Hayato's body lay motionless on the broken earth.
For a moment, no one reacted. The wind still dragged fine dust across the ground scarred by the blows, and the metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, as if the world needed a few more seconds to accept what had happened. Then, little by little, even that began to settle.
Tama opened her eyes wide in surprise.
Until a moment ago, the battle had followed a clear rhythm. Rapid exchanges, constant clashes, advances and retreats. In her perception, there should have been another strike, another crossing of blades. But when the dust lifted and her vision cleared, the only thing she found was the hero's body lying on the ground.
She blinked, confused.
Not because there was any doubt about her master's strength, but because the end had come suddenly, without warning, breaking the flow of the fight she had been following so closely.
Pochi brought both hands to her mouth.
She did not scream or step back. Her eyes remained fixed on Hayato, wide open, reflecting the same surprise as Tama—though in her case, the impact felt deeper. She did not think about strategies or broken rhythms; only about the simple, overwhelming fact that it was over.
A hero.
That was what lay there.
Liza closed her eyes.
It was not an impulsive gesture nor one charged with emotion. It was brief, controlled—almost solemn. Of the three, she was the one who best understood the difference between the two combatants, the one who had known from the beginning how this duel could end. Even so, she dedicated that silence to Hayato—not as a defeated enemy, but as a warrior who had reached the limit of his strength.
When she opened them again, her expression was calm.
Satoru did not move.
He remained standing, sword still lowered, observing the body before him. The pressure that had dominated the field moments earlier had dissipated, leaving behind something far subtler, harder to define.
Expectation.
There was no satisfaction in victory, nor relief at having overcome a challenge. Only the uncomfortable sensation that everything had ended too soon, without answering the question that had brought him there.
And for the three who watched his back, even knowing how powerful their master was, that scene reaffirmed an undeniable truth: Hayato had not been an ordinary opponent.
He had been a hero—one who had fallen.
Or at least, that was how it seemed at first.
Then the body moved.
At first it was a faint spasm, almost imperceptible. Then a clearer tremor ran through Hayato's arm, until his hand closed tightly around the hilt of the sacred sword.
Tama blinked.
Pochi held her breath.
Hayato coughed, expelling air with difficulty, and rolled onto his side. Blood still marked his neck, but it no longer flowed. The bleeding had stopped unnaturally, as if an invisible force had sealed the wound from within.
"Ah…" he muttered, awkwardly pushing himself up. "Yeah… that hurt more than I expected."
He sat up first, breathing deeply, as if needing to confirm that the air still answered him. Then he planted one knee on the ground and stood, swaying slightly before regaining his balance.
Satoru said nothing.
He watched.
Hayato ran a hand over his neck, looked at the blood on his fingers, and let out a short, dry laugh.
"I got overconfident," he admitted. "I thought that would be enough to push you a little further."
He lifted his gaze, this time more serious.
"I guess I can't keep holding back anymore."
He raised his right hand, spreading his fingers.
This time, it was not merely a gesture.
The sacred sword responded.
Blue mana began to emanate from the weapon, enveloping the blade like a dense, almost smoky mist. It did not expand outward nor illuminate the field; it clung to the metal, giving it weight and presence, as if the sword itself were exhaling.
The air around him grew denser.
"When a hero is summoned…" Hayato began, resuming the tone of someone explaining something well known, "we don't arrive empty-handed. Goddess Parion always gives us something. A blessing. You could think of it as a trump card."
Satoru remained silent.
He did not take his eyes off the blade.
"Not all of us receive the same one, obviously," Hayato continued. "It depends on our souls."
He smiled slightly—not with pride, nor false modesty.
"Mine, as you can see, came with a few advantages."
The blue mana continued to coil around the blade, stable and constant.
The blood around his neck disappeared.
"This…" he added with a shrug, "I can only use once a month. I was planning to save it for something worse, but well—" he gestured toward his neck—"I think this qualifies."
He straightened fully, his body gradually returning to a firmer posture. Not relaxed—but resolved.
"Besides," he muttered to himself, "it'd be a shame to die without achieving my goal."
He tightened his grip on the sword.
For the first time since Hayato had fallen, Satoru stepped forward.
The interest that had begun to fade… returned.
Hayato resumed his stance.
It was not the same as before.
There was tension in his shoulders, a new rigidity in the way he held both sword and shield. He was no longer feigning retreats or calculated errors. This time, his gaze was fixed and clear.
Satoru tilted his head slightly.
"Good," he said. "Continue."
Hayato did not waste time responding.
The sacred armor roared.
It was not a literal sound, but a deep vibration that ran through the metal from its core to its joints. The philosopher's stone embedded within reacted immediately, releasing mana in constant waves that spread throughout his body, filling every muscle and joint like an engine finally allowed to run at full power.
Hayato advanced.
The sword drew a direct line, without hesitation. The attack was faster than before, heavier—and this time it did not seek to measure or pressure. It sought to strike.
When the blades collided, the result was different.
The blue mana contained within the sacred sword burst outward, overflowing in a chaotic surge that dispersed through the air like an explosion of poorly restrained energy. It was not a technique, not an activated skill—it was excess power released without restriction.
Satoru received the blow head-on.
The impact shook the air violently. The sound of metal merged with the burst of mana, and the ground beneath his feet cracked. He stepped back half a pace—just enough to absorb the force without losing balance.
Hayato did not stop.
He used the opening and attacked again, turning his body, chaining the next strike with a new fluidity sustained by the constant flow of mana the armor pumped into him. The shield moved with precision, closing angles and covering openings while the sword delivered reinforced cuts, each accompanied by irregular bursts of blue energy.
The exchange became brutal.
Every clash released waves of mana that swept across the ground. The earth yielded beneath their feet, the air compressed with each crossing of blades, and the path began to blur under accumulated pressure. Hayato advanced without hesitation—even when Satoru's blade struck him.
A cut opened his side.
Blood flowed… and stopped.
The mana from the armor reacted immediately, sealing the wound with unnatural efficiency. Hayato clenched his teeth and continued forward without losing rhythm.
"Ah…" he grunted. "It still hurts, you know?"
Satoru watched the wound close.
Not with surprise.
With attention.
"That explains your confidence," he commented. "You're using the sword as an offensive source… and the armor to endure the strain of your ability. Though relying on it so heavily must place considerable pressure on your body."
Hayato let out a strained laugh while deflecting another strike, the shield vibrating under the impact.
"Well, humans have to suffer a little to fight monsters like you."
The next exchange was even more violent.
The explosions of blue mana grew more frequent, less controlled. Hayato no longer restrained the sword's internal flow; each strike drained the stored reserve to convert it directly into brute power.
Satoru endured.
For the first time since the fight had begun, he was retreating.
And that was precisely what he wanted.
Step, turn, deflect. No movement wasted, none impulsive. Even so, the pressure increased. Each clash transmitted more force than the last; every burst of mana demanded more from his body.
The blade descended with greater intent.
Hayato was forced to block.
The impact traveled up his arm like a direct discharge, tearing an involuntary groan from him. His body was driven back several steps, his feet carving deep furrows in the earth before he stabilized.
Satoru advanced.
Hayato answered with a laugh, and the mana around his sword flowed out of control. His speed and power increased to withstand the growing force.
The battle did not pause. At some point during the exchange, the shield vanished.
There was no dramatic gesture. It simply ceased to be there.
Defense had served its purpose. Now it was all offense.
The philosopher's stone within the armor roared with greater intensity, sending waves of mana through his body like an engine forced beyond its safe limit. The sacred sword responded in kind: each cut released explosions of blue energy that burst without containment, tearing through the air in irregular surges.
Satoru did not lessen the pressure.
His blows carried no visible mana, yet the air warped in their wake. Each slash displaced space violently, generating shockwaves that collided with Hayato's blue discharges and turned the field into a contained disaster.
The earth split beneath their feet. Fragments of rock flew into the air. The wind was no longer natural, but the product of repeated impacts compressing and releasing pressure with every clash.
At a distance, the demi-humans could no longer see clearly.
Tama raised an arm to shield her face as a gust of dust and debris struck them head-on. Pochi narrowed her eyes, trying to distinguish silhouettes amid blue flashes and invisible shockwaves shaking the ground.
It was no longer a clean duel.
It was force against force.
A stray arc from the sacred sword slipped loose—an imperfect crescent of blue mana that broke away from a clash and shot toward where they stood.
Tama stepped back.
Hans appeared in front of them without warning.
His dagger moved once.
The motion was short, almost casual. The blade intercepted the trajectory of the mana arc and redirected it aside, where it detonated against the ground with a dry explosion.
The wind struck their faces again.
"Hans!" Tama exclaimed, relieved to see him.
Pochi nodded quickly.
"Thank you."
Liza inclined her head slightly.
Hans answered with a brief nod. He remained before them, watching the battle without interfering further. His dagger moved occasionally—light, precise motions that eased the force of the wind and deflected any stray attacks that reached them.
In the distance, the exchange had not slowed for a single second.
Hayato launched another reinforced strike, but the impact against Satoru's blade forced him back several steps. The vibration traveled up his arms, the armor absorbing part of the damage while the internal mana continued to circulate intensely.
Then he felt it.
The burn in his muscles. The phantom pain of wounds that had already been sealed. His throat felt dry, and his lungs begged for air.
Breathing grew difficult. Each exhalation was heavier than the last. Regeneration continued to close wounds, but it did not erase the pain. Mana flowed without pause to sustain his body—but that flow demanded something in return.
The consumption was too high. Even with his natural reserves and his armor, this would not last forever.
Satoru advanced another step—unhurried, without mercy.
The pressure was constant.
Every clash drained more energy than Hayato could comfortably recover. The armor still functioned, the sword still discharged power… but the margin was shrinking.
Hayato clenched his teeth.
Another impact sent him sliding several meters backward. The ground split beneath his boots, the armor creaking as it absorbed the force.
Hayato let out a short, strained laugh.
"Yeah…" he muttered. "I guess it's time."
The battle did not stop.
But something changed.
Hayato did not laugh again.
The decision had already been made.
He adjusted his grip on the sword and, instead of answering the next exchange with another wide cut, aligned the blade forward. Shoulder, hip, and tip formed a single line. His guard opened completely; there was no shield, no angle protecting his flank.
He lunged.
It was not a measured advance, but a thrust driven by his entire body. The armor responded with a more violent pulse; the mana he had left was channeled forward, compressed along the blade's trajectory.
Satoru reacted instantly.
His slash descended with precision, aimed directly at the exposed neck.
The impact occurred.
And the edge rebounded.
It did not strike steel nor a visible barrier; it was rejected at the instant of contact, deflected with a dry force that broke its path and forced Satoru to correct his balance.
That was enough.
Hayato took the final step within range.
The unique abilities granted to heroes upon being summoned differed for each individual, determined by the strength of their soul. Most received a single exceptional tool.
But Hayato had not been an ordinary case.
He had obtained three.
[Infinite Regeneration], which healed all his wounds.
[Invincible Shield], which prevented any attack from piercing him.
And finally—
The tip of the sword plunged into Satoru's torso.
"[Strongest Lance]!"
The thrust passed through without encountering true resistance; the skill nullified any defense along its path and allowed the steel to penetrate with direct, deep, clean violence. But [Strongest Lance] did not increase the weapon's raw power—so Hayato activated the sacred sword's own ability.
"[Arondight]!"
The mana stored within the blade answered the call. Blue energy concentrated inside the wound and exploded in a devastating pulse that traveled along the line of penetration before bursting forward with contained brutality. The detonation tore the sword free from Satoru's body and hurled him backward with violent force.
The ground split into a straight fissure beneath the released power as Satoru was thrown several meters before crashing into the cracked earth.
His body struck the ground with a dry thunder, and a cloud of dust rose.
During his battle with the woman of the sword, he had also been sent flying. He remembered the sky above him, the weight of impact, the surprise of being surpassed for an instant. That sensation had not been humiliating.
It had been stimulating.
A reminder that edges still existed to be explored.
Now, passing through a similar experience, he felt neither pain nor irritation.
He felt interest.
Hayato was no longer a fragile puppet to be pressured carefully. He had proven he could pierce his defense and force a tangible result. That was enough for the battle to cease being mere training.
When the air cleared, Satoru was already rising calmly, one hand braced against the ground as his eyes lifted forward.
The first thing he saw was not a combat stance.
It was Hayato's back, retreating.
He could not call it "retreat" exactly. The sacred sword had vanished, and Hayato was running without looking back, as fast as his legs would allow.
Satoru frowned slightly. He understood the reasons behind his escape; even so, seeing him leave immediately after achieving something real displeased him.
Meanwhile, Hayato gritted his teeth as he gained distance. The consumption had been brutal. He knew he could not sustain another exchange like the previous one without leaving himself completely exposed.
He realized he had simplified the situation.
He had known he was inferior; the reports about Satoru's battle with the unknown hero had been clear. Satoru had been wounded, yes—but they had also devastated an entire forest during that confrontation.
Hayato had never believed he could reach that level.
His objective had been different.
Force him to use that power.
Draw out at least one destructive spell—a clear display of how vast the real difference between them was.
But even after burning his most dangerous cards, Satoru had not resorted to anything like that.
So he had changed his approach.
If he could not force him by power, he would do so by provocation.
He knew his plan had worked when the pressure in the air shifted again.
Satoru clicked his tongue, irritation no longer subtle. It was not uncontrolled anger—but neither was it indifference. It was pure dissatisfaction, almost childish. He had expected more. More exchanges. More tension. More opportunity to adjust rhythm now that the battle had finally become interesting.
Leaving at that point was like sweeping the board mid-game.
If Hayato wanted to provoke him into crushing him, he was about to succeed.
Satoru raised his sword.
The mana around him compressed violently. The ground beneath his feet cracked as his presence expanded in invisible waves.
There was no chant, no elaborate gesture. His mind traced the magic he had learned in this world and released it without delay.
"[Stats Enhanced by 500%]."
The air around him warped as if gravity had increased within a confined radius. The strength in his grip multiplied. The speed of his movement tightened to the edge of visibility.
He took one step.
And unleashed a single slash.
The blade descended with contained violence, releasing an extended cut—a line of pressure projected forward like an invisible blade splitting the air.
Hayato felt it before he saw it.
"What—?!"
He instantly resummoned his shield. The barrier materialized before him as he activated another skill. The attack did not pierce him—but the force did not vanish. The cut dragged his body backward as if he had been rammed by a moving wall.
The ground split beneath the trajectory of the strike, leaving a deep furrow carved straight through the terrain.
Hayato was launched into the air.
Without losing time, he activated his flying boots. The added thrust stabilized his body before disorientation could send him crashing uncontrollably. He twisted midair, reorganizing his posture as the shield faded after fulfilling its role.
Below, Satoru had already adjusted position.
He prepared a second slash.
But then the air before him filled with mana projectiles.
Rapid, compact discharges fired in succession from multiple angles. Satoru did not retreat. His sword moved with clean precision, cutting down each attack before it could reach him. The collisions released dry bursts that raised smoke and dust around him.
From the sky descended a figure mounted on a wooden pegasus.
Ringrande clicked her tongue as she saw the furrow carved in the earth by Satoru's first slash. She wasted no time evaluating further. Leaning from the saddle, she grabbed Hayato's hand with a rough pull and lifted him up beside her.
"Let's go," she muttered, already gaining altitude.
The pegasus beat its wings hard and sped away, ascending until it became a distant silhouette against the clear sky.
The smoke finished dissipating.
Satoru remained where he was, sword still in hand, watching them depart.
************
The flying ship was already far from the devastated field when the tension began to ease.
Hayato let himself fall back against one of the walls of the main compartment, breathing heavily—but a tired smile slowly forming on his face. The armor still vibrated faintly from the recent strain, and small cracks ran along its metallic surface, but he was standing.
"Ha…" he laughed, running a hand through his damp hair. "Still alive."
Ringrande looked at him with a frown, though the relief in her posture was evident.
"Idiot. That last attack almost killed you."
"That also means it worked," he replied with a shrug. "And that I wasn't exaggerating."
Some of the other companions released the breath they had been holding. The adrenaline began to fade, and the atmosphere—though still heavy—was no longer on the verge of collapse.
Then the silence changed.
There was no sound. No impact.
But almost at the same time, they all went rigid.
Hayato noticed immediately.
"What's wrong?"
No one answered.
He felt a presence behind him before hearing anything. A hand rested naturally on his shoulder.
Hayato turned his head.
And screamed.
He stumbled back clumsily, losing balance for a moment before regaining posture.
"How the hell did you get here?!"
Satoru stood where he was, his hand still suspended in the air after losing contact. He looked at his own palm for a brief moment, as if evaluating the gesture.
This man really does not react the way I expected, he thought.
Before he could speak, one of Hayato's companions moved her hand toward her weapon. The motion was fast—almost instinctive.
"Wait!" Hayato managed to shout.
But he was slower than magic.
A magic circle unfolded beneath their feet with clean, silent precision. The lines illuminated for barely a second before chains of energy rose from the floor and wrapped around each of them. It was not an explosion. Not a blast.
It was absolute suppression.
Weapons froze.
Bodies tensed.
Even words were cut off in their throats.
Satoru observed them without altering his expression.
There was no anger in his gaze. Nor satisfaction.
Only control.
He allowed them to understand the situation. To feel the weight of the difference.
He needed only a few seconds.
"I did not come to fight," he said at last, voice calm.
The chains vibrated faintly at the sound of his words.
"Before our duel," he continued, "I mentioned that I had not yet thanked you for not harming Liza and the others."
His gaze settled on Hayato.
"I do not like owing favors."
A minimal motion of his hand was enough for the magic circle to vanish. The chains disappeared as if they had never existed.
Even so, none of them moved immediately. Being subdued without real resistance left them in forced silence, processing what had happened.
Satoru returned to his usual bearing. The pressure he had displayed on the field was completely absent. The irritation from the retreat was gone as well. That had been momentary.
If he had wanted to stop them, he would have.
If Hayato had attempted anything against the demi-humans, even Hans's clone would have been sufficient to subdue him.
He did not need to be there for that.
Hayato cleared his throat, trying to break the tension.
"Well… you're welcome? I mean, there were kids there. I couldn't just let them get hurt."
Satoru did not answer immediately.
He remained there, silent, observing him.
Hayato tilted his head slightly.
"Is there something else?"
Satoru hesitated for a moment.
"Yes," he admitted at last. "I want to speak with you."
******
Author's Note:
This chapter was particularly difficult to write. The difference in level between both characters made it challenging to build a fight that felt intense without breaking the established power coherence, and for quite some time I wasn't entirely sure how I wanted this confrontation to end.
In the end, I settled on this resolution, and I have to admit I enjoyed writing it mainly because it allowed me to show a bit more of Satoru's personality and one of his clearest displays of humanity so far.
In the next episode, we will begin the equivalent of Volume 4 of Death March, which will also be the final volume I cover in this saga.
As always, thank you for reading and following this story.