(Jinx's POV)
"To be honest… I expected more of a fight." I sighed aloud, letting the ice settle in the air as the battlefield quieted. Riser's screams had long faded into a pitiful whimper inside his frozen prison. "Well, at least this wasn't a complete waste of time."
I flexed my fingers as my dark ice hand gently carried Yubelluna to my side, still locked in enchanted restraints. I could feel her trembling slightly—whether from fear or intrigue, I didn't know. Didn't really care either.
Hoped there'd be someone worth fighting in this whole clan… I mused inwardly. And maybe, just maybe, one of their so-called flames would match up to Mikoto's.
Adrael, clearly eager to end this spectacle, stepped forward and began conjuring a portal home, arcane circles forming beneath his feet. But apparently, Mother Nature had other plans for today—and she seemed just as keen on interruptions as I was on chaos.
A voice called out behind me, casual yet charged with challenge.
"Hmm… a guest who came all this way looking for a worthy duel," the voice said with a tinge of amused arrogance. "How about facing the heir of the fried chickens?"
I raised an eyebrow and slowly turned my head, catching sight of a man perched nonchalantly on a slab of broken arena stone. He looked like he'd walked out of a painting—refined, noble, almost too clean. A sword rested casually on his shoulder, and his clothes looked like some high-ranking general's uniform, complete with golden embroidery and proud insignia.
But it was his smug tone that did it.
"…I'm surprised you call yourself a fried chicken," I said with a smirk. "Didn't know the Phenex clan had a sense of humor. Except for Seraphina—she looks like fun."
"Thanks, sweetie!" Seraphina called from the stands, clearly delighted at the compliment.
I gave her a playful salute before turning back to the man on the rock. "If I had to guess… Ruval Phenex?"
He nodded once, dignified yet clearly holding back irritation.
"Yes. I am Ruval Phenex," he said coolly. "As much as I despise my younger brother's behavior, he is still family. It falls upon me to defend his honor. I hope you can understand."
As he spoke, golden flames erupted from his body. They didn't roar—they burned. Controlled, regal, ancient. The arena stone around him cracked and glowed as his aura surged, bathing the air in holy heat.
Not bad.
I tilted my head, unimpressed but not entirely dismissive. "Impressive. Mildly. But not much. My friend Mikoto could conjure double the output while sipping tea—and he's human."
That jab landed exactly where I wanted it to.
I saw the flash of annoyance in Ruval's otherwise calm expression. He wasn't used to being underestimated. Or mocked.
"But hey," I added with a grin, stepping forward and letting my own dark aura begin to rise like smoke off my skin, "let's not jump to conclusions, General Chicken. Show me what you've really got."
I cracked my neck once to the left, then once to the right, loosening the tension in my shoulders. The atmosphere was shifting. Unlike his brother's wild and arrogant flame, Ruval's energy was composed—golden fire rippling like a divine blaze, every movement measured like a seasoned general walking calmly into war. He wasn't here for pride or vengeance; he was here for principle. That alone made me raise an eyebrow.
"Very well," I said, stepping forward as the wind began to howl in the now-silent arena, "let's dance, Golden Rooster."
Ruval didn't laugh. He simply raised his sword—no, unveiled it. The air shimmered, twisted around the curved, burning length of it, like the world itself feared its touch. The weapon looked alive—like it breathed, pulsing with embers that clung to the metal like blood refusing to dry. He twirled it once, and flames danced from the edge like silk in the wind.
"This blade," Ruval said with calm reverence, "is Flamberge. Forged from the body, blood, and soul of Zhal'Rhazel—an ancient devil lord of flame who once defied the Satans. His magic, his mind, his wrath, are sealed in this steel. It burns hotter than any Hellfire you've ever seen, and today it burns for justice."
"Charming," I muttered, flexing my hand toward my sword, the one still humming on my belt, begging again to be unleashed. "Let's see which burns brighter—your ancient fire, or my imagination."
We clashed instantly.
The sound that rang out wasn't steel—it was raw pressure and elements colliding. His first strike ignited the air, forcing me to duck as it grazed overhead and exploded in a violent arc of fire that shattered the back wall of the arena. I dashed forward, spinning, redirecting a column of cold air as a makeshift shield. Ruval's blade cut through it like parchment—but it gave me the second I needed to twist behind him.
I slashed. He parried. A pulse of golden flame erupted, catching the edge of my coat on fire. I snarled and flared my cold aura—freezing the fire in an instant.
"You're not bad," I admitted. "In fact…"
I slid back as he surged forward, each step shattering the arena floor. I narrowly avoided a rising wave of golden magma as his blade struck the ground.
"…I might actually have to try."
With a flick of my wrist, I called the black and gray petals from earlier, still floating, still waiting. Winter Art: Petals of Shattered Winter. I snapped my fingers, and they obeyed.
They spiraled inward like a tornado of obsidian death, but Ruval's blade roared—emitting a pulse of ancient flame that vaporized dozens on contact. Dozens… but not all.
They swarmed again. This time I guided them with sharper precision, turning their formation into a spiraling drill. Ruval met it head-on—Flamberge flaring like a miniature sun.
We collided in a blast of steam and sparks.
Suddenly, he was behind me. I barely blocked in time. My blade shook, my arms tingled from the force. This guy wasn't playing. Each strike was deliberate—like he was reading not only my moves but intent.
"Damn," I whispered. "I really do have to try."
I slammed my hand to the ground, pouring mana into it. Cold surged outward—spiking in the form of massive frozen geysers. Cryo Surge: Arctic Nails. A new move, built on the fly.
Ruval sliced through them all.
But I wasn't done.
"Winter Art: Mirror of Hollow Frost!"
I conjured a glacial wall of crystal-clear ice behind me, then used it as a springboard to launch over Ruval's head. Mid-air, I called the rest of my black petals toward me, forming an elegant halberd made entirely of frost and pressure. I landed and swung.
He blocked, but skidded—feet carving trenches in the floor.
"Finally…" I said, breathing heavier than I liked. "A real fight."
Ruval grinned for the first time. "And we're only getting started."
He raised Flamberge to the sky. The blade's fire screamed. Fire runes glowed on the arena floor. He roared, "Ashen Rite: Infernal Judgement!"
Pillars of fire erupted like divine punishment. I barely dodged one, only for another to nick my shoulder—scorching pain lanced through me.
"Alright," I hissed, "you want divine?"
I focused, bringing every drop of mana into a point, remembering the coldest thing I could imagine—not just absence of heat, but absence of motion, of life. I tapped the hilt of my sword, and it pulsed with frozen malevolence.
"Winter Art: Cradle of the Deep Cold."
From my body spread a pulse so frigid, even sound seemed to slow. Frost devoured the floor. Steam hissed from Ruval's aura as my magic clashed with his.
Then I pushed further. I forged dozens of petals, forming a cross-spear. "Winter Art: Pale Thorn Aegis!"
Ruval charged, his sword blazing. I parried—barely. He forced me back with each step, but I twisted, redirected, and finally met his swing with my blade glowing black-magenta.
The result was cataclysmic.
An explosion of red and white, flame and frost—half the arena was incinerated, the other frozen solid.
We both stood, panting, blades at the ready.
And I laughed.
"This is what I wanted!" I yelled, spreading my arms wide. "A Phenex worthy of a name! So come on, Ruval! Show me the fire of your ancestors!"
And from the golden flames behind him, I saw his wings widen—and his eyes glow with deadly resolve.
(Ruval POV)
This... was unexpected.
Each swing of Flamberge should have carved ruin through the battlefield. Each technique I unleashed—refined through centuries of martial inheritance—should have forced this boy, this human, onto his knees. And yet, here he was. Still standing. Still smiling. Still dancing through my fire like it was falling snow.
The temperature continued to drop, countering my flame. The frost didn't just resist—it studied. Every fiery arc I threw, he dodged cleaner than the last. Every angle I attacked from, he deflected with increasingly calculated precision.
It wasn't just instinct.
It was understanding.
He ducked low under my horizontal sweep, pivoted on his heel, and tapped his sword gently against the back of my gauntlet. A mocking touch. Not an attack—an invitation. Then he kicked backward, launching himself into the air with a burst of icy petals and flipping into a ready stance midair.
And his eyes... Gods, those eyes weren't just watching.
They were recording.
"Tch," I muttered, grounding myself. "You're adapting faster than you should. No ordinary fighter would already be seeing through the tempo of my sword."
He chuckled from across the scorched and frozen battlefield, lowering his blade slightly as though to take a breath. "Well, I'm far from ordinary."
"Are you mimicking me?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.
"Oh, not just mimicking," Jinx said, tapping his temple with a sly grin. "You could say I have a... condition. A gift. It's called Overactive Imagination."
The name sounded ridiculous—until I felt the weight behind it.
"In short," he continued, walking slowly toward me through a gentle snowfall of black and silver petals, "I don't just see your moves—I understand them. Your style, your patterns, your rhythm. Every time you strike, you're teaching me. And I'm a fast learner."
He raised his sword again. "Keep it up, General Fried Chicken. I'm just getting warmed up."
The fire behind my eyes flared—but this time, with caution.
This boy had an unnatural gift. Like some monstrous child of genius and chaos. His movements were no longer reacting to mine; they were anticipating me. He shifted an instant before I moved, not after. It was as if I had become a character in a play that he'd already read.
We clashed again.
Sparks exploded.
Flamberge sang with fury, but Jinx's blade—wreathed in that strange magenta-tinged frost—met it every time. Even when I feinted, switching from right to left mid-stroke, he flowed into a deflective pirouette like it was choreographed.
This wasn't some fluke.
He had begun to rewrite the fight.
I conjured a circular storm of flame, embedding fire runes in the ground—a secret spell known only to the Phenex elite. "Solar Bind: Wings of Asura!" I roared, and from the sky, wings of golden fire descended, aiming to pin him in a crucifix of light.
And what did he do?
He smirked.
A swirling helix of black frost petals rose in an upward spiral. The flaming wings collided with it midair—and shattered into glowing embers. And in their wake, Jinx emerged, twirling his blade in a mock salute.
"Sorry," he said with a wink. "Your flames are good—but I've already figured them out."
I clenched my fists. Already? That technique had taken me over fifty years to master. And now he stood before me, not even winded, the battlefield evolving with his imagination.
"I see now," I said grimly. "You're not just a warrior… You're an artist. A dangerous one."
Jinx grinned. "Ding ding. Give the man a medal."
A low chuckle escaped me—bitter, but amused. "Then allow me to give you something you haven't seen before."
I raised Flamberge high, muttering an incantation lost to all but my bloodline. The runes on the blade burned crimson, then violet.
"Bloodbrand Inferno: The Devil's Requiem!"
The blade split in two, fire cascading in spirals, forming a devilish spear of spiraling flame in my off-hand. I hadn't drawn from Flamberge's soul in centuries—not since the last war.
Jinx raised an eyebrow.
"Oho? That's new."
"Let's see if you can 'imagine' your way through this."
Our blades met again—one fire, one frost—colliding not just with power, but with will.
This time, he staggered a step. Just one. But it was real.
His laughter faltered for a moment, replaced by a calculating grin.
"I'll admit…" he murmured. "Now you've got my attention."
(3rd Person POV)
The clash of frost and flame quieted momentarily as Jinx forced Ruval back, carving out precious space between them. Frost still shimmered in the air, like glittering ash after a wildfire.
Jinx stood tall, exhaling slowly as his sword—Shinigami-no-Kureha—quivered faintly in his grip. Though it was a weapon of death and darkness, bearing a lineage tied to his affinity with cold and curses, it lacked the resonance he needed now. Something within him, deep and intuitive, recognized the imbalance.
He lowered the blade, then gently sheathed it with a faint, metallic whisper that rang across the arena. His gaze lifted to Ruval, solemn and resolute.
"I must apologize," Jinx said, his voice calm, yet oddly formal. "I disrespected you by wielding a sword I haven't yet harmonized with. You fight with your signature weapon, Flamberge—a blade crafted from fire and legacy. It's only right I meet you with mine."
A flicker in the air shimmered to Jinx's right—a medium vortex, pulsing with muted echoes of the void. Without looking, he reached into the swirling veil and grasped something ancient, heavy… familiar. From the vortex, he pulled forth a massive greatsword, aged yet impossibly radiant, and slung it over his shoulder as the portal sealed behind him.
Ruval narrowed his eyes, the flames around him flickering with disdain. "What is that old relic supposed to do, human?" he scoffed, though his tone lacked its earlier confidence.
Jinx's eyes remained locked with his opponent, unreadable. "First," he replied, voice cool as the frost still lingering in the air, "I'm not human. Not anymore. I'm... something else." He gave a faint smirk and gestured to the six fallen angel wings unfurled behind him, black and luminous with corrupted grace. "I wasn't always fallen—but to draw out this sword's full potential, the change was... necessary."
Then, with reverence, he raised the greatsword above his head.
The clouds above parted slightly as if listening. The air grew still. And then, with voice like distant thunder, Jinx began to recite:
"You stood unseen, yet ever near,
A voice in shadow, soft and clear.
O silver moon, my silent flame,
Guide me now, as once you came,
My true mentor, my guiding moonlight."
The words echoed through the arena like a prayer forgotten by time.
Suddenly, the ground and air trembled faintly as greenish-blue mana began to surge in from all directions. The very world seemed to breathe. Light and magic coiled around the blade in Jinx's hand, illuminating it with a divine glow. The blade's surface transformed, shimmering like moonlight on a lake—soft, endless, pure.
Yet for all its beauty, the energy pouring from it was heavy, dense with holy power so concentrated it made the hairs on Ruval's neck stand up. Even the flames around his feet recoiled slightly.
The spectators—including the Phenex family, Yubelluna, and even the other devils present—watched in awe as the radiant blade came into full view. It was unlike any holy weapon they had ever seen: regal, ethereal, ancient. The kind of sword born not from mortal hands, but from myth.
"Behold," Jinx said, his tone now carrying the gravity of truth, "the sword I acquired from a man who tried to save everyone, even at the cost of himself."
He stepped forward, lowering the gleaming weapon into a ready stance, the moonlight humming along its edge.
"Be grateful, Ruval. You now face the Holy Moonlight Sword."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. The moon's light subtly intensified above, as if answering the call. The battlefield stood between fire and moonlight, between a legacy of noble devils and a weapon blessed by sacrifice.
And somewhere in the silence, even Ruval Phenex felt a chill.
Not from the cold.
From respect.
The arena was silent.
No one dared breathe as the glow of the Holy Moonlight Sword shimmered in Jinx's hand like liquid starlight. Ruval Phenex stood across from him, his blazing sword Flamberge still seething with infernal heat. But even that mighty devil-forged blade seemed to dim in the presence of the sword Jinx now held.
The two combatants locked eyes—frost and fire, moonlight and brimstone.
Then Jinx moved.
With a swift, fluid slash of the radiant greatsword, a crescent-shaped wave of pure holy energy burst from the blade, soaring across the arena like a silent comet. The light wasn't blinding—it was beautiful, serene, inevitable. And Ruval, for the first time in their duel, didn't attack.
He dodged.
Leaping back with a powerful beat of his flame-forged wings, he barely avoided the slash—just as it tore through the ground, carving a glowing trench into the arena's enchanted floor. The impact didn't explode with force, but rather with presence. The air trembled. The stone hissed with purification. And where the slash struck, no fire could rekindle.
"Careful now," Jinx said with a casual tone, launching another two flying slashes, crisscrossing mid-air like silver threads of fate. "I wouldn't want my little light show to burn a noble devil."
Ruval gritted his teeth, weaving between the incoming arcs of magic with narrowed eyes. These weren't ordinary spells. Each strike was a blade in motion—a memory carved from the past, filled with the will of its former wielder. Even brushing one would be catastrophic. His instincts screamed it.
"I see now…" Ruval muttered, sweat beading at his brow as he parried a stray shockwave with Flamberge. "You're holding back."
Jinx stopped, standing tall as the moonlight continued to ripple from his blade like mist.
"I was," he said bluntly. "But only because I didn't think this would be a challenge. You've proven me wrong, Ruval Phenex."
Jinx's tone shifted, growing colder, heavier. "But this little warm-up has gone on long enough."
The arena dimmed, not from the loss of light, but from the overwhelming brilliance gathering around Jinx. With deliberate motion, he brought the Holy Moonlight Sword to his center, gripping it with both hands.
The ground trembled beneath his feet as the very mana in the air bent to his will. Swirling winds of greenish-blue energy rose around him in spirals, lifting his coat, his hair, his wings. The runes on the blade flared like stars being born.
Ruval took a step back. The air was too thick. His flames sputtered unnaturally. Something was coming—something divine.
Jinx raised the blade high into the air, its edge pointed at the sky as if he meant to split the heavens.
Then, with a deep voice that echoed not just in the ears, but in the soul, Jinx called out:
"Moonlight Art: Final Judgement Eclipse."
The sky above seemed to crack. A beam of pure moonlight, holy and ancient, crashed down from the heavens and met Jinx's blade. The two energies fused—his sword glowing like a newborn sun, neither hot nor cold, but simply... perfect.
Jinx swung the blade down in a slow, ceremonial arc.
And the beam answered.
A massive column of divine energy, greenish-blue and rimmed with radiant silver, erupted from the blade and engulfed the battlefield in an explosion of moonfire and judgement. It wasn't a violent blast—it was a purge, silent and overwhelming.
Ruval barely had time to form a flaming barrier, crossing Flamberge in front of him as the wave hit. The shield of infernal fire buckled instantly, his feet digging trenches into the stone as he was pushed back, roaring in effort. Every flame screamed in protest. Every ember tried to flee. The heat of devils was smothered beneath the weight of the moon.
When the light finally faded… silence remained.
The arena was carved with lunar scars. Stone, once enchanted and indestructible, now bore glowing runes of purity, burning softly in the aftermath. Jinx stood in the center, his blade at his side, breathing calmly.
Ruval was still on his feet—barely. His clothes were scorched, his blade cracked and steaming, his golden flames reduced to flickers. And yet, the look in his eyes was not hatred.
It was respect.
Jinx turned, already sheathing his sword.
"You're strong, Ruval. Stronger than I expected," he said over his shoulder, not gloating, just stating a fact. "But you're not ready."
He looked up at the sky—calm, moonlit.
"Train. Learn. Come back when you have the strength to protect everything with your flames… not just your pride."
Then, with a snap of his fingers, the petals of gray ice from earlier formed into a path beneath his feet. He walked away, leaving Ruval kneeling among the ruins of the battlefield, still staring at the heavens where judgment had descended.
(3rd Person POV)
The battlefield lay silent under the ghostly afterglow of the Holy Moonlight Sword's judgement. Broken stone. Dim, flickering embers. Cracks in the very enchantments of the arena—each a glowing wound left by divinity itself.
In the center, Jinx exhaled calmly as the glow faded from his blade. Beside him, Yubelluna floated gently in the grasp of an ice-forged hand, her body limp but alive. Ruval Phenex, the proud heir of the clan, lay kneeling, his breath ragged, flames extinguished, and sword buried tip-first beside him, melted at the edges.
From the stands, Adrael Phenex walked forward, his boots crunching the moon-kissed stone. His face was solemn, but not angry. He had just witnessed something that hadn't graced the underworld in a very long time: a power that belonged in legend.
"...Are you ready?" Adrael asked, stopping beside Jinx and glancing at the near-unconscious Ruval. "He's alive, at least."
Jinx nodded without looking at Ruval. "Yes," he said simply, then added with a faint grin, "But tell Riser I'll be back. I'm still taking another from his peerage next time."
Adrael's brow arched slightly. "Bold."
"I'm not interested in playing nice with rotting flames," Jinx muttered, then casually snapped his fingers. The Iron Maiden of Frozen Thorns surrounding Riser creaked and bloomed open, the chains retracting as the cold petals drifted to the ground like ash. Riser collapsed out of it, coughing and trembling, too weak to even curse.
A moment later, Adrael raised his hand, summoning a circular golden sigil beneath Jinx and Yubelluna. Magic surged.
"Be safe," Adrael said softly.
"In this world?" Jinx smirked. "No such thing."
The spell triggered.
In a blink of light and frost, Jinx and Yubelluna vanished—swallowed by the portal, leaving only the echo of cold laughter behind.
Silence returned again, if only briefly.
But not for long.
With a sudden flash of blue light, a swirling portal cracked open beside Adrael, immediately followed by a second portal of deep crimson hue. Two figures stepped through, each radiating an aura that caused the very air to still.
Serafall Leviathan, the Leviathan of the current Four Satans, emerged first, dressed in her usual frilly, deceptively cute outfit—but her expression was grave. Her eyes flicked around, taking in the battle-scarred arena, the barely conscious Ruval, and the battered Riser.
And behind her came Sirzechs Lucifer, resplendent in his dark robes, crimson hair flowing gently, his power veiled but undeniably vast. He looked... concerned.
"Adrael Phenex," Sirzechs said, stepping forward, his voice calm but edged with authority. "We sensed an enormous outpouring of holy energy in this area. Unnatural. Old. Almost divine."
Serafall's brow furrowed. "It even tore through some of the dimensional veils. Whatever it was... it wasn't normal. What happened here?"
Adrael's expression didn't change. He bowed slightly in respect. "Forgive the chaos, Lord Lucifer, Lady Leviathan. You arrived just moments after the dust settled."
He stood upright and calmly continued, voice measured and composed. "There was... a complicated situation. My daughter, Ravel, was taken by a rogue element outside our radar. However, she was saved—thanks to someone she encountered during the ordeal. A warrior."
Serafall and Sirzechs exchanged a glance.
Adrael went on, cool and collected. "She introduced him to us. A stranger, yes. But he acted honorably and ensured her safety. Then… my son, Riser, became arrogant. He challenged the warrior—despite my objections—and was swiftly defeated."
Sirzechs looked at the injured Riser, who hadn't even risen from the ground yet.
"Ruval, seeing his younger brother humiliated, chose to fight in his stead. I allowed it, as both agreed to the terms. What followed was... beyond anything I expected. An exceptional battle. But in the end…"
Adrael paused for emphasis.
"A single holy technique ended their duel."
Serafall's lips parted in shock. "A holy attack? Powerful enough to do this?"
Sirzechs's eyes narrowed. "And this warrior… who is he?"
Adrael met their gazes with an unreadable look, masking every trace of emotion. "That… I cannot say. He has since left. He did not give a name."
A beat of silence.
Sirzechs stared for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "Very well. But we'll be watching. Whoever wields that kind of holy power in the underworld… friend or not… cannot go unnoticed for long."
Serafall's expression softened, almost knowingly. "We'll trust your judgment… for now."
Adrael gave a polite nod. "Thank you."
As the two Satans turned toward the remnants of the battlefield, their faces veiled in concern and thought, Adrael allowed himself a moment to glance at the sky—where the afterimage of moonlight and judgment still faintly shimmered.
You've made your entrance, Jinx, he thought. Now let's see how long the underworld can forget your name.