The sky was caving in.
From the shattered top of the Dark Tower, Chalice and the Devil of Light plummeted through the air like comets gone mad. The city screamed below them—half of it already swallowed by ruins, the other half reeling from the aftershock of godhood.
Chalice rotated, sword flicking up with perfect economy. His blade wove patterns in the air—strikes that curved through physics, carving against the pressure of the fall.
The Devil of Light was laughing.
Not loud. Just low. Confident. As if this chaos belonged to him.
And then—shing—a blade of light shimmered into being beneath his feet, narrow and curved like a crescent moon. He stepped onto it mid-air, letting it carry him in a shallow arc while Chalice continued falling, free.
"You know," the Devil of Light called over the howl of the wind, golden eyes narrowing with amusement, "I've used that move before. Fragment of Hell."
Chalice didn't look up yet. He twisted mid-air, catching the gleam of the fractured skyline below.
The northern edge of the city was rubble—blackened, hollowed, buried. And deeper still, beneath the wreckage, something old was still burning.
The Devil of Light continued:
"Same move I used to erase the Northern Banner. Back when they still believed in you."
Chalice's eyes darkened—but he didn't flinch. He didn't scream. He simply adjusted the angle of his sword and turned his body, air coiling around him like silk drawn taut.
His voice, when it came, was quiet.
"You've always talked too much."
And then he vanished.
Chalice surged upward from below like a blade unsheathed—swinging straight for the Devil of Light's throat.
The Devil of Light grinned.
And the second skyfall began.
Chalice and the Devil of Light blurred through the sky, fists and shockwaves breaking apart what clouds remained. Each blow from Chalice carved air into symmetrical slices, his swordsmanship not just lethal but beautiful—the kind of technique that made violence feel like art. His motions were honed to the millimeter, refined by decades of war, a rhythm guided not by instinct but by will.
But the Devil of Light—he didn't move. He vanished, and reappeared mid-strike, hands crashing with radiant weight, each flick of his limbs sending afterimages into existence. Light wasn't an aura around him; it was a medium, a dimension, a kingdom that belonged to him. And he wielded it effortlessly.
They clashed again.
Boom.
A crater erupted mid-air. Pure force, bound to no terrain, swallowed itself into spiraling spheres before detonating. Their figures flickered—first above the clouds, then near the mountains, then down again.
Chalice flipped mid-air, parried a lance of light with his bare hand, spun around the Devil's shoulder, and struck downward with a crescent slash. It missed—barely—but sliced a floating landmass clean in half.
Then—
There was no warning.
No wind. No glow.
Just a flicker.
And a beam of pure judgment.
A sword of light pierced through Chalice's torso.
It didn't burst or burn—it simply was, and then it was inside him, impaling him clean, dragging his body across the horizon in a streak of divine light.
Chalice smashed into the ruins below. The already shattered continent groaned, another tectonic crack forming as his body cratered through ancient stone.
The Devil of Light descended slowly, a thin line of gold beneath his feet. Dust curled around him, his coat snapping once in the wind.
Chalice lay impaled on the sword, breathing—barely. The golden blade vibrated softly, resonating like a tuning fork in silence.
The Devil of Light approached, gaze cool, voice detached:
"What is your goal, son of war?"
"Why return now, after all this time? I let you live once. And now you bare your teeth like some mad stray. You bite the hand that feeds you?"
Chalice opened his mouth.
Blood leaked out first.
But then came words—hoarse, arrogant, unbending.
"You simply need to die."
The Devil of Light narrowed his eyes.
Chalice's lip twitched into a smirk.
"Everything else means nothing to you."
And then—
He moved.
One hand lifted slowly to his side, trembling. Not in pain—but in activation.
"Heaven's Radiance."
A pulse. Golden light bled from Chalice's skin—not from Essence, but something older. The ground beneath him glowed in response, a thin sigil pattern flaring across the crater. His entire body became a conduit of divinity.
Then it appeared.
The Thread.
A strand of something unseen—so thin it looked like a scratch in reality—snapped into existence. It linked Chalice's chest to the Devil's.
The Devil of Light stepped back, slightly. His brow furrowed.
"…What is that?"
Chalice exhaled.
"Soul Tie."
The thread pulsed once. Not bright, not loud—just real.
"A bond between your soul and mine. If you violate my law, it drains you."
The Devil of Light stood still. For the first time, his body tensed.
"…What law?"
Chalice rose to his feet. The sword still jutted through his chest, but he moved like it was no longer there. As if divinity overrode damage.
He looked the Devil of Light in the eyes and said, with a breath of finality:
"If you exist… you are breaking it."
Silence.
Then—
The thread trembled.
The Devil of Light staggered—slightly. Just enough to feel something taken from him. Not Essence. Not flesh.
Potential.
"…You…"
His eyes widened—the first sign of surprise. Cold surprise.
"What kind of cursed technique is this…? How is this not recorded…?"
Chalice didn't answer.
He just stood there—burning with radiant gold, a law wrapped around his soul like armor.
The Devil of Light stared. Not furious. Not impressed. Just confused.
"Where is the drawback?"
He looked down at his own hand. Light faltered along his fingers.
Chalice smiled faintly. A smile of a man not explaining anything.
"Then don't exist."
The sky groaned.
And with that—
The battle of gods resumed.
One born of absolute light.
One forged in the absence of it.
And for the first time, the Devil of Light felt something foreign:
Fear.