The Broken Halo

The God of War looked down at the blood covering his remaining hand.

His brows drew together.

”What sword technique was that?”

He moved the torn breastplate aside. ”I have never seen it before.”

The wound on his body began across the back of Darius’s shoulder and curved around his side. Torn muscle showed beneath the separated armour, and the edges opened whenever the borrowed body breathed. Along the ribs, the cut had reached his bone, leaving narrow grooves in the exposed surfaces.

It was not a shallow injury.

But his heart remained intact. His spine had been spared, and the body was nowhere near the state Simon was after his first attack.

Yet it had failed him when he reached for the fleeing demon.

The god touched two fingers beside the wound. Aether gathered beneath them, and the torn flesh began drawing together.

A black spark appeared.

The new connection broke, releasing another thin stream of blood.

”Not merely the flesh,” he said quietly. ”He cut the channels beneath it.”

Several humans remained kneeling beyond the broken trench. One lifted his head at the sound of the god’s voice, then immediately lowered it again.

The God of War did not acknowledge him.

”Repair the surface, and the first surge of power tears it open. Restore the channels, and that fire destroys the work before they can carry anything.”

His gaze shifted toward the stump of his right arm.

There, the damage left by holding the Chaos Blade remained. He had not managed to replace what he had severed.

The wound across his ribs was different in severity, although the black fire within it carried the same disturbing nature. Much of the strike’s power had been spent overcoming his defence. What remained had not taken hold as deeply as the corruption in his arm.

”This, I can repair.”

He spoke with certainty. Then his eyes returned to the shattered ground.

”But first... that movement.”

The place Simon had stood was buried beneath dust and fallen stone. The god could still recall the stance with perfect clarity.

”The sword remained low while his body prepared several different attacks. An upward cut. A downward stroke. A turn through the waist. He loaded all of them before permitting any to finish.”

A faint crease appeared between his brows.

”No wonder his wrist broke. He made one body bear preparations that should have followed one another.”

He traced a short line through the air with his left forefinger.

”Then he moved. Seven strokes, performed in sequence. But he held their force until the last was ready.”

His finger stopped.

”Seven movements. One moment of impact.”

A few nearby demons listened without understanding why the god was discussing the attack instead of pursuing its wielder, but none dared to move closer.

The god looked toward a fading fragment of his barrier. Its surface still carried the severed end of a crimson band.

”Power alone does not explain this.”

He turned the fragment without touching it.

”The cuts at my throat, heart, and hand demanded protection. None was harmless. Ignoring one would have cost this body dearly.”

Those three attacks had broken against his reinforcement. They had failed to reach their targets, but they had not been useless.

”While I stopped them, another cut separated the routes supplying the defence. The strike behind my shoulder reached the opening in the same instant it formed.”

His eyes narrowed.

”No pause between breaking the shield and striking the body. No opportunity to repair one before receiving the other.”

He released the fragment. It dissolved before reaching the road.

”Any commander can order a volley. Ensuring the breach and the wound occur together, regardless of the movements required to produce them...”

A slight interest entered his expression.

”He did not give me seven attacks to destroy. He gave me seven failures to prevent at once.”

The god glanced toward the severed cannon, then the hillside lying beneath its own shattered fortifications. Farther away, dust still poured into the long fracture crossing the basin.

”The weakest part was the swordsman.”

There was no mockery in the judgement.

”He could barely keep those lines concealed. His circulation wavered, his body broke, and the sword’s edge escaped into the surroundings before he intended to release it.”

His gaze climbed the elongated crimson rift that nearly reached the sky.

”Yet he still chose where the final cut would end.”

The passage shuddered between its sustaining formations. Its upper edge stood far higher than before, and the temporary spatial passage Simon had used to reach it had already closed.

”He needed a road, not a corpse.”

A slight smile touched the god’s mouth.

”Not bad. He understood the difference. He understood that he couldn’t kill me, so he chose to make a path for his escape.”

He pressed his fingers against his side again. This time, he did not immediately force the severed channels to join.

Power gathered around the undamaged tissue instead, separating it from the burning remnants. He worked inward slowly, preventing each black spark from reaching the flesh being restored beside it.

One damaged vessel closed and held.

The god’s expression tightened when the next attempt failed.

”Still troublesome.”

He adjusted the pressure. Another section joined, and the bleeding lessened.

”It was a good thing I allowed the little swordsman to continue. There was something worth learning in that sword art of his.”

He had chosen to watch Simon prepare.

He had not chosen to bleed.

However, the distinction did not prevent him from examining what the injury had taught him.

”Such poor execution,” he murmured. ”And still, a useful lesson in where force should arrive, rather than how much of it should be released.”

He shook his head, recalling the blood running from Simon’s eyes and the wrappings holding his ruined hands against the hilt.

”The courage to attempt it was his own. So was the sense not to mistake that such a sword art was enough to preserve his life from me.”

He looked through the rift.

”An extraordinary weapon. A dangerous art. Neither persuaded him that he could kill me. He bought himself a moment and used it.”

The smile faded.

”And now he expects me to follow.”

The god inspected the wound once more. Several torn sections had closed, but black fire remained deeper inside. Forcing the borrowed body through another abrupt surge of power would reopen them.

”Not in this condition.”

His insults toward the Demon Realm had been deliberate. Belittle an enemy’s home, ridicule its rulers, and pride often drove it into a mistake.

He had never mistaken those words for a proper assessment of the realm itself.

He was arrogant. There was no humility hidden beneath that arrogance. But he was also the God of War, and he understood the difference between provoking an enemy and believing his own provocation.

He had watched gods fall because they treated contempt as a substitute for preparation.

Underestimating the strange sword had already cost him an arm. Crossing into another realm through an injured mortal vessel merely to conceal his embarrassment would compound that mistake.

”The demon can enjoy believing he has escaped.”

His feet rose from the broken road.

He folded his legs beneath him and settled cross-legged in the air, his remaining hand resting above the wound. Aether gathered in controlled streams as he closed his eyes and began repairing the damage properly.

Meanwhile, beyond the red passage, Simon staggered into the Demon Realm with blood dripping from his chin and his ruined arms still held together by the Chaos Wraps.