Ashura continued walking.
The forest parted before him—not by force, but by instinct. Branches bent away, roots sank deeper, luminous flowers straightened themselves after his passage as if ashamed to have been trampled earlier. Sentel was wounded, but it was not dead. It recognized him now.
Behind him—
The world ended repeatedly.
Monsters surged from every direction, drawn by some feral desperation, yet none ever reached Ashura.
Armageddon moved.
There was no roar, no announcement.
One moment he stood still—
The next, the forest was empty.
White lightning carved invisible lines through space. Heads fell without sound, torsos split cleanly, cores annihilated before their owners even understood they were under attack. Every movement was a single strike, every strike a certain kill.
Speed beyond perception.
Execution without excess.
Armageddon reappeared behind Ashura each time, unmarked, wings folding back into nothingness.
They reached the edge of the forest.
Ashura stopped.
Before him, the land dropped away into a vast cliffside overlooking a nation—massive walls of pale stone encircled a sprawling city. Towers rose like spears toward the sky, banners fluttering with sigils of old gods long dead. Roads webbed outward into farmland and districts dense with life.
A city that still endured.
Asgard.
Smoke rose from distant quarters—controlled fires, industry, survival. Not prosperity, but not collapse either.
Ashura studied it silently.
Then he spoke.
"Come out," he said calmly.
"I know you're standing behind the tree. There's no need to hide, young one."
The forest stilled.
A moment passed.
Then—
A boy stepped out from behind a wide, bark-veined tree. Dirt streaked his face. His clothes were worn, patched too many times. He held a crude spear in trembling hands—not raised in threat, but not dropped either.
Brave.
Or desperate.
Ashura turned fully toward him, crimson-black eyes softening.
"What is your name, young one?"
The boy swallowed.
"My name is… Drake."
Ashura regarded him for a long moment. Not his mana. Not his body.
His center.
"You have potential for martial arts," Ashura said. "Your body listens to your will, even when afraid."
Drake's eyes widened.
Ashura took a step closer.
"Will you be my disciple?"
The question hit like thunder.
Drake's hands shook harder—then steadied.
"Yes," he said immediately. No hesitation. No bargaining.
Ashura smiled faintly.
"Good."
Drake exhaled, then hesitated. "M-My family is small. It's just me… my sister and my mother."
Ashura nodded. He had already seen it—thin meals, sleepless nights, a child who learned to stand between danger and those he loved long before he should have.
None of it mattered.
"Take me to them," Ashura said.
They traveled to the city.
Asgard's streets were worn but alive. Guards watched warily but felt an inexplicable pressure and chose not to intervene. Drake led Ashura through narrow alleys and modest districts until they reached a small, aging structure pressed between taller buildings.
Inside—
A tired woman rose protectively when she saw Ashura.
A younger girl peeked from behind her, clutching her sleeve.
Ashura spoke gently.
"I am your son's master."
Silence.
Then disbelief.
Then fear.
Then—
Relief, when she saw Drake kneel without being told.
Ashura moved his hand.
Black Light flowed—not oppressive, not cold.
Constructive.
The old structure dissolved, reshaping itself into stone and wood infused with quiet resilience. Walls strengthened. Windows widened. Warmth filled the space. Food appeared—simple, nourishing, abundant.
He placed gifts into the mother's hands—resources, protective charms, a future that did not require desperation.
For the girl, he knelt.
"Protect your brother's resolve," Ashura said softly.
She nodded, not fully understanding, but feeling the truth of it.
Outside, Ashura stood with Drake beneath the open sky.
"To walk the path of a martial artist," Ashura said, "will be tough. You will face pain, loss, and consequences born from your own choices. The only thing that will matter… is your resolve."
He looked directly into the boy's eyes.
"Do you have resolve, Drake?"
Drake did not speak.
He dropped to his knees.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
"I am still young," Drake said, forehead touching the ground. "I won't blame my age. Please teach me anything I lack, Master."
Ashura raised a finger.
Black Light lifted Drake to his feet, gentle but absolute.
"Good."
He placed his finger against Drake's forehead.
Knowledge burned its way in.
Dragon's Might.
A technique of brutality and rebirth—bones breaking, reforging, strength earned through agony and mental fortitude. A path that could kill the unworthy.
Ashura's voice echoed in Drake's mind.
"It will hurt. It may kill you. But if you endure—nothing will break you easily. Your strength will rival a dragon's."
Ashura smiled.
"I believe in you, my disciple."
Then—
He was gone.
Back in the forest, Armageddon sat casually atop a pile of monster corpses, white lightning still crackling faintly along his armor. He bit into an apple, juice splashing onto a severed horn.
Ashura appeared beside him.
"This planet," Ashura said, looking skyward, "will be under my watch."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"Let's go. The Dimensional Rifts await, Armageddon."
Armageddon rose, apple gone, blade humming.
"As you command, Sovereign."