The Spiral has shattered under the weight of illusion, now hardened into a pure battleground. The ground cracks, the air heavy with the scent of iron and blood, and the spiraling sky darkens, cloaked in a crimson mist. The clang of chains and the mocking laughter of giants fill the arena.

  At the center of the field, a colossal figure looms, towering over mere mortals from a throne forged of skulls. Strands of long red hair cascade down, while large, blackened horns rise, framing a skin tinged with violet, marred by countless scars. One yellow eye glows like a dying ember.

  In his right hand, he grips a massive stone goblet brimming with crimson liquid, while his left hand clutches a spiked mace, towering as high as a grown man. Each breath he takes sends tremors through the Spiral.

  Shuten-dōji, the Oni King.

  A legend of city slaughter, a sovereign of the Oni, a blood-besotted wretch, whose smile often heralds massacre rather than greeting.

  Fitran stepped into the fray, an aura of Voidlight flickering around him, a bluish-gray radiance pulsating gently, dispelling the tension thick in the air. It was a haunting reminder of the chaos that sparked the very creation of this Spiral—a realm birthed from blood and agony, its despair hanging in the air like dust.

  Shuten-dōji laughed, his voice grinding like stone underfoot, “Haha! You… the one who has slain foxes, deities, even the guardians of the Spiral? Your frame is small, your eyes shadowed, yet I can smell death trailing closely behind you!”

  “That scent,” Fitran replied, stepping closer, his eyes glinting sharply beneath the darkened sky, “is merely an unspoken lesson. Sometimes, a teacher must render a lesson through the embodiment of his own pupil. Do you wish to learn from me, Oni?” His voice resonated with calm, though a subtle threat lingered in the cadence. Each of his steps was calculated, as if he were treading upon an invisible spider's web. “Or would you prefer to watch as your own path leads to emptiness?”

  “That aroma,” Fitran stated with an air of tranquility, “is the consequence of neglected teachings. Occasionally, to impart knowledge, a mentor must manifest the lessons through his student.” He advanced with purpose, his Voidlight aura pulsing, each step deliberate and strategized. “Do you wish to learn from me, Oni? Or will you choose to become a tragic example in the dark pages of history?”

  “You are quite bold, daring to yearn for what is lost,” Shuten-dōji retorted, his expression radiating sharp skepticism. “Do all deceivers like yourself ultimately find themselves at my feet?”

  “They come one by one, believing that sheer physical strength can outmatch intellect,” Fitran smirked, his smile concealing a shadowy undertone. “Let me show you a game that runs deeper, one that challenges the very limits of understanding. I have always seen the lowest point as merely a new beginning.”

  Fitran raised an eyebrow, his tone laced with mockery, “And I catch your scent, Oni, the odor of blood fermentation enveloping your breath. It seems this underworld is lacking in cleanliness, or have you truly emerged from the darkness of your heart?”

  Shuten-dōji took a gulp from his cup, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth onto the earth, releasing steam in the oppressive heat. He rose, the ground trembling beneath his weight, “Few mortals dare to stand before me without quaking. Those who usually challenge me, always end up headless. Are you prepared to share a drink with me, or shall I simply hurl you into hell?”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Fitran hoisted Voidlight onto his shoulder, the weapon vibrating with latent threat, radiating a wave of energy that cleaved the air around him. He focused, maintaining an appearance of calm, yet his gaze ignited like lightning, “I haven’t come to indulge in folly, nor to engage in needless chatter. However, I respect those brave enough to confront their fates, no matter how lethal it may prove.” Steam from the Voidlight enveloped the vicinity, amplifying the tension of the deathly aura surrounding him.

  Shuten-dōji's laughter erupted through the darkness, echoing ominously, “I am captivated by your fervor! Yet here in this arena, words are mere weapons for the victor. Know this: I command legions of Oni, not out of fear, but from an insatiable craving. A thirst for blood, a hunger for pain, a longing for a world enveloped in fire. If you seek a true battle, advance! Unleash your magic, reveal every spell in your arsenal, and witness who among us is worthy of claiming the throne!”

  Fitran's gaze sharpened, his voice cold and laced with menace, as if each note could inflict harm, “Today, we shall cast aside all masks and dismantle the fa?ade of order. When shadows clash, only then will we discern who truly deserves to be crowned as the final legend in the graveyard of this underworld.” Each word he uttered transformed into a spell, invading Shuten-dōji’s thoughts, like poison slowly seeping through the veins.

  Shuten-dōji shattered the goblet, his blood surging like a fountain’s spray, “Excellent! But remember, at the conclusion of this battle, only one name shall be etched as an eternal curse. I—Shuten-dōji, the Oni King—will ensure you never rise again!” With a speed that seemed to defy light, he concentrated all his energy, transforming the battlefield into a stage destined for darkness.

  Fitran raised the corner of his lips, his eyes shimmering with hidden meanings, “Confidence, Onii-san, is a seductive siren; often, an ancient curse leaves no trace, even while the body remains ensnared in the darkness alongside it.”

  The spiral field morphed into an open arena. The Oni forces encircled them, drumming with fervor, chanting the name of their king. The sky darkened, shadows cloaking every corner, inducing a chilling atmosphere. The ground cracked, and a tremor coursed through the air—a resonance of the Oni's war incantations, akin to the heartbeat that drove adrenaline. Each fragment of magic conjured a foreboding aura that enveloped Fitran, painting him as a defiant figure.

  No battle had yet commenced, but blood already dripped from the stained gloves. “Ah,” Fitran whispered softly, “perhaps this is the way Synthesys will endure—trapped within the shattered remnants and the fluid dance of death. There’s no returning; we shall waltz atop the ruins amidst those monsters.”

  Shuten-dōji raised his mace, the sound of metal clashing resonating through the air, a declaration of strength and supremacy. Fitran prepared the Voidlight, a blazing radiance imbued with enigma, as if it contained laws more tangible than mere sorcery. “Listen closely,” Fitran spoke, his voice low and insistent, “this is not merely light; it is a shadow that will awaken the darkest fears of your adversary. Let them fumble in the darkness until their final moments arrive.”

  The spiral of the world braced itself for the brutal duel ahead. Each step Fitran took was the fruition of a meticulously crafted plan, as if he were carving fate with every movement. He sensed every gust of wind, scrutinizing each posture of the foe before him. In his heart, there was no room for error; it was all a chessboard of destiny, and he would not be a pawn in this game. His aura clashed against the darkness that clung to him as he touched Voidlight, the dark potential born from the fusion of sorcery and strength. This confrontation, steeped in rage and strategy, would shake the very foundations of the battlefield to its last roots; who would wield this power by the end of the clash? The question of whether it would be him or Shuten-dōji hung in the air, waiting to be answered.