Solon descended slowly from above, his cane tapping against the void as if striking the spine of existence itself.

  Mortis’ every instinct screamed at him to flee.

  Run.

  Hide.

  Disappear.

  But he couldn’t. Not here. Not in front of the other gods.

  This was the moment his plans—centuries layered upon centuries of manipulation—were meant to bloom. He could not fail

  Forcing his trembling legs to straighten, Mortis lifted his head.

  “That’s impossible, Gatekeeper,” he said, forcing a smile that barely held together. “You know me. granted me my relic. Do you truly believe I would commit such blasphemy as reaching for the Primordial Father’s throne? You should not trust the words of filthy demons.”

  Solon sighed.

  Not in anger.

  Not in doubt.

  In pity.

  “Very well, God of Death,” Solon said calmly. “I am the Gatekeeper of Aethel’s remaining authority—his sacred relics. I do not take sides.”

  His gaze shifted, ancient and heavy.

  “The God Slayer has accused you of plotting to seize the Throne of Aethel. You deny this charge.”

  Mortis swallowed.

  “Then there is only one way to resolve this matter.”

  The air itself stiffened.

  “A duel.”

  Every god present stiffened.

  “A duel between the two concerned parties,” Solon continued.

  “Arlen—the half-demon known as the God Slayer—

  and Mortis—the Throne Holder of Death.”

  Solon’s cane struck the ground once.

  “I will bear witness.”

  Then his gaze hardened.

  “God of Death. Open the way to your Throne.”

  Mortis’ hands trembled violently.

  Opening his domain meant exposing everything—

  including Tethys.

  But refusing Solon was unthinkable.

  Better to fight a half-demon…

  than face the Gatekeeper’s judgment.

  With clenched teeth, Mortis raised his hand.

  The world split open.

  A pitch-black throne room unfolded—vast, suffocating, eternal.

  At its centre stood the Throne of Death, forged from obsidian and jewels so sharp with brilliance they hurt to behold.

  “Nyx,” Arlen said quietly. “Take Tethys.”

  Nyx nodded and lifted the unconscious water goddess into her arms.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Arlen stepped forward, following Solon and Mortis into the abyss.

  The others followed—

  gods, demons, Cornea, Dryas—

  all witnesses to what would be carved into history.

  Grom entered last, guarding Nyx as she carried Tethys deeper into the domain.

  Solon spoke again.

  “To ensure fairness, both combatants may choose one ally

  His gaze swept the room.

  “I will judge this duel personally.”

  Mortis smiled at last.

  “Then my choice is obvious.”

  Chronos stepped forward.

  The God of Time moved like a hollow shell—eyes empty, devotion absolute.

  The other gods noticed nothing wrong.

  Arlen turned.

  There was only one obvious choice for him.

  Cornea stepped forward, predatory smile curling across her lips.

  Her power had fully returned.

  Her blood pact with Arlen burned like a brand.

  And above all—

  Mortis had murdered her father.

  But before she could reach Arlen’s side—

  “Wait.”

  Dryas stepped forward.

  “I will fight.”

  Silence crushed the chamber.

  Cornea’s smile didn’t fade—but something fractured behind it.

  “You are mortal,” the Demon Queen said softly. “You will die easily. And unlike you, can fight beside him properly. This battle is personal to me.”

  Dryas shook her head.

  And for the first time, both Arlen and Cornea saw it

  Not the gentle Dryas.

  Not the healer.

  Not the kind goddess who wept for every life.

  But something violent.

  A storm.

  A pressure held too long.

  Was it rage?

  Hatred?

  Trust?

  Duty?

  Arlen couldn’t tell.

  But it was real

  “Let her fight,” Arlen said quietly.

  Cornea looked at him sharply.

  “I don’t know what it is,” he continued, “but it feels like she has something to show us. Something even doesn’t fully understand yet.”

  Even Solon shifted uneasily by his decision—but he did not interfere.

  Cornea could have ended the argument with a word.

  Instead, she leaned down, grabbed Dryas by the collar, and whispered coldly into her ear:

  “If you dare lose this duel…

  I will drag your soul through the deepest pits of hell until it breaks.

  Remember that.”

  Then she stepped back. “but for now, I will trust his instincts.”

  Arlen moved forward.

  Dryas stood beside him.

  “Let’s do it.”

  The duel was declared.

  Mortis laughed—low, mocking, dripping with contempt.

  “If Lysander’s daughter had stood beside you, this might have been troublesome,” he sneered. “But instead, you chose .”

  His gaze slid to Dryas like a blade.

  “A goddess who spent her existence coddling forests and insignificant animals. And now? She doesn’t even possess divinity.” His grin widened. “You’ve made this laughably easy.”

  He spread his arms.

  “I don’t know how you managed to deceive the Gatekeeper into allowing this farce—but the outcome is already decided. After I kill you both, I’ll deal with Lysander’s daughter next. Slowly. Carefully.”

  Cornea’s fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.

  “But first,” Mortis continued, voice thick with relish, “I will slaughter every last being in the underworld… and devour her memories, just as I did her father’s.”

  The air trembled.

  Cornea did not move.

  She did not lash out.

  She did not scream.

  She had already entrusted everything—her revenge, her life, her hatred—to this reckless half-demon she created with her own hands.

  And she would see that decision through.

  Arlen didn’t answer Mortis.

  Instead, he spoke softly.

  “Dryas. Step back.”

  Mortis raised an eyebrow.

  “I don’t know what you’re trying to do yet,” Arlen continued calmly, eyes never leaving the God of Death, “but Cornea taught me something important.”

  He tightened his grip on Raikiri.

  “Find the answer yourself.”

  Then, without looking at her—

  “Heal me from the rear. Until you find your purpose in this duel.”

  Dryas hesitated only a second… then nodded.

  Arlen drew both blades.

  Raikiri crackled faintly.

  Soul Eater drank the air.

  “Well then, God of Death,” Arlen said evenly, “it seems I’m at a severe disadvantage—facing two throne holders at once.”

  A thin smile curved his lips.

  “So before we begin… indulge my curiosity.”

  Mortis scoffed. “You think questions will save you?”

  Arlen ignored him.

  “Nomos.”

  The name landed like a hammer.

  “You could have simply altered his memories—made him guard those angels for your breeding schemes.”

  Arlen’s eyes sharpened.

  “So tell me—why did you turn him into a instead?”

  Mortis’ smile twitched.

  “And my other question,” Arlen continued, voice colder now.

  “Lysander.”

  Cornea’s breath hitched.

  “You could have killed him with a single touch. He was a threat—yes—but not one that required finesse.”

  Arlen stepped forward.

  “So why take the long way?”

  “Why erase his memories?”

  “Why leave him alive… broken… until he destroyed himself?”

  Silence pressed down on the Throne of Death.

  Arlen raised his blades.

  Mortis laughed, “very well. I will fulfil your final wish and answer your questions?”