In Arinia, essence was reality itself.
Those born with a Stygian Core could absorb it through their pores, process it through their core, and reshape the world according to their will.
Stage determined raw power. But skill could bridge the gap.
A Stage 2 fighter with perfect essence control could defeat a sloppy Stage 4.
Knowledge of runes, efficiency of tempering, precision of technique—these mattered as much as raw strength.
But Stage 1 versus Stage 6? That was different. Six Stages separated them.
The difference between a candle and an inferno. Between a child and a god.
No amount of skill should bridge that gap.
The statistical probability of victory: less than one percent.
Right now, Hiroto Takatana was defying those odds.
The demon inhabiting Hiroto's body was purifying essence at a terrifying rate, forcing it through Essence Chains never meant to handle such power.
Right now the demon inheriting Hiroto's body was purifying essence at a terrifying rate and efficiency and forcing it through his Essence Chains, the veins of the Stygian core.
Because of this incompatibility Hiroto's muscles flared and twitched, his orifices started bleeding, and internal bleeding was evident.
But beneath all that..
Was a serene smile.
A smile of someone who had everything in control.
Of a monster.
Three operatives shivered, then attacked simultaneously.
The Monster laughed, a bright sound came from his mouth.
He moved like he was performing, the droplets of blood flying through the air, some his own. Every counterattack felt.. Choreographed. He hummed while he fought, keeping time with his movements.
He dodged left essence pouring through his limbs, then he used essence to trace runes in the air.
Ignitio, Fueltendi, Multiplo, Ejeccto.
The runes were traced in less than a second.
The operative's eyes widened in shock.
A magic circle opened on top of the runes sending an explosion of flames, similar to that of a missile.
The flames consumed the operative leaving him a scorched mess of burning flesh and smoke.
The Monster barely spared him a look as he turned to face another enemy.
Another operative hesitated for a split second watching his comrade get incinerated.
This moment was all that was needed.
The Monster grabbed his arm and twisted it
CRACK!
The knife that was in the operatives hand fell to the floor as his entire elbow was shattered.
Before the knife fell to the floor The Monster caught it with his foot balancing the handle by the tip of his toe.
The man being dazed quickly acted trying to break free but it was much too late.
The Monster kicked up the blade and used a back hand grip to stab him in the throat.
The third operative closed in soon after from above.
The Monster also sensed that the Riftwalker was hovering, looking for an opportune moment to strike.
The third operative slashed down with a knife, the detective stepped back a half step, the knife grazed past his nose but didn't leave a mark.
The operative landed and lunged forward immediately, trying to capitalize on momentum.
"Tsk. Your movement lacks so much beauty," the Monster said, shaking his head sadly. "No rhythm. Just desperate flailing.
He sidestepped the lunge with dancer-like grace, grabbed the operative's extended wrist, and pulled him forward, adding to his momentum instead of stopping it.
The operative stumbled, off-balance.
The Monster spun behind him, still holding the wrist, and twisted.
Not just the wrist. The entire arm. Shoulder. Spine.
Then he used surgical precision to rip the entire man's arm off.
He struck the man again near his spine.
A scream of agony erupted from his mouth, as the monster casually dropped it to the floor as if it was nothing but a toy.
"You see," the Monster explained pleasantly, "the human body is a symphony of interconnected parts. Pull one string correctly, and the entire instrument falls apart.
The operative collapsed, twitching.
"Oh, you're still conscious! How wonderful!" The Monster knelt beside him, still smiling. "I do so enjoy an audience. Tell me—can you feel your legs? No? That's because I severed the connection between your third and fourth vertebrae.
He looked up at the ceiling where the Riftwalker was concealed in shadow.
"But first, I need to deal with your boss. He's been very rude, lurking up there. No sense of showmanship at all."
"Three down. Three to go. How are we doing on time? Oh my, the body is deteriorating faster than expected. The Stage 1 vessel really is inadequate for this level of performance."
"No matter. We work with what we have. A master would never blame his tools for incompetence!"
He paused looking up, a smile that quite didn't meet his eyes pulled at his lips.
"Come now, Mr. Riftwalker! Don't be shy! You're Stage 6—surely you're not afraid of a little Stage 1 detective?"
Silence.
Then the auburn-haired operative materialized directly behind the Monster, crimson cleaver descending.
The Monster didn't turn around.
He traced runes in the air behind him—backwards, without looking—with his free hand.
Reflectix. Inversio.
The purer the essence, the stronger the spell.
The cleaver struck an invisible barrier and bounced back, the force redirected into the Riftwalker's own body.
The operative stumbled backward, surprised.
The Monster spun, finally facing him, and clapped his hands together.
"There you are! I was beginning to think you'd lost your nerve!"
The Riftwalker's expression darkened. "You talk too much."
"Do I? I've been told that. But I find conversation enriches the experience, don't you? Violence without context is just... trash."
He spread his arms wide, still smiling despite the blood streaming down his eyes.
"Now then. Shall we dance, you and I?"
He put a finger to his chin, seemingly in deep thought.
"And while I'm at it, maybe I can correct your.. poor use of essence. Essence craft is an art after all!"