The world beyond the shadows was silent.
As Leonhart stepped out of the veil, the air thickened around him like unseen chains, wrapping around his limbs and lungs. The landscape had shifted—twisted towers, cracked earth, and skies choked in crimson clouds. This was not the land he knew. It was... the threshold of ruin.
And waiting at its heart stood him.
Tall. Unmoving. A figure cloaked in an aura darker than night itself.
"Satan," Leonhart whispered, the name escaping like frost from his lips.
The enemy's presence wasn't just visible—it was felt. The ground pulsed beneath his feet as though the world rejected this being's existence. Shadows crawled unnaturally across the rocks, as if fleeing his steps.
"You took your time," Satan said, his voice smooth but echoing with venom. "Was the fire of vengeance not enough to bring you sooner?"
Leonhart clenched his fists. His memories burned: villages consumed, friends lost, the screams in the night. All paths had led to this meeting.
"This ends here," Leonhart replied, voice low but steady. "I don't care how deep the darkness runs—I'll cut through it."
Satan chuckled. "Such fire... Let's see how long it burns."
In a blink, he moved. Faster than any mortal eye could follow. Leonhart barely drew his blade before a wave of force slammed into him, hurling him across the field. He rolled, dug his boots into the dirt, and leapt up, eyes blazing.
Their clash began—not with swords, but with willpower.
Satan raised his hand, and tendrils of shadow surged from the ground. Leonhart dodged, slicing through the dark with golden arcs of flame. Every strike from Satan was cold precision, every counter from Leonhart fierce defiance.
The sky roared above them.
Sparks danced from their blades, colliding like clashing fates. Leonhart's shoulder ached; Satan had begun to anticipate him. This wasn't a mindless brute—this was a tactician, a predator.
"Do you see now?" Satan said, circling him like a beast. "You are light. I am the storm that devours it."
Leonhart spat blood, smiling. "Then let me be the wildfire."
With a surge of strength, he plunged his blade into the ground. Flames erupted, spiraling like a dragon's breath. The shadows screamed, recoiling. Even Satan flinched—if only for a moment.
That moment was enough.
Leonhart launched forward, sword raised, fury unleashed.
But Satan... smiled.
From behind Leonhart, a surge of dark energy exploded—an illusion, a trap. It hurled him high into the air, then slammed him to the ground like a falling star. The impact cracked the earth beneath him.
Dust clouded the battlefield.
Silence fell again.
Satan approached slowly, blade forming from pure shadow in his hand. "You're not ready. Not yet. But soon… you will burn for real."
Before Leonhart could rise, Satan stepped back into the veil—his form vanishing with a hiss of black mist.
Leonhart lay broken, but his spirit ignited. He had seen his enemy. Measured him. Felt the weight of true darkness.
And survived.
The war had only begun.