Chapter 63: Sister of battle

This was the story he had written, if he would ever continue it..he'll think about it, crown said, "Sir! I sense the presence of three entities approaching your location." Taking the warning, Sylas jumped out of veil of reverie and saw three floating females, one having black, short hair, The second having short white hair and the third having short cyan hair colour.

"Analysis… analysis complete. The Sisters of Battle stand before you." Crown's voice hummed in Sylas's mind, cold and precise, indifferent to the tension in the air.

The Lance of Velrage materialized in his grasp—an extension of himself, humming with restrained power.

"Oh yeah! Ready to kick some butt!" Velrage's voice rang out, eager, impatient.

Sylas exhaled. It was always eager. Always burning. But fire, no matter how brilliant, was a slave to time. The Sisters moved. Three specters of war, their speed unreal, each step a calculated note in the symphony of violence. He did not need to win. He only needed to endure.

The world dimmed. A vast, metallic sphere of absolute blackness formed within him, a void where light had never been born.

"Everlasting Darkness detected." Crown's voice lacked any reverence, any fear.

Everlasting Darkness… a curse, a domain, a rejection of existence itself. To those caught within, time became a forgotten dream, identity a vanishing whisper. Until they broke free, their name would fade from the fabric of history, erased from all but the memories of those who already knew.

Sylas could feel its weight pressing against the edges of his mind, threatening to consume even him. A power so complete, so absolute, that it made even the concept of self a fragile illusion.

"Ah… darkness…" Sylas murmured.

What was darkness but the absence of recognition? A place where all things ceased to be observed, and thus ceased to be real? To be unseen was to be unmade. Did he even exist, if the world no longer knew his name? If memory was the only proof of life, then was he still Sylas… or merely the last echo of a forgotten soul?

The Sisters lunged.

And Sylas disappeared into the abyss.

…

Sylas's body drifted in the Everlasting Darkness—a void deeper than oblivion itself. Yet, like oil upon water, he did not dissolve into it. The darkness did not accept him, nor did he surrender to it.

Memories flickered before his eyes, fragmented and infinite, yet he was not dead. No, this was something else. To be in darkness was not to be erased—but to be made aware of one's own isolation.

The Everlasting Darkness was not merely emptiness. It was an endless construct, a paradox—a domain where space and time collapsed upon themselves, where entire multiverses perished and reformed within its silent grasp. This was a realm beyond observation, beyond understanding. A graveyard of infinite realities.

And perhaps, Sylas thought, this was what the International Safety Security feared most.

His mind spiraled, his body both sweating and dry, panicked yet eerily calm. He was a contradiction, as if every emotion was devouring itself, collapsing inward like a dying star. Was this what it meant to exist in nothingness? To be torn between being and unbeing at the same time?

But this was not the end. Not for him.

His will ignited, an indomitable force pressing against the abyss. The void shattered. The Lance of Velrage tore through dimensions, materializing into his grip. A weapon of defiance against the void itself.

A frown creased Sylas's face. "Adaption complete?" His voice echoed, carving itself into the silence.

Upon his head, Crown stirred. "Not yet, sir."

Sylas exhaled. No matter. He would endure.

He moved. A single step bent reality. He surged forward, his foot crashing into the black-haired Sister's chest. The force rippled across the fabric of the universe, tearing open the void. With a flick of his wrist, he conjured an energy blast—a star of devastation—and launched her into the abyss of space.

"Just a few more minutes…" he muttered.

But the second Sister, her hair a striking blue, was faster. Her grip closed around his leg like an executioner's vice. In an instant, she slammed him into the surface below. The impact shattered the world—shockwaves spiraled outward, rending the battlefield apart.

Blue and red particles flared into existence, spiraling, fusing, collapsing inward until they became something far greater.

A sphere. A trap.

The two Sisters on the surface forged a prison from dark matter and anti-matter, layering dimensional constructs upon each other, weaving an intricate plane of existence that would serve as his tomb.

This time, it would be different. This time, he would be stripped of his weapons.

No Lance of Velrage. No Crown of the Fallen.

Sylas opened his eyes. And he saw.

Not darkness.

But light.

It was a domain unlike any he had known. A platform of pure, condensed matter and energy, stretching endlessly beneath his feet. Above him, hanging in the sky like a cosmic judge, was a star—a monstrous celestial body composed of dark matter and chaos.

Between him and that star lay an infinite distance.

And yet, he knew.

He would reach it.

It happened in an instant.

One moment, he was standing on the platform of pure matter and energy—the next, he was tearing through the star's surface.

A singular movement. A singular thought.

Reality folded. Distance became meaningless.

The star shattered in his wake, its burning chaos parting around him like a mere ripple in a pond. As its remains dissolved into the void, the universe came back into focus. He had returned.

No matter the trap, no matter the prison—he would always escape.

The Sisters of Battle stood before him once more, their expressions unshaken, yet he could sense it—a hesitation, a flicker of disbelief.

Sylas wasted no time. He hurled the Lance of Velrage, the weapon carving through space like a divine decree. The blue-haired Sister fell too easily, her body barely resisting before she was torn apart.

A victory without effort.

His gaze shifted to the second Sister. Black hair, black eyes. A warrior clad in armor, save for her exposed face—a face that, if stripped of its steel, could have belonged to a mere girl.

He surged forward, his hand spearing through her chest.

Her breath hitched, but before she could react—

 bloomed.

She was erased. Unmade. Reality itself seemed to recoil at the act, as if the world recognized the unnaturalness of a life simply ceasing to be.

His attention turned toward the third Sister—the white-haired one.

But before he could reach her—

A shadow flickered.

The Sister with black hair, the one he had erased from existence, returned.

And in a single stroke—

She sliced him in half.

For a moment, there was nothing. No sensation, no pain.

Then—

Regeneration.

His body stitched itself together as if the wound had never existed. Flesh, bone, and essence realigned in perfect harmony. His eyes darkened.

"Tch."

Without hesitation, he ripped her arm off— and, without a shred of ceremony, began beating her with it.

A dull thud. Another.

A cruel, almost mocking rhythm filled the battlefield.

The cycle continued. An eternal dance of death, revival, and defiance.

Because, in the end—

He was inevitable.

With a single command, bloomed.

A crimson brand of annihilation seared through reality itself, chaining the Sister with black hair in place. For the first time, her expression wavered.

"Impossible—"

And then—she was no more.

No rebirth. No second chances. No escape.

Her form dissolved into nothingness, stripped from existence at a level even beyond destruction. She would never return.

And then—only one remained.

The Sister with short white hair stood alone. Her silver eyes reflected something unreadable. Not fear. Not rage. Not even sorrow. Just acceptance.

And then, Crown spoke.

"Alert! To ascend, requirements are to bathe in the blood of the Sisters of Battle."

Sylas froze.

His grip on the Lance of Velrage tightened. That was… ridiculous.

The other two were dead. Only she remained.

And to grow stronger, he had to do this?

A breath. Cold. Shallow. He could still feel the lingering presence of the Sisters he had killed. Even dead, their will burned in the space between worlds.

The Sisters of Battle—what were they, truly?

Born from the theoretical concept of war in [Eden], an eight-dimensional realm where ideas themselves took form.

The Demon King of Salvation had sculpted their existence from that very concept, bringing them into the physical plane. Beings who could destroy and create multiverses at a whim.

And now, one of them stood before him, battered, bloodied, and barely holding on.

Sylas moved. Fast. Precise. Unrelenting.

He ripped both her hands from her body.

Blood surged, cascading over him.

It clung to his skin, burning like divine fire, yet seeping into him like a forbidden truth. The purity of it, the sheer essence contained within, latched onto his being, warping, changing, pulling him toward a higher realm of existence.

The price of ascension.

For a moment, he hesitated.

The Sister of Battle coughed, her mouth overflowing with blood. Even now, even in agony, she did not scream.

There was an odd quiet between them.

Did he feel bad?

Maybe. But they were the ones who attacked him.

And in the end—

This was the way of the world.