74. A Deal (1)

After returning to the Cathedral, no one said a word. They just collapsed where they could and let exhaustion claim them.

Elizabeth lay on the cold marble floors, her serpent form gone, yet the aftereffects of it still lingered in the corners of her mind. Physically, she was untouched—not even a scratch remained on her skin—but her mind was a maelstrom. The aftermath of fusing with the serpent still clawed at her thoughts, twisting them into hate. Every little thing, every breath, every sound… she hated it all.

At one point, when the Black Knight of the Cathedral blocked the path to cathedral and they had to take the longer one, she almost tried to kill it just to stop the irritation. Her dagger was already drawn, her grip white-knuckled, when Akame and Lucas intercepted her. It had taken both of them—injured, barely standing—to pull her back.

Lucas could barely even lay down without wincing. His skin was blistered in more places than he could count, a price he paid for his own explosions. Every movement burned like hell. Even breathing felt like scraping knives against his ribs.

Akame wasn't much better. Her Aspect allowed her to counter attacks, but it didn't spare her from the wounds themselves. Her arms were bruised to the bone, her ribs cracked, and every inch of her body felt as though it had been chewed and spit out by the battlefield.

Fortunately, Akame had a Memory—[Healing Touch]. It wasn't strong; it could barely mend superficial wounds and dull lingering pain. But combined with Lucas's alchemic painkillers and hastily brewed burn salves, it was enough to stop them from spiraling into shock.

They stabilized themselves as best as they could, knowing they'd be out of commission for the next five days. Neither of them minded. They needed that time to breathe, to let their battered minds and bodies recover.

Outside, the countdown to the Statue's arrival continued. Six days. Maybe seven. But in the silence of the Cathedral, none of them dared speak of it.

While Akame and the others were resting and healing, far from the Cathedral, deep within the Hollow Mountains, an earth-shattering battle was taking place.

The Hollow Mountains did not quake from shifting stone or the stirrings of ancient titans—it was the Supremes' Wills colliding, each one powerful enough to warp the very air. The atmosphere crackled, heavy with an invisible pressure that could crush the breath from any lesser being. The mountains themselves seemed to groan under the weight of these four, as if they resented becoming the stage for such a battle.

Nenavist—known to the world as Broken Sword—stood upon shattered ground. His blade, once a peerless weapon, now bore cracks like spiderwebs etched by time and fury. Shadows coiled and writhed around it, restless serpents eager to strike. His silver eyes glimmered with unnatural clarity, his Aspect of perception unfurling across the battlefield. He could see everything—every subtle twitch of Anvil's fingers, the minute adjustments in Ki Song's puppets, the faint heartbeat of Asterion's ever-growing awareness.

And yet, his mind was frayed—clarity and madness entangled, feeding each other like fire and oil.

Caelirisu known to the world as Smile of Heaven. Her name pulsed like a knife in his heart. He could almost hear her laugh, soft and warm, the kind that had once kept his own darkness at bay. But now her voice was gone, and all that remained was an echo so faint it hurt to breathe.

"Honey…" His voice was a rasp, roughened by grief and obsession. "I'll tear through this mountain. I'll rip open the gates of hell itself. If I have to kill every one of you, so be it." His gaze flickered to each of them—cold, measured, but shaking at the edges. "For old time's sake… stand down. Don't make me do this."

Anvil stood across from him, his presence as steady as the mountain itself. Armor of polished steel coated his body, every plate thrumming with the resonance of his metal-bound Aspect. Behind him floated hundreds of blades, each sharp enough to slice stone like silk. They spun in slow arcs, whispering in the wind, forming a halo of silver death.

"You've gone too far, Nenavist," Anvil said, voice as cold and measured as a judge's verdict. "This isn't about your wife anymore. Your madness will wake horrors we can't put back to sleep. And if you keep going, you'll destroy more than just yourself."

His hand clenched, and the storm of swords hummed louder. But inside, a seed of hatred twisted—an emotion he rarely allowed himself.

'Asterion's right. He's too dangerous now. Too unstable. Nenavist has to die. Before he drags every existence into the grave.'

Ki Song's pale face remained calm, but her knuckles whitened as she summoned her army of puppets. Corpses of ancient Hollow beasts, armors long rusted, and mangled chitinous shells all rose like marionettes pulled by crimson threads of blood. Their hollow eyes glowed faintly, each one a vessel for her will.

Her voice was soft, nearly inaudible beneath the clash of Wills. "Nenavist… don't make me do this."

Inside, however, her fear boiled.

'I don't want this. I don't want to fight you.'

She remembered the man who she fought side by side—a quiet man who had smiled faintly even as blood dripped from his cracked lips.

'But if I hesitate… Anvil will cut me down. Asterion will devour me whole.'

Her lips curled into a mask of ice.

'If this is the only way to survive, then so be it.'

Asterion stood a step apart, leaning casually against a jagged slab of rock as if this confrontation were nothing but a game. His crimson cloak stirred though there was no wind. The mountain itself seemed to whisper his name—Asterion—as if the stones recognized and feared him. Behind him drifted ghostly faces, souls writhing in silence, feeding his strength.

His smile was venom and silk.

"Nenavist, Nenavist, Nenavist…" He spoke the name like a song, each repetition louder, more recognized, and thus more empowering. "Still chasing phantoms, aren't you? Do you even know if her soul remains? Or are you clawing at the dark because you're too afraid to face the truth? That she's gone—and nothing, not even your shadows, can bring her back."

Nenavist's shadows flared violently, coiling like a living storm. His grip on the cracked blade tightened, and for a heartbeat, the ground itself darkened as if night had fallen prematurely.

"SHUT UP!" His roar split the air, carrying both anguish and fury. His perception mapped their stances, their intentions, their killing blows. But it also screamed at him that this was not a fight he could win—not with three Supremes aligned against him. He ignored it.

A whisper passed through his mind—his daughter's face, her tear-streaked cheeks, the small voice asking,

"Daddy, when will you come back?"

The memory made his rage burn hotter. He had no right to return—not until he brought her mother back. Even if it cost his soul.

The cavern quaked as if the Hollow Mountains themselves were screaming.

Nenavist moved first.

His shadow surged from the ground, no longer merely an extension of himself, but a living storm of darkness. The shadows split into a hundred blades, flowing and twisting midair like serpents. Each one moved along a perfect line of death—angles chosen with terrifying precision by Nenavist's Aspect. He could see where every strike would land, where every counter would fail, as though the future itself unfolded in his mind's eye.

The swarm of shadows shot forward in a crescent arc, aimed not only at Asterion but at every blind spot Anvil and Ki Song had.

Clang! Clang! Clang!

Anvil's storm of blades answered.

Dozens of swords shot forward at impossible speed, spinning like meteors of silver. Their collision with Nenavist's shadows was like thunder cracking the sky, each clash producing bursts of light—black shadowfire against blinding sparks of steel. Waves of compressed air smashed into the surrounding walls, shattering stalagmites and blowing entire boulders into dust.

"Your tricks won't work on me," Anvil growled, his hands shifting slightly, each motion sending ripples of metallic energy through his blades. "I've studied your flow, Nenavist. I know your weakness."

Nenavist's silver eyes narrowed. His perception locked onto Anvil's storm—he saw the minute lapses in rhythm, the fraction of a second when a sword rotated just a little too slow. His broken black blade flashed, faster than a lightning strike, cutting through the gaps like water through cracks in stone.

For a moment, he was there—his blade a whisper from Anvil's throat.

Anvil smirked. "Predictable."

With a mere thought, every one of his swords converged into a shield of whirling death. The collision sounded like a hurricane made of screaming steel. The impact hurled Nenavist backward, sending him crashing through a wall of jagged black stone.

Ki Song moved.