Fade in...
Act I: The Price of Arrogance
Uyanda didn't move first.
Mazikera did. No warning. No declaration of combat. No pre-fight stance.
She was simply already in front of him—her right arm cutting straight toward his physical center like an unfeeling blade.
Uyanda snapped his forearm up instantly—IMPACT!
The raw, dense force of her strike pushed him back a half-step. The dry earth cracked and splintered beneath his trailing heel.
He steadied his footing. His dark eyes narrowed into sharp slits as he took her in. "...No talking?"
She didn't respond. No flicker of emotion crossed her face.
Another strike—faster, tighter, cutting through the wind.
Uyanda slipped the linear line of her attack—countering immediately with a straight thrust kick toward her ribs—
She blocked it. Clean. Efficient. Unmoved.
They separated slightly, creating two yards of breathing room on the dusty plain.
Uyanda tilted his head, a cold smirk playing on his lips. "So that's how it is." He let out a small, sharp exhale through his nose. "...My turn."
He stepped in hard.
Strike—block—counter—shift—
The mechanical rhythm of the engagement changed instantly. Faster. Sharper. Far more violent.
Mazikera matched him beat for beat. Perfectly.
No wasted motion. No hesitation in her execution.
Their bare blows collided mid-air—each bone-shattering impact sending tight, localized shockwaves tearing through the dirt beneath their boots.
Uyanda's cocky expression shifted, a subtle drop in his composure. "...Equal?"
He didn't like that. Not even slightly. His fighting stance lowered, his weight centering.
Energy gathered instantly throughout his cellular structure—Nzilo.
It flowed through his limbs—not explosive or theatrical—but immediate, concentrated, and dense.
His next movement—infinitely faster. Unquestionably stronger.
A heavy roundhouse kick drove forward—Mazikera caught the shin with her open palm—but the sheer kinetic weight forced her boots to slide back across the dirt this time.
Her dark eyes shifted slightly, re-evaluating the physical output.
Then—
A dark, suffocating energy formed around her right arm.
Denser than standard magic. Heavier than blood. Daemonium.
Uyanda felt the immediate shift in atmospheric pressure instantly.
His expression hardened, all lingering humor vanishing. "...So he was right."
No more testing. No more playing with his food.
He stepped in again—Now—everything tightened.
Every single movement became deliberate. Every strike, ruthlessly calculated. Angles of approach were closed before they could form.
Openings were forcefully created—then instantly shut.
A hand redirected a lethal jab—a sharp knee slipped cleanly through a guard—a counter-elbow struck immediately after. It ceased to be a fight; it became pure, high-level technical warfare.
No wasted power. Only absolute precision.
Mazikera's eyes narrowed slightly as she defended against his barrage. "He's not bluffing," she thought coldly.
Her own physical movements sharpened to compensate.
Uyanda pressed forward hard, driving her back step by step—
Then—Nothing.
No buildup of aura. No shift in her physical stance. No sound of displaced air.
She was simply gone.
For a terrifying fraction of a second—Uyanda's honed survival instincts flared wildly—Too late.
THWRACK!
Impact.
Her dark-clad arm drove through his back—cleanly, effortlessly, without a shred of structural resistance—
Emerging straight out from his chest.
Silence. Absolute, suffocating silence fell over the localized radius.
His body completely froze in mid-motion.
Mazikera lifted him slightly off the dirt by his impaled torso.
Dark, hot blood ran down her pale arm, dripping rhythmically onto the ruined soil.
Uyanda's eyes widened—just slightly—staring down at the fist protruding from his own breastplate.
Mazikera looked at his pale, shock-ridden face with dead, unblinking eyes.
"Not my target."
Act II: The Break of the Crown
Across the sprawling, chaotic battlefield—Hakuna moved through the Lewotla infantry.
Still fighting. Still advancing. Still maintaining his flawless rhythm.
Then—Something dropped.
Not a physical sound. Not a visual signal. A profound, hollow feeling.
Within his six-meter operational radius—nothing had breached him.
But far beyond that radius—"Uyanda..."
His fluid movement stopped dead. Just for a fraction of a second.
He turned his head slowly. And saw—Uyanda. Lifted in the air. Immobile. Impaled straight through the heart.
Everything paused. Not the entire war zone. Just him.
For a terrifying fraction of a second—he didn't move.
Didn't think. Didn't react.
Then—
His dark eyes shifted—toward Sehloho.
Far in the distance—standing perfectly still at the vanguard of the Letebele army.
Facing forward.
Then—Sehloho turned his head. Seeing it. Seeing his own son hanging off a demon's arm.
Hakuna blinked once.
Sehloho was gone.
150 meters of open, chaotic battlefield—closed instantly in a non-existent frame of time.
SNAP!
Sehloho's massive, calloused hand wrapped with crushing force around Mazikera's neck.
She was lifted straight off the ground—effortlessly, like a weightless ragdoll.
Sehloho's grip tightened. Slow. Deliberate. Bone-crushing.
His eyes—No restraint left inside them. No royal composure. No tactical mind.
Only—pure, absolute rage.
Tears formed at the corners of his eyes—but they didn't fall. They burned away before they could trace his skin.
His grip tightened further, the iron armor of his gauntlet creaking under the stress.
Mazikera's body strained against the suffocating hold—for the first time in her existence—showing physical resistance.
Sehloho's left hand clenched into a massive fist. Flames formed instantly around his knuckles.
Dense. White-hot. Horrifyingly contained.
Hakuna's vision snapped back to reality from fifty yards away— his breath catching in his throat. "...Ah." A low breath escaped him. "Fist of Inferno?"
Before the apocalyptic strike could detonate against her skull—A single, calm hand rested on Sehloho's trembling shoulder.
Max.
"Not worth it," Max whispered softly. A heavy, painful pause. "Look at his body."
Sehloho's iron grip held her suspended in the air.
Then—slowly—the white-hot flames around his left fist died down into embers.
His massive hand loosened its grip on her throat.
Mazikera dropped to the dirt—The exact split-second her feet touched the ground—She moved.
She launched herself 60 meters back in a blinding backward blur.
Fast. Desperate. For the very first time in her life—She felt it. Fear.
But—Before her feet could even land to stabilize her stance—Hakuna was already there.
No aura buildup. No spatial signal.
Just—absolute presence.
His right arm was drawn back to its maximum threshold—
The atmospheric air around his bare fist violently distorted—
No magic energy. No elemental amplification. No silver aura.
Just—pure, concentrated, kinetic force.
He swung.
CLEAVE!
Impact.
Her head separated from her neck cleanly.
No resistance. No structural durability to slow the blow.
Her headless body collapsed—mid-air—hitting the dirt with a dull, lifeless thud before her head even finished rolling across the soil.
Silence descended upon the immediate perimeter.
Max exhaled slowly, the breath heavy in his chest.
His pained eyes shifted slowly from the corpse toward his older brother, Sehloho. "...We've crossed it." A long pause. "The taboo."
Across the blood-soaked field—the Lewotla King stepped forward from his personal guard.
Unshaken by the violence. Unmoved by the fallen demon.
"This can still be remedied," King Kutlwano Sr.'s voice carried across the silent valley with cold authority. "Your Avatar... and mine."
A deliberate pause stretched over the two armies.
"A duel." "To the death."
Hakuna glanced once at Kutlwano Jr. lying broken in the dirt off to the side. "Didn't I already—" He stopped the thought mid-sentence, realizing the political reality.
Sehloho stepped forward, stepping past his fallen son's motionless body.
The explosive rage in his eyes—was entirely gone. Replaced. With something infinitely colder. Controlled. Heavy as a mountain.
The King of the Letebele stood tall once again. "Agreed."
His golden eyes locked onto—Kutlwano Sr.
The fundamental battlefield shifted once more.
This war—Just changed completely.
Act III: The Architecture of Rebirth
Later…
The Underworld was dead quiet. Not peaceful. It was never peaceful.
The silence here felt deeply unnatural. Heavy. Suffocating.
Like the dark air itself was waiting for a terrible hammer to drop.
Far beneath the world of the living—within a jagged cavern lit only by dim crimson fractures in the obsidian earth—two demon officers sat across from one another.
No fighting. No screaming. Just low, exhausted conversation.
One officer leaned back heavily against the dark stone wall.
Exhausted. His blackened armor fractured and damaged from the surface war. "You think she's actually dead?"
The second demon shrugged slightly, sharpening a jagged dagger against a rock. "If she got herself killed up there... then she deserved it."
A quiet pause stretched between them.
"...Still." The second demon's eyes lowered to the crimson glowing floor. "That human prince..." A small, uneasy exhale escaped his fangs. "...ridiculous."
The first demon laughed quietly, a raspy sound. "You're scared of him."
"You aren't?"
Silence. Neither demon answered the question.
The second demon leaned his head back against the stone, looking upward toward the dark ceiling that separated them from the surface world. "I don't get it."
"Get what?"
"Humans." A long pause. "They die so quickly." "They break so easily." "They fear almost everything." His demonic expression tightened slightly.
"...But they just keep moving forward anyway."
The first demon smirked faintly, tossing a small pebble into the dark. "Sounds a lot like admiration."
"Shut up." A quiet, bitter laugh escaped the second demon despite himself.
For a brief, fleeting moment—they didn't seem like bloodthirsty monsters. Just worn-out soldiers. Tired ones.
Then—
The second demon stopped moving. Completely.
The first demon frowned slightly, leaning forward. "...Hey? What's wrong with you?"
No response came. The second demon's fingers twitched violently.
CRACK!
They bent backward at impossible, unnatural angles. A sickening crack echoed through the cavern. Then another.
The first demon stood up immediately, his hand going to his sword. "...No. What is this?"
The second demon's entire body convulsed wildly. Its spine twisted unnaturally—bones shifting and grinding beneath dark flesh—skin stretching to the point of tearing—
The demon screamed. Not a battle cry. Not in physical pain. In absolute, primal terror.
Its own physical body was changing faster than its mind could process the agony.
The first demon stumbled backward, terror gripping his heart. "...NO—STAY AWAY FROM ME!"
The transforming demon's lower jaw completely dislocated—then reformed with a wet snap—its face violently restructuring itself—muscle tissue tearing apart—rebuilding in real-time—Limbs elongated. Compressed. Reset.
The sound—wet, squelching, utterly disturbing.
The screaming stopped abruptly.
Absolute silence returned to the crimson cavern.
The transformed figure stood motionless in the dim light.
Then—slowly—it straightened its posture with terrifying grace.
Its physical appearance, now 100% complete.
Mazikera.
The watching demon officer trembled where he stood. Actually, physically trembling with horror.
Mazikera raised her right hand and looked down at her pale, flawless skin.
She rotated her wrist once. Opened her hand. Closed it into a tight fist. Checking the mechanical integrity of the flesh.
Her neck tilted slightly to the side, a soft pop echoing. "...No defects."
The demon officer said nothing. He could say nothing, his jaw locked in fright.
Mazikera glanced at him once. Cold. Empty. Utterly devoid of humanity or warmth.
"Prepare my clothes."
No emotion in her voice. No relief at being alive. Just a direct instruction.
The officer moved instantly, stumbling and almost tripping over his own boots to obey.
Mazikera remained standing completely still in the dark cavern. Unbothered.
As though death itself had merely inconvenienced her schedule.
Act IV: The Audience with Arkhagos
Later still...
The central throne room of the Underworld stood vast, oppressive, and silent.
Massive dark pillars stretched endlessly upward into an unseen abyss. Shadows moved across the obsidian floor without any physical source of light to cast them.
At the absolute center—upon a monolithic seat of dark stone—sat Arkhagos.
Immovable. Still. His mere presence bent the atmospheric air and gravity around him like a black hole.
Mazikera approached the foot of the massive dais calmly. Kneeling cleanly only once she reached the lowest step leading to the throne.
Arkhagos looked down at her from his shadows.
"You failed."
No boom of anger in his deep voice. No dramatic disappointment. Just pure, absolute fact.
"You were eliminated in a single blow."
Mazikera kept her head lowered slightly, her voice completely smooth. "That outcome was fully intended." A brief pause. "By dying there at the hands of the Letebele..."
Her dark eyes lifted slightly to meet the terrifying entity above her.
"...the prince will not anticipate my eventual return."
A heavy, suffocating silence filled the grand chamber.
Arkhagos watched her silently. Long enough for the dark air itself to feel strained under the sheer weight of his scrutiny.
Then—
"Interesting."
That single, quiet word echoed throughout the vast throne room like distant thunder.
And somewhere far above—in the sunlit world of the living—The war between the clans continued its bloody path.
Completely, utterly unaware—That death had already returned to the battlefield.
Fade out...
End of Episode 90