The Nameless Heir

"Kid, you ok?" Typhon asked.

"Yes. I wish I could rest for a bit. My regeneration is working overtime."

He pushed himself to his feet, trying to leave the island. But nothing. He couldn't sense his Sins. No link to Cyrus. No shadows. Not even Liz. Something was blocking his senses.

Panic clawed at him. He had to move fast.

He planted his foot down and focused, then shot toward New Olympus.

Fast didn't cover it. Saying he was fast wouldn't do it justice. He tore through the sky, so quick the ocean split in his wake. Clouds broke apart as he passed the Cloudy City, then the golden spires of the next.

He stopped cold. A barrier.

He slammed into it, only to be thrown back. He struck it again, harder. The damage rebounded, doubled, hammering into him. Whatever it was, it was built to keep him out.

His body sagged under the strain. He had already fought three battles back to back. Flying this far, this fast, had drained what little strength remained.

"You can't break that."

The voice cut through his thoughts.

He turned his head. Five men floated in the air. The one in the middle… different. One eye burned with a star-shaped pupil, sharp and unnatural, glowing as if it were cut from the night sky itself.

He remembered those eyes. The same one the holy knight had warned of. The one who had almost killed them.

"You idiots," he growled. "Open this thing before I kill you all."

The bald one stepped forward. A shimmer spread from his hands, forming a small barrier around him. The same texture. The same glow as the wall around the city.

"So you know how to break it." He pressed his hand against the new barrier. It felt weaker, thinner, but close. His gaze lifted back to the bald man. His voice dropped. "You can make this easy… or I'll use you to break it."

The man laughed, sharp and hollow. "You can't break that. But feel free to try."

His lips curled into a cold grin.

He didn't hesitate. His fist came down again, harder. The barrier shook, blood splattering from his arm.

The bald man screamed, clutching his chest tighter, his knees buckling in the air. He tried to hide it, but it was obvious.

His voice was low, ragged. "Weakness."

Another strike. The sound cracked like thunder.

Another scream.

He didn't stop. Each blow drove pain into both of them. Shadows wrapped his arm, forcing it through the shock.

The barrier spider-webbed with cracks. The caster's body jerked with each hit, coughing blood as if his fists were hammering his ribs directly.

"We just have to keep you here until everything is done," the one with the mohawk muttered.

He laughed. Low. Cold. Shadows coiled up his arm, wrapping it tight. He drove his fist forward with everything he had.

The barrier shattered. The caster coughed blood and doubled over.

Smoke. That's all he left behind.

The others spun in the air, scanning, frantic. But he was already behind them.

"Shadowbane. Third Form—Mage Slayer."

The words barely left his mouth before it began.

Steel whispered. Shadows streaked. In less than a heartbeat, five bodies split open, their cries drowned under the blur of motion. They dropped, cut down before they even realized he had moved.

Only two remained. The bald one, wheezing blood. And the one with star-eyes, who had managed to twist away at the last instant.

He straightened, blade dripping. His gaze locked on the last man standing.

"What—?"

His eyes narrowed, confusion cutting through the bloodlust. No one should have been able to dodge that. A few strikes, maybe. But not all of them. Not a hundred, each chained, each precise.

His chest heaved. Shadows flickered off his blade.

"How the hell did you do that?" His voice was low, almost a growl.

The man didn't answer. He just floated there, star-burning eyes fixed on him, calm.

That silence said enough.

He lunged, blade snapping forward. The man slid aside, not even looking. The edge cut nothing but air.

He twisted, shadows whipping around as his sword came down again. Another miss.

Strike after strike followed. Slashes that split stone. Thrusts that should have pierced flesh. But every time, the star-eyed man moved a fraction before the blade arrived. Sometimes he tilted his head. Sometimes he shifted his foot. Always just enough.

His chest heaved. His strikes blurred into one another, each faster than the last. The man kept slipping away, untouchable.

He tried to break the rhythm. A feint. A sudden kick with shadows behind it. The man was already gone, sidestepping before his leg even left the ground.

Another swing. Sparks flew as his blade ripped through stone. His grip tightened. Frustration bled into every movement, but it didn't matter.

The star-eyed man pressed back, fists snapping forward, blows that landed sharp and clean. A strike to his ribs—air burst out of his lungs. Another clipped his jaw, white pain flashing in his skull. Each hit wasn't lethal, but they stacked, beating him down piece by piece.

He blocked high, only for the next strike to slam low into his gut. He raised his sword, but the man had already shifted, knuckles cracking across his cheek.

It was like fighting a shadow of himself. No matter how fast, no matter how sharp, every move was answered before it began.

Blood streaked down his chin. His muscles screamed, but he refused to stop. Again, he swung. Again, the man was gone.

His thoughts sharpened through the haze of pain. He's not faster. He's not stronger. So why can't I touch him?

The man's star-lit eyes burned, calm and steady, as if mocking the question.

His star-lit gaze didn't waver. His hand lifted, and in an instant a blade of pure light snapped into being.

He moved.

The strike came fast, too fast. He caught it on his sword, sparks exploding. Another slash followed. Angled low, then high, then twisting back across. He blocked, deflected, turned the edge away. But the blade still carved shallow lines into his arms, across his shoulder, across his ribs.

It was relentless.

The man's sword never stopped moving. Each strike flowed into the next without pause. He stepped back, parried again, but the rhythm was unbreakable. He tried to predict, to match pace, but the star-eyed man changed direction mid-swing, cutting from angles that should have been impossible.

Steel screamed. His arms shook from the force. He managed to turn each strike enough so it didn't pierce through, but every block left a mark. Grazes along his chest. Slices across his legs. Shallow wounds stacking one after another. Blood dripped into the cracked stone at his feet.

The pressure built. Strike after strike. No time to breathe. No room to counter. Only defense.

His teeth clenched. Rage boiled up inside him.

"Enough!"

His shadows erupted, exploding outward in every direction.

Dark spikes tore through the air, surging in a full circle around him. The ground cracked, the blast scattering stone and dust as a storm of black spears ripped outward from his body.

The star-eyed man's sword stopped mid-swing. His eyes narrowed as the shadow-spikes screamed toward him.

He lunged again, blade sweeping low before snapping upward. It was a feint, one that would have fool even the gods.

The man was already gone.

His sword cut only air.

He snarled and struck again, faster. Slashing left, then reversing mid-swing into a backhand. The man had stepped out of range before his muscles even finished turning.

Impossible.

His eyes narrowed. His breath came heavy.

He swung harder. Shadows stretched with his strike, stabbing from blind angles. The man slipped through them without pause, each dodge clean, effortless.

He growled and changed his rhythm. Dropped his stance. Slowed the strike at the last second, then snapped forward at full speed. The man's body had shifted aside before the thrust even left his arm.

Another miss.

It wasn't speed. It wasn't reflex.

His chest tightened with the realization. He's moving before I even act.

His grip bled against the hilt. Blood trickled down his arm.

"You're not dodging…" he rasped, fury sparking in his eyes. "You already know where I'll strike."

The man's smile was thin, almost mocking. For the first time, he spoke.

"Oh… you figured it out." His voice was calm, steady. "But you can't do anything about it."

His star-lit eyes burned brighter as he stepped forward, sword poised. Every move promised the same thing—that his next strike was already written.

His lips curved into a cold smile.

"Facing me properly… the worst match-up for your ability." His voice dropped. "So tell me—what's stronger? Seeing the future, or stopping time?"

The man froze. His star-lit eyes widened, disbelief breaking his calm.

"You're bluffing. No one is capable of such a thing."

He lifted his blade. Shadows crawled along its length, twisting until the weapon stretched and curved, becoming a scythe.

"Shadowbane. Second Form—God Slayer."

His tone was flat, final.

"You see… I killed the god of time. Took his precious weapon for myself." He tilted the scythe, black fire tracing its edge. "But it's not perfect. I can't hold time for long. Three seconds, at most. And it drains me every time."

The man's composure cracked. He stepped back, unease flickering across his face.

He dragged the scythe across the stone. Sparks hissed.

"Three seconds is enough."

The scythe spun into his hand, shadows curling along its edge. He smiled, sharp and cold.

"I am the God of Death."

The words hit harder than any strike. The man's star-lit eyes widened. His confidence—everything he had been holding onto—shattered. He staggered back, fear flashing across his face.

He tried to run.

His hand tapped the scythe's haft.

Time stopped.

The world froze. Wind, dust, even the beat of his own heart dulled. Only he moved.

The man's eyes trembled, his body locked, helpless as he stepped forward.

The scythe came down.

Time snapped back.

The man tried to dodge, but it was already too late. The blade carved straight through him. For a heartbeat, he thought he had survived. The wound felt shallow, his body still standing.

Then it began.

The scythe's mark spread. His skin withered. Muscles shrank. Hair grayed in an instant. His body aged decades in seconds. His scream tore through the air as flesh dried and bones twisted, crumbling under the weight of time itself.

He stood over him, silent, the scythe dripping shadow.

"You thought you could kill a god?"

His voice was low, steady, carrying like a blade drawn across stone. His gaze slid toward the corner.

The bald man was there—on his knees, trembling. His hands pressed against the floor as if he could hold himself up, but his body shook too violently. His eyes flicked up once, caught his, and dropped again.

He stepped forward, the scythe dragging against the stone with a sharp scrape.