Malikai lay there on the blood-red earth, eyes glazed over, staring into the perfect blue sky above.
His chest rose and fell slowly, his body fully healed again—but that last strike still echoed through his bones like a curse.
He blinked once. Twice.
"I'm pretty sure I can go head-to-head with early Nascent Soul cultivators… at least the ones with weak domains."
His fists clenched slowly, recalling the speed, weight, and fury behind that single strike.
"Then why… why was that clone of Dad so damn strong? What the hell did he comprehend at Nascent Soul?"
Once a cultivator broke into the Nascent Soul Realm, the game changed.
Every Nascent Soul cultivator had to form their personal domain. Not one in the world outside, but a miniature domain fused within their body. It clung to their bones, blood, and soul like a second skin. Every attack carried the weight of that domain's intent.
It wasn't just about spirit power anymore.
A sword swing wasn't just a sword swing. It was the will of flame, or death, or heaven itself behind that slash. A punch wasn't just strength—it was the roar of the sea or the silence of night or… in Astaroth's case—
Wrath.
And Slaughter.
The clone Malikai faced was a mirror of his father's younger self. At early Nascent Soul, Astaroth had already fused two domains in his body. One of pure, relentless slaughter. The other, boundless and unyielding wrath. His every blow screamed with the rage of a god of war and cut like a storm of a thousand blades.
That's why Malikai couldn't withstand even one strike.
And why Nascent Soul cultivators with weak domains got utterly crushed by those who'd forged something greater.
And at Spirit Folding Realm, when that domain could be projected outside the body?
Those with fragile domains couldn't even stand in the same battlefield as ones with powerful domains without coughing blood… or dying.
But Malikai didn't know that.
Not fully.
He only knew one thing: he refused to lose like that again.
A wide grin spread across his face, wild and sharp.
"Again."
He stood up. Wiped the blood off his lip.
Raised his head.
"Same opponent."
The tower shuddered.
That same pressure fell again like a mountain from the sky. The red dust swirled as that familiar figure reappeared—taller, darker, heavier.
The Nascent Soul Astaroth clone stood still for just a breath—then attacked.
Malikai was ready.
He raised both arms, wings flared, tail curled like a whip behind him.
The strike landed again.
BOOM.
He was launched back, tumbling across the red earth—but not unconscious. Not this time.
His arms cracked under the weight of the punch, but he wasn't shattered.
Malikai rolled, kicked off the ground, charged back in.
They clashed again.
One strike.
Then two.
Malikai lasted three seconds longer before getting slammed to the dirt once more.
He coughed up blood, body twitching—but he smiled.
"Again."
The clone reappeared.
Another clash.
This time, Malikai dodged the first strike and landed a glancing blow to the clone's ribs—he barely felt the impact before a second punch exploded into his gut, flattening him instantly.
His regeneration—normally blazing fast—slowed.
Slowed.
Because every punch was laced with intent.
Slaughter gnawed at his nerves like hungry teeth.
Wrath burned into his flesh like wildfire, corrupting the healing process itself.
Even his Eternal Godbody Codex groaned under the pressure.
Still—
"Again."
He lost.
"Again."
His bones fractured again and again.
But from one strike, he pushed to five.
Then ten.
Then a dozen.
He began to feel the flow of the battle—his fists collided with the clone's at angles that reduced the blow, his wings started intercepting the clone's flanking strikes, and his tail began matching speed for speed.
His muscles roared in pain with every movement.
But his spirit—
It roared louder.
"AGAIN!"
He stopped counting how many times he lost. Stopped keeping track of his wounds. Time blurred, red dust stained everything, the sky above unmoving, perfect, uncaring.
Each strike from the clone still felt like a volcanic eruption, a tidal wave of violence and fury, but Malikai pushed through them like a madman.
He bled, healed, bled again.
And somewhere in that whirlwind of punches, slashes, tail sweeps and wing clashes—
He forgot everything else.
No thoughts.
No distractions.
Just fists.
Just battle.
Until—
DING.
A flash of white light enveloped his body.
The battlefield froze.
Malikai was yanked from the endless battle without warning.
His eyes widened as the red sky vanished—and he was ejected from the tower, landing flat on his back in the real world outside.
Four hours had passed.
Just like that.
He stared at the ceiling, chest heaving, blood dried and flaking from his lips.
His entire body still screamed in pain.
But his grin?
Wider than ever.
"…Next time…" he muttered, voice cracked and dry. "…Next time I won't lose."
His fists twitched.
The battle obsession had taken root.
And deep in his soul… something had begun to stir.