathered into a compact sphere.
He fired.
Prince Mark met it head-on—not by dodging, but by intercepting. His arm came up and struck Arkanis's wrist, knocking the aim off just as the fireball released. The projectile veered sharply upward, streaking into the sky instead of detonating at point-blank range.
Prince Mark stepped in.
And punched him.
His fist slammed into Arkanis's jaw with everything he had behind it. The impact cracked through the air—but the feedback was immediate and brutal. It felt like striking solid steel anchored into the ground. His knuckles split on contact, skin tearing open as pain shot up his arm.
Arkanis barely moved.
Prince Mark did not stop.
He gritted his teeth and swung again—a left hook snapping into the side of the Demon Lord's face, followed immediately by a right. His body twisted with the motion, driving an uppercut up through Arkanis's guard, then a straight punch into his nose. Blood flicked from the impact, but the resistance never lessened.
Prince Mark pressed forward anyway.
A kick drove into Arkanis's stomach, forcing a slight fold in his posture, just enough for Prince Mark to follow through. He jumped, bringing his knee up hard into the Demon Lord's sternum.
That did it.
Arkanis fell.
He hit the ground with force, the embedded blade still pinning his upper body at an awkward angle. His free hand came up immediately, fingers curling as gravity magic began to form—
Prince Mark kicked it aside.
The motion broke the alignment before the spell could take hold. He stepped over him and dropped down, mounting the Demon Lord before he could recover.
Then he started punching.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Each strike slammed down into Arkanis's face, his already-split knuckles tearing further with every impact. The sound shifted from sharp cracks to dull, wet thuds as blood began to coat his hands. His fingers bent wrong on some strikes—bones shifting, joints giving out under the strain—but he didn't stop.
He couldn't.
He kept going until his arms slowed. Until his shoulders burned. Until his lungs screamed for air and his vision started to blur from exertion.
Only then did he stop.
Prince Mark leaned back slightly, chest heaving as he dragged in breath after breath, each inhale sharp and ragged. He looked down.
Arkanis's face was… mostly intact. Bruising had formed across it, one side slightly swollen, his lip split—but that was all. Prince Mark's gaze dropped to his own hands. They were ruined—skin torn open, knuckles split to the bone, fragments of white visible through the blood. Several fingers sat at wrong angles, broken, dislocated, barely functional.
But Arkanis wasn't moving. That was enough. He had stopped him from focusing, stopped him from casting, stopped him from healing. He had killed the Demon Lord.
"A-are you alright?" Prince Mark asked, forcing the words out between breaths as he pushed himself up, still panting, and looked toward Samwell. Samwell was still on the ground, body tense as he worked through the damage, mana struggling to circulate properly.
"Don't look down at me, brat," Samwell spat, forcing himself upright despite the strain. "What he did doesn't matter." His eyes shifted to Arkanis's body. "Not taking a chance."
He raised a hand. Prince Mark barely registered it before instinct took over—he threw himself to the side, diving out of the way just as the spell released. "Mana Blast." The beam tore forward, struck Arkanis's body directly, and erased it.
"You could have warned me," Prince Mark said with a sigh as he pushed himself fully upright. His posture was steadier now, though the strain still lingered beneath the movement. He turned and began walking toward his G.E.A.R., each step measured as the damaged battlefield shifted underfoot.
Nearby, Samwell forced himself up far less cleanly. His body resisted him, and he had to lean into his magic to compensate—earth rising at his command to form a small, jagged wall beside him. He braced a hand against it and used it to haul himself upright, breath uneven as hecontinued trying to heal himself.
Then—footsteps.
Fast. Closing.
Both of them turned at the same time.
Clara, Amara, and Annabel came into view at a run—and with them, a fourth figure. The moment Prince Mark and Samwell saw him, the air shifted. Tension snapped tight instantly.
"Prince Mark! And… Samwell?" Clara called out, her voice catching slightly in surprise, clearly not expecting to see him standing after what had happened earlier.
Samwell didn't respond to her. His eyes were locked onto the fourth figure.
"What the hell is that thing doing next to you all!?" he snapped, his hand already lifting as mana gathered, ready to fire.
The demon reacted immediately, both hands going up in a placating gesture. "Hey—whoa! I'm on your side, keep down your magic!"
"He saved us from dying!" Clara added quickly, stepping forward slightly. "He's on our side, so please calm down!"
Samwell's gaze dragged across all of them, sharp, searching. He watched their expressions, their stances—looking for any sign of control, distortion, anything unnatural. He found none.
He exhaled sharply.
"Fine," he muttered, though his eyes didn't leave the demon. "But as soon as I see that thing...."
He didn't finish the sentence. Instead, he shifted his focus inward, forcing his mana to continue the slow, difficult process of healing.
"You are all late. We killed the Demon Lord," Prince Mark stated, his tone even as he continued toward his G.E.A.R.
"Where are thee Guard Commander and Sir Calvinel?" he added, glancing back toward them briefly.
"What happened to your hands?" Annabel asked, her attention catching on them immediately.
"It is not a significant wound. I will be fine," Prince Mark replied without pause. He reached his suit, gripping it and pulling it upright despite the state of his hands.
"The knight was dying, so the old man took him back to the coliseum to heal," Amara answered simply. Then, after a brief look between Prince Mark and Samwell, she added, "But you two did it alone? Impressive. Though judging by both your appearances, it wasn't easy."
Prince Mark gave a small nod. "It was not."
Drimus hummed quietly, nodding along as he looked between them. "Still, beating Lord Arkanis by yourselves is a big task," he said. Then his tone shifted slightly. "But… sorry to break it to you—he's not going to stay dead."
Everything stilled.
They all turned to him.
"What do you mean?" Annabel asked.
"Well," Drimus began, lifting a hand slightly as if explaining something routine, "after people who are deemed important enough—and who have unfinished business—when they die, they go to The Court. There, they fight a case for their life. If they win…" he shrugged faintly, "…they come back."
He glanced toward where Arkanis had been.
"And since Lord Arkanis is really smart, he is most definitely coming back to life."
The words settled heavily. Confusion and concern spread across their expressions almost in equal measure.
"Ugh… that is another problem to deal with," Amara muttered, irritation clear in her voice.
"That is a problem for later," Prince Mark said.
The front of his G.E.A.R. opened, and he stepped into it. The armor closed around him piece by piece, locking into place with mechanical precision. Inside, the system engaged—forcing alignment through damaged joints. His broken fingers were pushed back into position by the internal mechanisms, allowing function despite the injury.
"We still have more to do," he stated.
As if in response—
The ground beneath them trembled.
Then it split.
"What the!?" Clara blurted as all of them instinctively moved back, weapons and magic readying in an instant for yet another fight.
From the opening earth, something rose.
A woman.
She emerged from the fractured ground with an unnatural smoothness, untouched by the debris around her. Her presence alone shifted the atmosphere, drawing every eye toward her without effort.
Drimus froze.
His eyes widened. His jaw slackened.
"S-S-Se—Saran…" he stammered.
The goddess looked over them all.
Calm. Certain.
"Whoever among you said you still have more to do," she said, her voice carrying effortlessly across the ruined space, "you are correct."
Her gaze settled over them.
"You have a lot more to do yet."
The goddess, finally, makes herself known.