"The Fated Rival of the Moon"

The chilling winds of the Nychtheos Mountains howled as Azrael Kaelthorne stood at the base of the cursed battlefield. The towering peaks stretched endlessly into the sky, their jagged forms bathed in a crimson glow from the blood-red moon above. A place where the sun never shone, where the very air carried the scent of death.

This was a land ruled by demons.

Azrael exhaled, his golden eyes scanning the vast expanse ahead. The darkness held countless malicious presences—some watching, some waiting, and some already charging toward him.

A low growl echoed from the shadows as the first wave of demons emerged. Their grotesque forms twisted with hunger, claws gleaming under the crimson light. Some resembled beasts, others humanoid creatures with jagged teeth and malformed limbs. Their eyes burned with a single desire—to consume the human who dared step into their territory.

Azrael unsheathed Necrilith, the blade humming with a frigid, deathly aura. The moment its edge gleamed in the air, a chilling presence washed over the battlefield. The demons hesitated for a moment, sensing an unnatural power radiating from the lone swordsman.

Then, they charged.

A dozen lesser demons leaped at him from all directions, their claws swiping toward his throat and limbs.

Azrael vanished.

A black blur weaved through the swarm, and before the demons could react, a streak of cold death carved through the air.

SLASH!

Limbs and heads flew. The first wave of demons collapsed, their bodies split apart before they even registered the attack. Azrael landed softly, his coat barely rustling in the wind as dark blood dripped from Necrilith's edge.

More came.

A horde of hundreds surged from the valley, their roars shaking the ground. Mid-ranking demons, larger and more intelligent, joined the slaughter. Some wielded crude weapons, others exhaled poisonous breath or conjured black flames.

Azrael stepped forward, his expression indifferent.

"Let's begin."

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Hours of Carnage

The battlefield became a slaughterhouse.

Azrael's sword carved through flesh like paper, his movements too fast, too precise, too merciless. Every swing carried the weight of his Aura Level 8, each spell from his Mana Cycle 7 tearing through the enemy ranks like divine judgment.

The demons screamed as their bodies were frozen, torn apart, or incinerated.

Azrael weaved through the battlefield, dodging razor-sharp claws by a hair's breadth, parrying monstrous weapons with effortless grace. His golden eyes gleamed with icy resolve, his every action a testament to his mastery of battle.

A high-ranking demon—twice his size, wielding a massive war axe—roared and swung at him with earth-shattering force.

Azrael sidestepped.

The axe missed, crashing into the ground with a thunderous impact. Before the demon could recover, Azrael's blade sliced through its neck with a single, clean stroke.

The head fell.

The body collapsed.

More demons charged, but Azrael was already moving. His blade cut through their defenses with 120% increased damage against their kind, and his movements—enhanced by his legendary Abyssal Crown Coat—were too fast for them to follow.

Hours passed.

The corpses piled up.

And still, the demons kept coming.

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The Final Hours

As the third wave of high-ranking demons surrounded him, Azrael's breath came out slow and measured. He had lost count of how many he had slain.

Thousands.

The dark battlefield was now littered with severed limbs, black blood soaking the frozen ground. The once-howling demons had begun to hesitate.

The lone swordsman before them had not fallen.

Azrael raised his sword again, its abyssal aura pulsing like a heartbeat. His cold voice echoed across the battlefield.

"Who's next?"

The demons hesitated. Fear—an emotion they rarely felt—began creeping into their minds.

Then, a towering figure stepped forward. A demon lord, its presence suffocating, its four crimson eyes locked onto Azrael.

Azrael exhaled.

"The final challenge."

And with that, he charged once more.

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End of Chapter 14