Chapter 872 - 871: The Choice That Remained

Dust rose from the trench Simon had broken through. Two motionless demons lay among the collapsed supports, their armour crushed beneath the force of his landing. Farther back, a trail of scattered stone marked his flight from the rift.

The God of War stood before the red opening with his remaining hand lowered. Darius’s hair stirred in the demonic wind spilling from the passage, but the being wearing his face seemed untouched by the chaos around him.

A human lowered his rifle.

He had recognised the black bands across the face, the crimson lines, and the crossed spears beneath the ruined armour. When those iron-grey eyes turned briefly across the field, his knees struck the ground.

"Lord of Battles..."

Others followed.

Some bowed immediately. Others hesitated until the men beside them dragged them down. Across the nearest trenches, weapons lowered, and prayers replaced battle cries.

The demons reacted differently.

A Fiend stumbled backward with his mouth open. An Archfiend beside him tried to shout an order, but the words would not leave his throat. Neither knew why the one-armed human frightened them more than the powerful Demon Slayers overhead.

Above the ruined defensive line, the winged Demon Lord fighting Stefan pulled away without launching another attack.

"Who is that?" he demanded.

Stefan followed his gaze. His expression changed, and the Aether gathered around him settled.

"The God of War."

The Demon Lord went still.

’A god? Did he just say a god?’ The winged Demon Lord had a baffled expression.

Across the neighbouring battle, the second Lord who was a tall demoness silver horns and several dark chains rotating around her body looked toward the rift.

"That is a mortal body," she said, her voice unusually strained. "Why does looking at it feel like this?"

"Because you are looking at what descended into it," Nadia replied solemnly.

The third Demon Lord who was an obsidian giant with a large warhammer drew farther from the nearest human position.

"What is a god doing here? And why is he watching an Archfiend?"

No one answered.

The pause spread through the basin. Not everything stopped. Attacks already released struck their targets, and distant cannons continued firing. But more and more combatants noticed that those nearest the rift were no longer fighting.

Even the stream of demons crossing from the other side thinned.

Then it stopped.

Beyond the passage, the invasion’s commanders had sensed the presence waiting on Earth. Orders halted the next ranks before they could step through.

However, the God of War paid none of them any attention.

His gaze remained on the shattered trench where Simon was.

Simon dragged his shoulder free of the ground and coughed blood onto a broken helmet.

One side of his face felt as though it belonged to someone else. His cheek was split against his teeth, his jaw sat crookedly, and attempting to close his mouth sent pain through his skull.

’That bastard...’

Unholy Regeneration worked through the damage. Torn flesh drew together inside his cheek, and he braced one hand against his jaw while the displaced bone settled.

His ribs hurt. So did his shoulder and the leg the god had caught.

But his body had not collapsed the way it had beneath the first cutting gesture.

Ever since those fingers closed around his ankle, Simon had poured demonic energy into protecting himself. The reinforcement had taken the slap with him, then resisted the collision that killed the two demons beside him.

Without it, there might not have been enough left for regeneration to repair.

’My shoulders were through. They had entered the rift.’

He remembered the dense demonic energy against his face. His hand reaching forward. The brief certainty that another few inches would carry him beyond Earth.

Then that leisurely pull backward.

’He waited until I thought I had escaped.’

Frustration tightened his newly repaired jaw. Whether the god had deliberately chosen that instant or simply arrived then made little difference. Simon had given everything to the attempt.

The god had answered with one hand.

"Did you believe entering the Demon Realm would save you?"

Simon planted one knee beneath himself.

"That I could not follow you into that lowly realm?" the God of War continued disdainfully. "Or were you hoping one of your pathetic Demon Kings would protect you?"

Several demons stiffened.

Fear did not erase everything they believed. The Demon Kings were the greatest powers their realm possessed. Even the Lords overhead looked darker at hearing them dismissed so casually.

A Greater Demon tightened his weapon until the grip creaked.

He did not step forward though. He did not have the courage to do so.

Simon gave no response. He directed more energy toward his injured shoulder, waiting until it could bear his weight properly.

The god scoffed.

"Healing again. That part, at least, you do well."

His eyes narrowed.

"But earlier, you recovered from far worse. Your heart was cut. My Aether remained inside you. Then you vanished, and to my surprise, you were completely healed and stronger than before."

Simon lifted his head.

"What did you do?" the god asked. "And where is my chosen’s forearm? There was no limb, no black flame, not even its ashes could be seen."

For a moment, Simon considered how much truth might keep the god talking.

Then he coughed and wiped his mouth.

"You’re asking the man you nearly cut in half to help find your missing pieces?"

A nearby human stared at him.

The God of War’s expression became cold.

"I could make you a clown for eternity."

"Then you would have to keep me alive," Simon replied, his voice still rough. "And not going to lie, that sounds better than your previous offer."

Nobody laughed.

A kneeling soldier slowly lowered his forehead until it touched the ground. One of the Demon Lords glanced from the god to Simon, unable to understand what kind of confidence this Archfiend had.

Simon possessed no such confidence.

He understood exactly how badly outmatched he was. Fearless simply left him able to think about it without terror drowning everything else.

The God of War watched him.

He had already demonstrated how quickly he could end the conversation. The silence now was his choice, not Simon’s achievement.

[And what will you do next?]

Lilith’s voice reached him beneath the distant cannon fire.

[Your escape has failed. My offer still stands.]

Simon looked toward the rift. The god occupied the space between him and it, and the commanders beyond had stopped sending their warriors forward.

There was no second escape waiting to succeed merely because he tried harder.

[I have one thing left to try.]

[What thing?]

Simon adjusted his grip on the Chaos Blade and drew it closer. His thumb settled against the guard.

Lilith immediately understood.

[No.]

The word came sharply.

[You are still too weak to use that! Have you forgotten my warning? What happened when you practised? Your body could barely endure the preparation.]

Simon remembered.

The crimson book. The movements he could understand but had not been strong enough to complete. The difference between knowing where a sword should go and possessing a body capable of taking it there.

He had kept the technique unused for a long time for a reason.

[He won’t let me leave.]

[And that makes destroying yourself sensible?]

A faint smile touched Simon’s swollen mouth.

[I wanted a path of my own, Lilith. Not a promise that it would be safe.]

He tested his shoulder again. Pain remained, but the joint moved.

[Running was the right choice. He stopped it. Now I need another.]

[You may die before your sword reaches him.]

[He can kill me before I lift it anyway.]

Simon paused, watching the god’s remaining hand.

[If the only choices I take are the ones he permits, then my life already belongs to him.]

Lilith remained silent.

Simon spat blood and saliva onto the dirt. He wiped his mouth against his sleeve, placed a foot beneath himself, and stood.

His legs held.

The Chaos Blade remained in his right hand. He brought his left to the hilt, then set one foot slightly forward. His knees softened. The sword rested low beside his right hip, its edge angled upward across the space separating him from the god.

There was nothing hurried about the adjustment, and it was not the stance he had used against Darius.

The God of War frowned.

"What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

Simon did not answer the question.

His breathing settled. The pain had not vanished, and he had not suddenly become strong enough to ignore the being before him.

But his hands stopped trembling.

’Sword Daemon’s Sword Art...’

He looked directly at the god.

’The Death Heaven Owes.’