Fight (2)

The moonlight cast long shadows over the battlefield, stretching across the torn earth like silent witnesses to the impending slaughter. Luseraph stood in the center, hands tucked into his pockets, his presence alone warping the very air around him.

Across from him, a group of mercenaries—once adventurers, now turned to greed—stood in tense formation. The weight of the moment pressed down on them, though none dared to acknowledge the chill creeping up their spines.

Their leader, a grizzled man with a jagged scar running down his cheek, forced a smirk. "You hear that?" he said, nodding toward the distant battlefield where screams had just been cut short. "Your friend must've been taken care of. If you don't want to meet the same fate, I suggest you hand over half the money. That's fair, don't you think? We're only asking for half."

Luseraph's crimson gaze remained steady, his expression unreadable. The wind stirred his jet-black hair slightly, but he didn't move, didn't react. Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile—small, amused, utterly unconcerned.

"Don't worry," he said lightly. "I'll pass."

Something about his tone sent a ripple of unease through the group. It was too calm. Too effortless.

One of the mercenaries, eager to assert dominance, stepped forward, unsheathing a dagger with a sneer. "How about I sever your hands before we continue our talk?" He twirled the blade between his fingers, letting the moonlight glint off its edge.

Luseraph chuckled—a soft, almost pitying sound. He tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering to the weapon.

"Sever my hands?" he echoed, voice laced with quiet amusement. "With which blade?"

The man scowled. "What do you mean, with which—" His words caught in his throat. His fingers twitched.

His dagger was gone.

His mind blanked for a moment. He had been holding it. He knew he had been holding it.

Hadn't he?

His thoughts scrambled, his certainty unraveling like frayed thread. A creeping doubt slithered into his mind, twisting logic into contradiction.

"I thought I had a dagger…" he muttered. Then he shook his head, scowling. "No. That's right—I bought a breastplate instead."

A sudden, uneasy laughter erupted from the group.

"Did we seriously send an unarmed guy to threaten him?" one of them scoffed, shaking his head.

"Yeah, what the hell? He doesn't even carry a weapon!" another cackled.

The man's expression twisted in confusion and growing dread. He had a weapon. He knew he did. But why… why couldn't he remember it? shaking his head as if trying to rid himself of the fog creeping into his mind. He scowled. "Damn it! Whatever, I'll just break your hands instead!"

Luseraph's smile widened. "Break my hands?" He took a small step forward, his presence growing heavier. "With which hands?"

The man's breath hitched. A cold, crawling dread seeped into his bones. His gaze fell to his own arms—

And found nothing.

His hands weren't there.

A strangled gasp left his throat as his mind fractured under the weight of the impossible. His arms ended in smooth stumps, as if they had never existed in the first place. But that wasn't the worst part.

He couldn't remember ever having them.

"What's wrong with me?! It's like I'm having amnesia!" His voice rose in panic. He turned toward his comrades, seeking reassurance, but they were too busy laughing.

"Did we seriously send a handless guy to break someone's hands?" One of them cackled.

"Yeah, what the hell were we thinking?!" Another burst into laughter, slapping his knee.

The handless man's face twisted in confusion, anger, and fear all at once. He felt like he was losing his mind.

"Enough wasting time," the leader snapped, though his voice carried a new edge of caution. "Let's just kill him and be done with it."

Luseraph exhaled softly, as if disappointed. "You're right," he mused, his gaze flickering with something unreadable. "Let's just kill him."

Then, his smile widened.

"Or rather…"

He took a single step forward.

"Let's just kill each other."

The words slithered through the air, latching onto their minds like a curse.

Then—

The first to fall was the man who had lost his dagger.

With a sudden, jerking motion, his own fingers curled around an invisible handle, dragging something across his throat. Blood sprayed in an arc, his eyes bulging in horror as he gurgled a strangled breath. His own hands had betrayed him.

The others barely had time to react before their bodies turned against them.

Swords reversed their grips, plunging into their owners' stomachs. Bows snapped their own strings, lashing across throats like executioner's whips. One man dropped to his knees, clawing at his face, fingers digging into his own eyes. Another began convulsing violently, frothing at the mouth as his own hands crushed his windpipe.

The battlefield became a symphony of self-destruction.

Less than a minute passed, and all but one had fallen.

The last survivor stood amidst the carnage, drenched in the blood of his comrades, his body trembling uncontrollably. His breath came in ragged gasps as he turned to face the monster before him.

Luseraph remained exactly where he stood, his posture relaxed, his expression unchanged. He observed the lone survivor with mild interest, as if watching an insect struggle against the inevitable.

"W-What are you?" the man choked, his voice hoarse with terror. "What did you do to us?! You monster! You—you're a devil!"

Luseraph's smile faded.

"I didn't do anything," he said, voice calm, almost bored. "You all killed yourselves. Calling me a monster is one thing, but calling me a devil?"

His crimson eyes gleamed.

"That's just stupid."

He took a step forward.

The man staggered back, but his legs gave out beneath him. His knees hit the ground, his entire body trembling.

"Please…" he whispered, his voice barely audible. "Please… don't…"

Luseraph tilted his head. "You misunderstand something," he murmured. "This is not a matter of mercy."

A faint glow pulsed from his irises.

"Xalveria."

The moment the word left his lips, the man ceased to exist.

No scream. No resistance. No final moments.

He simply… vanished.

The wind carried away the last traces of dust where he had stood.

Then—

A sharp crack split the air as the ice wall behind Luseraph shattered like glass, revealing the aftermath of another battle. Smoke curled into the night sky, and scorched earth stretched across the land. It looked like an entire war had taken place in mere minutes.

Luseraph sighed.

"I thought I told you not to overdo it," he said, not even turning as he addressed the approaching presence.

Beelzebub emerged from the wreckage, rubbing the back of his head. "I tried to keep the damage minimal!" he argued, feigning innocence.

Luseraph pinched the bridge of his nose. "Minimal? This looks like a battlefield for mages."

Beelzebub chuckled sheepishly. "Well… I could have gone all out."

Luseraph exhaled slowly before lifting his gaze. His voice carried an undeniable weight as he uttered,

"Every physical damage caused in the past six minutes shall return to its original state."

The world itself seemed to shudder at his command. A blinding pulse of light washed over the landscape.

And just like that—

The battlefield was gone.

The earth was untouched, pristine, as if the destruction had never happened.

Luseraph placed his hands back into his pockets. "Let's go back to the inn."

Beelzebub grinned. "Finally."

And with that, they disappeared into the night.