Arlen steadied his blades—and vanished.
Raikiri screamed as it cut the air. Soul Eater followed a heartbeat later. Twin arcs of death crossed toward the goddess who had dared challenge him.
Astrea didn’t move.
Not at first.
Then space .
His blades passed where she had been—empty air—before a fist smashed into his ribs with surgical precision. Arlen flew backward, skidding across stone, boots tearing grooves into the floor.
Every eye in the sanctuary followed the exchange. Even Solon leaned forward.
Arlen rose with a snarl and rushed again.
Slash. Thrust. Feint.
Blocked. Slipped. Punished.
Astrea didn’t just defend—she answered
It was pure, merciless mastery.
She was
with him.
“You see?” she said calmly as she sidestepped a downward strike and drove her elbow into his spine. “This is what happens when someone relies on desperation instead of discipline.”
Arlen staggered, spun, and swung again—only to feel her knee crash into his stomach.
Air exploded from his lungs.
“Do you want to stand beside Cornea with this resolve?” Astrea continued, voice cold, unwavering.
Another kick.
“Do you want to face Chronos like this?”
A palm strike to the jaw.
“Do you want to call yourself a God Slayer
She backhanded him across the face.
“You’re weak.”
The word landed harder than any blow.
Arlen pushed himself up, blood dripping from his mouth. His demonic eye burned crimson.
“I’ve won countless battles!” he roared. “I survived hell itself! I win this too—!”
Astrea kicked him in the gut before he could finish.
“You survived,” she snapped. “You didn’t anything.”
She grabbed him by the collar and hurled him like debris.
“All you know how to do is take hits and pray someone heals you afterward. You never learned how to fight
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Arlen tried to rise again.
She stepped on his chest and pressed him back down.
“I read Solon’s records,” Astrea said, looking down at him—disappointed, almost bored.
“You killed lesser gods too arrogant to defend themselves.”
“You defeated Caelus by holding his throne hostage.”
“You fought Dryas when she wasn’t trying to kill you.”
“You butchered Ianthe when she was drunk on her own vanity.”
“You defeated Nomos after his mind was already shattered.”
She leaned closer, eyes sharp as blades.
“You lost to Chronos.”
“You lost to Mortis.”
“And when you , it was because others pinned them down for you.”
She seized his hair and slammed him into the ground.
“You have never
beaten a true combat god in a fair fight.”
Silence followed.
Astrea released him and stepped back.
“I expected more,” she said flatly.
“But all I see is a desperate boy carried forward by pain, relics, and borrowed miracles.”
She turned away.
“What a disappointment.”
Dryas watched the exchange—and something in her chest tightened.
This felt familiar.
Too familiar.
Astrea’s cruelty mirrored Arlen’s words during her duel with Caelus. The way he had torn into her hesitation. The way his harshness had forced her to take that one step forward.
Her hands clenched.
“Arlen!
“No matter what anyone says—you are weak. Someone who gave me freedom can never be weak.”
Tethys stumbled forward, small fists clenched.
“Someone who saved me from Mortis can never be weak!”
Cornea stepped beside them, her presence heavy, commanding.
“Someone who helped me fulfil my revenge can never be weak.”
Nyx moved next, standing shoulder to shoulder with them.
“Someone who accepted a half-angel like me without hesitation can never be weak.”
Grom roared, voice shaking the hall.
“Someone I call my rival can never be weak!”
Aura appeared last, wings fluttering faintly.
“Someone who dragged me back from death itself can never be weak.”
Cornea’s voice rose above them all—sharp, absolute.
“You don’t have to listen to this hag’s words. You are my
Astrea laughed.
A short, cutting sound.
“That’s it?” she scoffed. “A chorus of praise for a wounded puppy?”
Then—
Arlen moved.
He pushed himself upright.
His face was swollen. Blood stained his lips. His legs trembled beneath him.
But his eyes—
Clear.
Steady.
Awake.
The crimson glow in his demonic eye returned—but not with rage.
With understanding
“You’re right, Astrea,” he said quietly.
“I’m not as strong as you. Not as fast. Not as skilled. Not as precise.”
He took a step forward.
“But I will still win.”
Astrea’s brow furrowed.
“Because this isn’t a duel,” Arlen continued.
“It’s a war. A war against Chronos. A war of personal revenge.”
He exhaled. “And the only fairness in war— is being unfair.”
He let Soul Eater fall.
Raikiri followed.
Then Oath Binder.
Then Null Shroud.
Metal struck stone.
Silence followed.
Arlen stepped forward—empty-handed.
Astrea’s eyes widened slightly.
“Do you think you can defeat me without your relics—”
She stopped. Eyes narrowed to witness something manifesting around him.
A white staff
manifested in Arlen’s left hand—overflowing with radiant life.
Tethys gasped, tears spilling down her cheeks.
“Th-that’s… Caelus’ staff…”
Golden arrows formed in the air around Arlen, orbiting him slowly—silent, patient.
Dryas whispered without realizing it.
“Nomos’ Judgement Arrows…”
A quill appeared in his right hand—dark, ancient, heavy with defiance. A quill that can write freedom from destiny - a liberty to write your own fate.
Cornea’s breath caught. “…Lysander’s quill.”
Arlen smiled.
Not cruel.
Not manic.
Clear.
The blood of those three he had drunk surged within him—then settled
He had never known them. Yet he understood them better than anyone.
Astrea stared.
For the first time—
Uncertain.
“You said I can’t win against Chronos in a fair one-on-one,” Arlen said softly.
“So how about this?”
He raised the staff. The arrows flared. The quill glowed.
“I make it an unfair four-on-one.”
His demonic eye blazed.
“Can you still beat me?”
