Max
The journey to Folkvangr was a study in stealth. Under the cover of heavy, nondescript cloaks, Freya, Ottar, and Max wove through the bustling midday streets of Orario. They moved like ghosts, their presence masked by the Goddess's will and the Warlord's skill, slipping past the gaze of the masses until they reached the imposing fortress of the Freya Familia.
They didn't enter through the grand halls Max had imagined. Instead, they bypassed the main keep entirely, heading straight for the source of the roar that vibrated through the ground.
As they passed through a massive stone archway, Max got his first real glimpse of the Familia he was about to join.
The training grounds were a chaotic sea of violence. It wasn't practice; it was a riot. Hundreds of adventurers—Level 1s, 2s, maybe even higher—were locked in a brutal melee. Dust choked the air, mixed with the metallic scent of blood and the salty tang of sweat. Weapons clashed, spells flared, and shouts of pain and triumph merged into a deafening roar.
This was the Baptism. It looked less like training and more like a gladiatorial pit where the weak were being ground into paste.
Max watched, wide-eyed, as a dwarf was sent flying past them, crashing into a wall only to pick himself up with a maniacal grin and dive back in. This place is insane, he thought, a mix of apprehension and excitement tightening his chest.
Suddenly, a sound cut through the chaos like a cannon shot.
CLAP.
It was a single, sharp applause from Ottar. It wasn't magically amplified, but the sheer force behind it created a shockwave that rattled teeth.
The chaos died instantly.
In the center of the dust cloud, combatants froze mid-swing. Silence descended over the grounds as hundreds of eyes snapped to the entrance. When they saw the towering silhouette of the Warlord standing there, fear and discipline took over immediately. They scrambled back, clearing the center of the arena with desperate efficiency, lining the walls like soldiers awaiting inspection.
From the midst of the clearing dust, a figure approached them.
Hedin Selland.
The Elf was immaculate despite the dusty surroundings, his robes untouched by the filth of the melee he had been overseeing. He walked with a regal air, his coral eyes scanning the intruders critically. His gaze flicked over Max—registering him as a non-threat, a runt—before dismissing him entirely to focus on his Goddess.
"My Lady," Hedin said, bowing deeply. "Ottar. I did not expect your return so soon."
Freya lowered her hood, letting her silver hair spill out, the sunlight catching it like a halo. "We have business, Hedin. Come closer."
Hedin stepped forward, leaning in as Freya whispered to him. Max couldn't hear the words, but he saw the Elf's eyebrows rise in genuine, if mild, surprise. He glanced at Max again—this time with a sharp, calculating look—before nodding once.
"As you wish," Hedin said. He turned, walking toward the center of the now-empty arena, his voice projecting effortlessly. "Clear the grounds completely! We have a duel."
While the lower members scrambled to the upper viewing platforms, muttering in confusion, the other executives emerged from the main building.
Max, distracted by the chaotic movement of the crowd, didn't see them approach until they were already bowing to Freya. Hogni, looking gloomy as ever; the four identical Gulliver Brothers; and finally, a Catman who looked like he had been through a meat grinder.
Max had a tingling feeling he knew him. That's when it clicked.
Allen.
His clothes were torn, singed, and stained with dirt. He looked less like a sleek predator and more like a stray cat that had lost a fight with a lawnmower. But the fury rolling off him was palpable, a heat haze of pure rage.
Freya addressed them quietly, her voice soothing but firm, effectively ordering them to stand down and observe.
"It is time," Ottar said, shedding his cloak.
Max took a deep breath, dropping his own cloak. He followed the Warlord onto the packed earth of the training grounds.
The sun beat down on them, casting long shadows. Max's heart hammered in his chest as he followed Ottar toward the weapon racks lining one side of the grounds. The faint clang of metal striking metal, the soft grind of leather straps being tested—it all felt hyper-real.
His fingers brushed the array—swords, spears, axes—before settling on a sleek rapier.
He lifted it and tested the balance, eyes catching the wickedly sharp edge—not a dull training blade, but a weapon built for drawing blood. The thrill was tempered by a shiver of wariness.
Dexterity build it is, he mused, gripping the hilt. Kairu is resting, so no slime-swords. I have to rely on actual steel and my own speed.
Beside him, Ottar selected a massive greatsword from the heavier stands, hefting it with an ease that made the air whistle. The blade caught the light like a living promise of overwhelming force.
Max's mind flickered with the absurdity of their chosen weapons: the graceful rapier in his hand, slender and precise, against Ottar's crushing greatsword. Comedic irony smirked at him—like David versus Goliath, except both were armed to the teeth and ready to tear each other apart anyway.
They took positions at the center of the grounds. Max finally took a moment to scan the audience properly.
At least a few hundred faces surrounded them from the elevated walkways and edges. Humans, Dwarves, Elves, Beastmen—all watching with bated breath.
Then, he felt it. Killing intent.
Max's eyes snapped to the sideline where the executives stood.
Allen was staring at him.
The Catman's eyes burned with raw contempt. Recognition hit Max like cold water. It was him. The guy from the lake. The guy the Elves had blasted.
"You found your way here on your own, newbie," Allen growled, his voice low but carrying across the silence, edged with venom.
Max's heart kicked hard against his ribs. Freya must have sent him. He was supposed to bring me, and I gave him the slip.
The thought should've been amusing. Allen's fury-tight expression said it wasn't.
Their gazes locked—Max's steady through sheer will, Allen's promising violence with every line of his coiled-spring body. Every instinct the catman had was screaming to lunge, to tear into the bastard himself and end this farce with claws instead of ceremony.
But Freya's order to not interfere held him like an invisible chain. He wouldn't break it. Not yet.
Allen's glare sharpened one final time before he stepped back, crossing his arms with a look that promised retribution in due course.
Max exhaled slowly, forcing focus back to Ottar and the rapier's weight steady in his hand. The air felt charged now, crackling with more undercurrents than he'd bargained for.
Great. I have the King of the Boars in front of me and a supersonic cat plotting my murder on the sidelines. Just another Tuesday.
Hedin stepped forward, taking his place between the combatants. His coral eyes were cold behind his glasses.
"This is an official duel between Max, the newbie, and Ottar, the Warlord."
The murmurs died completely. Hedin scanned both combatants, then glanced at Freya on her platform. She nodded once, eyes alight with quiet expectation.
"Everything permitted. Fight until one cannot stand. No interference." He met each man's eyes—Max's steady amethyst, Ottar's unyielding rust—then raised his hand high. "Honor the Goddess's will."
The grounds fell utterly still. Sun beating down on exposed skin. Dust motes dancing in the light. The whole world narrowed to this moment, this space, these two fighters.
Hedin's hand dropped like a blade.
"Begin!"
The command hung in the air for a fraction of a second before Max shattered the silence.
He didn't move immediately. Instead, he let the mental dam holding back his aura crumble. The suppression he'd painstakingly maintained at the gate, through the streets, and before Freya, evaporated. His demonic aura exploded outward, not as a chaotic storm, but as a dense, suffocating weight.
"H-Hey, what is that?!" a Level 1 Pallum in the front row stammered, stepping back involuntarily.
A collective gasp rippled through the lower-ranked members. To their senses, the "newbie" who had walked onto the field with the presence of a Level 1 had just spiked instantly to a solid Level 2. The air grew heavy, tasting of ozone and something darker, primal. Even the executives leaned forward, their eyes narrowing as they re-evaluated the threat.
Max didn't give them time to process.
BOOM.
The ground beneath his feet cracked as he launched himself at Ottar, closing the distance in a blur of speed. He eschewed the rapier for the opening gambit, closing into intimate range where a greatsword would be cumbersome.
He unleashed a flurry of violence.
Left hook. Right cross. A spinning roundhouse kick aimed at the temple.
Max moved with a fluidity that defied normal anatomy, his devil physiology allowing him a terrifying torque. But against the Boaz, it was like striking a cliff face.
THUD. THUD. WHAM.
Ottar didn't even raise his guard. He simply shifted his weight, catching punches on his forearms or letting them glance off his shoulders with imperceptible movements. His expression remained stone, his eyes tracking Max's frantic assault with the boredom of an apex predator watching a playful cub.
Too hard, Max grit his teeth, pivoting on his heel to drive a knee into Ottar's midsection. It's like hitting enchanted concrete!
The knee connected, but Ottar didn't budge an inch. instead, the Warlord's eyes flickered.
Overextended.
Max realized his mistake a microsecond too late. He had committed too fully to the knee strike, leaving his center of gravity exposed.
Ottar didn't wind up. He didn't telegraph. He simply drove a fist into Max's gut with the speed of a piston.
WHAM!
"GAH—!"
The air was forcibly evicted from Max's lungs. The impact lifted him off his feet and sent him sailing backward. He skipped once across the packed earth before skidding to a halt ten meters away, clutching his stomach as he retched dryly.
Level 2, Max analyzed through the pain, forcing himself to stand upright despite his protesting abs. He matched my force exactly. He's suppressing himself to my perceived level.
But there was something else—a calculated restraint in that strike. Ottar wasn't just matching his level; he was measuring Max's durability, seeing how much punishment the boy could take without permanent damage. It was the difference between a test and an execution.
It was an insult and a courtesy wrapped in one. Ottar was fighting him as an equal on paper, but the difference in experience and technique was ocean wide.
Max wiped a trail of saliva from his lip, his amethyst eyes burning brighter. If he holds back, I learn nothing. I didn't ask for this duel to be coddled. I need to know what the next tier feels like. I need to see the wall I have to climb so I don't get left in the dust if the world goes to hell.
He straightened his posture, ignoring the throbbing bruise already forming on his abdomen. He wanted—no, needed—to force Ottar to Level 3.
No wings. No transformation. No teleportation, Max decided, his mind racing through his arsenal. Keep the ace cards hidden. But everything else? Fair game.
Ottar began to walk toward him, his greatsword resting casually on his shoulder, his gait slow and inevitable.
Max grinned, a sharp, dangerous expression. He dropped into a lower stance and raised his free hand, pointing two fingers directly at the approaching Warlord.
The mana in the air curdled as Max began the chant, the words foreign to this world but heavy with power.
"Carriage of thunder, bridge of a spinning wheel. With light, divide this into six!"
Ottar didn't stop walking. He watched, curious, allowing the newbie to prepare his attack.
Max's eyes flashed. "Bakudō #61. — Rikujōkōrō!"
SNAP-ZZZT!
Six broad beams of yellow light materialized from thin air, converging on Ottar with blistering speed—easily reaching into Level 3 velocity. They slammed into the Boaz's waist, slamming him to a halt and locking his arms to his sides.
The crowd murmured in confusion. "Magic without a standard chant?"
Ottar stood frozen, encased in the ring of light. He hadn't dodged. Max knew why—this was a test. But there was something else in the Warlord's eyes now. A spark of recognition. His beast instincts were flaring, recalling the split second the night before in front of Babel, when he disrupted the teleportation circle.
Interesting, Max thought, What made him serious all of a sudden?
But he didn't waste the opening. Max gripped his rapier with both hands, channeling his mana not into the blade's edge, but to its very tip.
The air began to scream—a high-pitched, mournful keening sound.
A sphere of darkness, no larger than a marble, formed at the point of the rapier. It wasn't black; it was the absence of light. A condensed singularity of the Power of Destruction.
Ottar's pupils dilated.
For the first time, the Warlord's composure cracked. His instincts didn't just whisper danger; they screamed it. Do not take that hit. That wasn't fire or lightning or brute force.
CRACK!
With a roar of exertion, Ottar flexed. The yellow light of the Bakudō shattered like glass, shards of magic dissolving into the air. He grasped his greatsword with both hands, magic flooding the blade in a pale, golden aura.
But Max was already there.
He had moved the instant the spell took hold, crossing the ten meters in a heartbeat. He was inside Ottar's guard before the greatsword could fully descend.
Piercing Void! Max shouted mentally, trusting his own naming sense on the fly.
He thrust the rapier forward, the sphere of destruction aiming for Ottar's chest.
Ottar abandoned the offensive charge instantly, twisting his wrists to bring the flat of his massive blade between him and the annihilation point. It was a testament to his legendary reflexes that he moved a blade of that size so quickly.
HISSS-CRACK!
The Power of Destruction met the magic-reinforced steel.
There was no explosion. No shockwave. Instead, the magic coating Ottar's sword simply… vanished. The metal beneath groaned, sparking as the destruction ate into the surface, but the sheer density of Ottar's defensive mana held the line.
Ottar twisted his hips, using his superior strength to parry the rapier upward and outward, creating an opening. He brought his shoulder forward to check Max, effectively turning the parry into a counter-charge.
Max's eyes widened. He couldn't retract the rapier in time.
Abandoning gravity, Max threw his upper body backward, his spine bending to an impossible angle as if he were in the Matrix. Ottar's massive shoulder passed inches above his nose, the wind of the movement ruffling Max's blue hair.
But Max lost his footing. To save himself from falling, he slammed the tip of his rapier into the ground to act as a pivot point.
ZZZ-VOOM.
The remaining Power of Destruction on the tip discharged into the earth.
It didn't dig a hole. It deleted a cubic meter of packed earth and stone silently. Max's support vanished into nothingness, destabilizing him completely.
"Shit!"
Max kicked off the empty air, twisting his body in a frantic backflip to regain his balance, landing crouched five meters away. He looked up, chest heaving.
Ottar stood lowering his greatsword. He glanced at the notch on his blade—a small, perfectly smooth semi-circle where the metal was missing—then at the terrifyingly clean void in the ground.
Finally, the Boaz looked at Max. The boredom was gone. In its place was the heavy, suffocating focus of the strongest adventurer in Orario.
He was getting serious.
While most of the crowd was still reeling from the impossibility of a rookie making the Warlord flinch, the executives' eyes were glued to the ground—specifically, the spot where Max's rapier tip had struck.
Hedin adjusted his glasses, his sharp gaze narrowing behind the lenses. He stared at the perfectly smooth, hemispherical void in the earth. No rubble. No scorch marks. No displacement of soil. If it were earth magic, the dirt would be moved or compressed. If it were wind, scattered. But this... this was simply gone.
Erasure, the strategist concluded, a chill unrelated to the breeze brushing his neck. It is fundamentally destructive in nature.
Nearby, Allen clicked his tongue, his tail twitching with aggravated violence. He wanted nothing more than to drag the blue-haired bastard into the dirt himself, but he couldn't deny what he'd seen. The newbie had bound Ottar. Even if Ottar allowed it, that spell—Rikujōkōrō—had deployed with Level 3 speed and density. To wield such magic seconds after receiving a Falna was, frankly, irritatingly impressive.
Hogni regarded the duel with thinly veiled envy, his eyes shifting from the void in the ground to Max. What a lucky bastard, his mind whispered, seeing the Warlord treat the newcomer with such seriousness.
He wasn't recruited through the usual channels, Hogni deduced, his inner monologue taking a dramatic, theatrical turn. Directly chosen by the Goddess. The one Allen failed to retrieve. Is he her 'Special One?'
The ugly side of his jealousy reared its head, a dark flame in his chest. Fret not, my Goddess's loyal followers! I, Hogni Ragnar, the Dark Blade of Truth, shall enact vengeance for all those ignored by the benevolent hand of—
His mental rant cut short as he finally processed the damage to the ground. His eyes widened, the theatrics vanishing instantly. Wait. Is that... absolute negation?
On the other side, the Gulliver brothers were silent, a four-man unit of calculation. They were already mentally simulating combat scenarios—could they dodge those light rods? If bound, how many seconds would it take to break free before that black sphere touched them?
High above them all, Freya watched with a smile that could launch a thousand wars.
How interesting.
Max was truly worthy of her attention. In mere minutes, he demonstrated physical prowess, concurrent casting, and a unique swordsmanship style. She understood now why he asked for this duel. It wasn't just about proving himself to her—it was about calibration. He was assessing exactly where he stood on the food chain.
Everyone here assumes he is a hidden Level 2, Freya thought, her eyes glowing with delight. Which works beautifully in my favor. But he feels more Mage than Warrior... I will be happy to devour every surprise he offers.
Down on the field, the air grew heavy.
"I see," Ottar rumbled, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the grounds. "So that is what your magic does."
He rolled his shoulders, the massive greatsword looking like a toy in his grip. "In that case, allow me to show you a glimpse of my abilities."
The atmosphere shattered.
Ottar's muscles swelled with a wet, tearing sound. His silhouette expanded, broad shoulders growing wider, his posture hunching slightly as a primal, oppressive aura flooded the arena. Dark fur sprouted along his arms and neck, and his face hardened, tusks elongating.
Beastification.
Max watched in surprised fascination as the King of Orario transformed. The sheer pressure rolling off the Boaz was suffocating—like standing in front of a collapsing mountain.
Okay, he's actually doing it, Max thought, sweat trickling down his temple. He's granting my wish. Be careful what you wish for, right?
Ottar moved.
He didn't rush; he simply existed in one spot and then appeared in another.
"Bakudō #73. — Tozanshō!"
Max screamed the name, panic and instinct fusing into one.
A massive, inverted pyramid of yellow crystal slammed down around him just as Ottar's sword crashed against the barrier.
BOOOOM!
The barrier shuddered violently, spiderweb cracks instantly appearing at the point of impact.
It won't hold, Max realized, his mind racing at a mile a minute. Maybe three seconds. Four if I'm lucky.
He watched the cracks spread, his mind flashing back to the lore of his previous life. Sirzechs Lucifer. The Power of Destruction wasn't just a projectile; in its true form, it was an aura. An armor that erased anything it touched. And the Raikage's lightning armor from Naruto—coating the body to boost reaction and defense.
If I coat myself in a thin layer of PoD... will I dissolve?
He looked at his hands. They channeled the energy fine. But his whole body?
CRACK-KRRRSH.
A massive shard of the pyramid flaked away.
No better time to try than when a giant boar man is trying to flatten you, Max decided with a grim grin.
He closed his eyes for a nanosecond, pulling the crimson-black energy from his core and forcing it to hug his skin. It was like stepping into a bath of static electricity—tingling, dangerous, hot, but not consuming.
It works.
Just as the barrier shattered into a million motes of light, Max's body erupted in a faint, menacing crimson glow.
Ottar stepped through the falling debris, swinging a backhand fist.
Max didn't dodge. He stepped into it, throwing a straight cross right at the beastified Warlord's face.
THWACK!
Max's fist connected. It felt like punching a steel wall, but the PoD coating flared, burning Ottar's skin on contact. Ottar didn't even blink. He took the hit head-on, his expression unmoving, and delivered his counter-strike.
It wasn't a technique. It was just brute force multiplied by Beastification.
Ottar's fist crashed into Max's crossed arms.
CRUNCH.
The sound was sickening. The PoD armor hissed as it tried to erase Ottar's flesh on contact, the crimson energy consuming skin cells and fur where they connected. But the sheer momentum behind the strike was overwhelming—the destruction couldn't annihilate fast enough to stop the kinetic energy from transferring through. Power met physics, and physics won.
"GUH—!"
Air, spit, and pride were ejected from Max's body simultaneously. He flew backward—not a graceful arc, but a ragdoll trajectory, straight horizontal speed.
SLAM.
He hit the outer stone wall of the training grounds. The impact was deafening. Dust billowed as the stone cracked into a massive spiderweb crater, Max pinioned in the center for a split second before sliding down to the dirt.
Silence reigned over the crowd. A collective "Ooh" of sympathy rippled through the watchers. That hit should have killed a Level 2.
Max groaned, tasting copper. He spat a thick glob of blood onto the dust and forced his trembling legs to work. His chest felt like it had been caved in, but his healing was already working overtime, knitting tissue back together.
"Damn," Max wheezed, wiping his mouth with the back of a shaking hand. He stood up, swaying, his eyes burning with amethyst fire. "You are good."
His rapier was gone—snapped in half during the impact.
Fine. I'll make my own.
Crimson energy surged into his right hand, condensing, solidifying, until a jagged blade of pure Destruction hummed in his grip.
"Let's go for Round Two," Max snarled.
He charged.
Ottar watched him come, a flicker of approval in his dark eyes, and met the charge.
This time, it was a brawl. Max abandoned defense. He relied on the destructive nature of his conjure sword to force Ottar to parry carefully, weaving in and out of the Boaz's range. For a glorious ten seconds, Max kept up. He dodged a stomp that shattered the earth, ducked a swing that decapitated a stone boulder behind him, and landed a glancing slash on Ottar's forearm.
But the gap was absolute.
Max overcommitted on a diagonal slash. Ottar didn't block; he stepped inside the guard.
THUD.
A headbutt.
Simple. Brutal. Effective.
Ottar's forehead slammed into Max's with the force of a falling anvil.
Max saw white. Then black. His heart actually stopped for a single beat. His brain rattled in his skull, shutting down motor functions instantly. He was thrown backward again, tumbling across the dirt like a discarded toy, rolling until he came to a stop face-down in the dust.
Ottar stood waiting. He dropped his stance slightly, the beast transformation receding just a fraction, waiting to see if the boy had anything left.
One minute passed.
Most would have stayed down. Most would have accepted the honor of surviving this long.
Max's fingers clawed into the dirt.
Not... done... yet.
It wasn't pride. It was fear—fear of being weak in a world that could fall apart. Fear of watching Alise and Ryuu die because he wasn't strong enough to change fate.
He dragged himself up. His legs screamed. The world doubled. Tripled. Every object had ghost images trailing behind it, his concussed brain unable to process spatial information correctly. Balance was a suggestion his inner ear violently disagreed with. Every instinct screamed at him to stay down, to accept unconsciousness like a mercy.
But fear was louder than pain.
Ottar watched him, patient as a mountain.
Max began to walk—or rather, drag his feet—forward. He raised his right hand, trembling, fingers curling into a specific formation. He needed more power. He needed intent.
He began the chant, his voice raspy, wet with blood, but ringing with absolute conviction.
"Flame of will, blazing through the darkest night..."
Max forced every scrap of remaining mana into his palm. The red glow intensified, turning darker, heavier.
"...Cut clean, cut true. Let this strike seal thy fate and carry all things to their end."
The air screamed around him. The ground beneath his feet began to disintegrate just from the proximity of the gathered energy.
Ottar's eyes widened slightly. He raised his greatsword, flooding it with defensive mana, bracing himself.
Max locked eyes with the Warlord.
"Final Testament!"
He didn't just throw the energy. He unleashed everything.
A torrent of crimson-black annihilation erupted from his hand. It wasn't a beam; it was a wave of erasure roaring across the training ground.
Ottar braced, swinging his greatsword to intercept.
But Max, the weeb, the gamer, the tactician, had hidden a surprise inside the devastation. Nestled in the core of the PoD blast was a compressed Hadō #1. Shō—a simple push spell, overcharged to its breaking point.
CRACK!
The wave hit Ottar. The Warlord's defensive mana clashed with the Erasure, holding it back for a millisecond—until the Shō detonated. The physical impact hammered against the blade at the exact moment the PoD ate through the enchanted steel.
SNAP.
The sparring greatsword shattered.
Ottar's eyes widened in genuine shock as his weapon disintegrated. The remnant wave of the Final Testament washed over him. He crossed his arms, taking the brunt of it with his body.
Smoke hissed. The smell of singed fur and ozone filled the air.
As the dust cleared, Ottar stood firm. His arms were scorched, his fur burnt away in patches, and his greatsword was reduced to a melted hilt in his hand.
But he was still standing.
Max stared at him, his vision tunneling to a pinpoint. A weak smile tugged at his bloody lips.
I broke his sword, he thought, a giddy sense of victory washing over him.
Then the darkness took him. Max's knees buckled, and he collapsed forward into the dust, drained of stamina, mana, and consciousness.
Silence hung over the arena for a long heartbeat.
Hedin stepped forward, looking from the unconscious boy to the Warlord holding a broken hilt.
"Winner," Hedin declared, his voice cutting through the silence. "Ottar."
~~Devil in a Dungeon~~
AN:
Wasn't that expected? Ottar Winning I mean. But at least no one will underestimate Max now, right? Though I feel he made more enemies than friends, heh.
We will see what's Max falna looks like next one and assess if all this hype about him is worth it.
Do share your thoughts on the duel in a review/comment. Also what Max's Status page would look like.
If you want to read at least 4 chaps ahead or support me, visit p.a.t.r.e.o.n.c.o.m/b3smash.
Please note that they are early access only, they will be eventually released here as well.
Next update will be on Tuesday.
Ben, Out.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything.