Chapter 73: Chapter 72. Duel With the Demon Race
The heavy doors of the training hall groaned open, spilling golden light onto the stone floor. Dust drifted in the air, stirred by the faint hum of demonic energy that clung to the walls like smoke. This hall had seen centuries of blood, training, and triumph, but never a duel like this.
Roxanne stepped in first, her boots clicking in steady rhythm, her long black-and-gold coat flowing behind her. The insignia of House Borgia gleamed on her chest, a phoenix wrapped around a sword. Her face is unreadable, her crimson eyes steady, and her aura restrained but electric beneath her skin.
Vivianne walks slowly behind her, and she then sits at the chair on the edge of the stage. Taking Roxanne’s long coat, she saw her wife step onto the stage. She then made sure to cover the stage with layers of barrier so that whatever happened inside was not going to make a mess or hurt the others outside the fight.
Across from her, Morwenna sat and gave her a soft smile. While Ashkareth followed, slower and heavier. The Demon King’s presence alone shifted the air. His power rolled through the hall like a tide, ancient, regal, and overwhelming. The faint crimson glow of his eyes burned brighter as he smiled, proud and amused.
"I expect you to fight like a ruler," Ashkareth said, his deep voice rumbling through the vast hall.
Roxanne halted at the center of the training floor, her boots striking against the old stone, the faint sigils beneath her feet sparking to life in silver light. "Titles aside," she replied evenly, her gaze locked on him, "I come as an alpha who challenges your power, and I’m not going to take this easy."
A faint smirk curved Ashkareth’s mouth. "That’s what I want."
He shrugged off his long dark coat and handed it to Morwenna, who stood silently at the edge of the hall. Her hands trembled only slightly as she took it, bowing her head before stepping back.
Then Vivianne, who sat across from Morwenn, waved her hand, and layers of shimmering barriers unfolded, forming concentric rings of blue and gold light around the stage. The layers of barrier sealed the space, cutting them off from the outside world. No one could interfere now.
Ashkareth’s laughter broke the silence, echoing against the high ceiling. "Then let the duel begin!"
He moved first.
The floor cracked under his step as he lunged, faster than most could see. His fist shot forward, shrouded in violet flame. Roxanne twisted aside, the blow passing so close that the air itself hissed. She retaliated with a swift strike to his ribs, a move precise and clean, but Ashkareth blocked it with his forearm, his power flaring. The impact sent a shockwave through the hall, rattling chains and banners.
They danced around each other, two alphas circling. Roxanne’s movements were sharp and disciplined; Ashkareth’s, effortless and brutal. He drove her back with a spinning kick that cracked against her guard, the sheer strength behind it pushing her several paces.
"You’ve grown stronger," he said, smirking. "But still predictable."
Roxanne exhaled through her nose, wiping a trickle of blood from her lip. "Then you haven’t been watching closely enough."
Ashkareth lunged again, a blur of shadow and muscle. His hand caught Roxanne’s shoulder like iron, the impact cracking through the hall as he hurled her across the floor. Her body hit the ground and rolled, then she came up in a crouch, boots skidding on the stone.
The sigils beneath her feet flared alive, responding to her aura. Power rippled outward in waves, silver threaded with deep red, curling from her shoulders like smoke. Ashkareth didn’t wait. The Demon King charged again, each step pounding the ground like a drumbeat of war. Roxanne met him head-on, her fists rising, her eyes locked on his.
Their collision shook the air.
Fist met fist, elbow clashed against forearm, the impact erupting in bursts of raw demonic energy. Every strike sent shockwaves echoing through the hall, each blow thunder, every parry lightning. Sparks crackled at their feet, and the golden wards of Vivianne’s barrier strained and rippled, holding back a storm meant to tear worlds apart.
Ashkareth’s attacks came relentlessly—fast, brutal, and kingly. His strikes aren’t just meant to hit; they’re meant to break. Every motion is sharpened by centuries of war and dominance. When his foot slammed into the ground, the tiles fractured; when his palm struck out, the air itself screamed.
Roxanne blocked, twisted, and slid aside, the edge of his power brushing her skin like the bite of flame. Her movements are precise and controlled. She didn’t counter yet. Her breathing is calm, her eyes focused, as if she’s collecting something. She’s measuring the depth of his strength, testing his rhythm, and learning how the Demon King moved when he thought he was unchallenged.
Ashkareth’s grin widened as he drove her backward. "Is that all, Grand Duke? Where’s that fire the North whispers about?"
Roxanne didn’t answer. She ducked under a sweeping punch, her raven hair flashing like a blade in the light. His next kick grazed her cheek, sending her skidding across the floor, her boots leaving a glowing trail over the burning sigils.
The onlookers outside the barrier could only watch as the walls of magic warped with every blow, turning their figures into shadows of blue and gold. Even Morwenna’s breath hitched, sensing the weight of their powers colliding. Ashkareth slammed his fist down, the shockwave rippling through the stone and lifting Roxanne off her feet. She hit the wall, exhaled sharply, and dropped to one knee.
The Demon King laughed, chest heaving, eyes gleaming with the thrill of battle. "You’re strong, child—but not enough."
Roxanne raised her head slowly. Her lip is bleeding, but her eyes burned brighter than before. The red in her aura deepened, pulsing like a heartbeat. The floor beneath her cracked, light spreading outward in veins of silver fire.
And then she smiled; Ashkareth smirked as his fist connected with her chest, sending her skidding backward. "Is that all the Grand Duke can manage? You done, kid?"
Roxanne straightened slowly, dust and smoke curling around her. "No," she said quietly. "That’s all I needed to see." In an instant, her aura flared.
The hall exploded with light. Silver fire erupted around her. The pressure in the room shifted, turning suffocating, divine, and wild. Ashkareth’s grin faltered for the first time. He raised his hand, summoning a wall of violet flame to meet her, but Roxanne is faster now. She appeared before him in a blur, her knee slamming into his gut, the sound cracking like a whip. Before he could recover, her elbow struck his jaw, her movements so fast they blurred into streaks of silver.
Ashkareth stumbled back, barely catching her next strike. "You’ve been hiding your true strength."
"Learning yours," she said, her tone calm, almost cold.
He roared and unleashed his power fully, the air around him igniting in crimson energy. His form grew larger, more monstrous, his aura filling the hall like molten iron. The ground cracked beneath his feet. "Then face me at my full strength, daughter!"
Roxanne’s answer is silent, but her eyes glow with a silver fire that outshines his crimson. She vanished again, a flicker of motion. They clashed midair.
The collision sent out a shockwave that tore through the sigils on the floor. Light and shadow burst together in waves of silver and red, painting the hall in chaos. Their strikes no longer sounded like fists, waves of power colliding, each strong enough to level walls.
Ashkareth swung, but Roxanne ducked, sweeping his leg. He countered with a palm strike that shattered stone, but she twisted aside, landing a punch that sent cracks crawling across his armor. Her hands burned with silver flame as she drove him backward, strike after strike, relentless and precise.
For the first time in centuries, Ashkareth bled. He stared at the faint mark on his cheek, then laughed, a deep, booming laugh full of both pride and disbelief. "You truly are my blood."
"Be serious, Demon Lord," Roxanne said, stepping forward, smirking now.
She raised her hands, palms glowing. The air around her swirled as her power condensed, every ounce of her strength focused, refined, and perfect. Silver sigils bloomed beneath her feet, spinning like gears of light.
Ashkareth braced himself, summoning his full aura. His body glowed crimson, demonic symbols flaring to life around him. The hall trembled. Then Roxanne struck.
She dashed forward faster than sound, her body trailing silver afterimages. Her fist met his guard, breaking through it like glass. The impact sent a wave of light across the hall, blasting open the walls. Before he could recover, she followed with a spinning kick that sent him crashing into the far wall. The sound thundered through the palace.
Ashkareth tried to rise, but Roxanne was already there, hand at his throat, her power pressing down like gravity. The air bent around her, her aura towering like a celestial flame. He looked up at her, chest heaving, eyes wide. For a moment, there’s no anger—only understanding.
"You’ve surpassed me," he said, voice rough but steady. "You truly are my heir."
Roxanne didn’t answer. Her hand loosened, and she stepped back, allowing him to breathe. The hall is now silent except for the settling of dust and the faint crackle of dying energy. The once-perfect floor was split, sigils broken, and walls scorched. The duel was over.
Ashkareth pushed himself to his knees, his head bowed. The weight of his pride and his lineage hung heavy, but his voice carried clear across the ruined hall. "In the name of the demon race," he said, "I, Ashkareth, the previous and soon-to-be the Demon King once again, submit to Roxanne de Borgia, the rightful alpha."
Gasps echoed from the entrance—soldiers, servants, and even a few lower nobles who had dared to witness the duel. They watched as the great Ashkareth lowered his head, the golden light of submission glimmering faintly in his aura.
Roxanne stood tall, the last of her silver fire ebbing from around her like a tide pulling back. Her breath is steady; her eyes are calm and clear. She looked down at Ashkareth not with triumph but with the certainty of someone taking up a throne.
"Rise, Father," she said, voice low and steady. "Your rule ends here—but your legacy will remain."
Ashkareth pushed himself up, the weight of defeat still in his bones, yet a slow, proud smile eased across his face. He met her gaze and, with the weary authority of the king he had been, gave her a command that was also a benediction.
"Then go," he said, voice rough but resolute. "Make them bow. Take this continent and bind it under your hand. Let the world learn to fear your name the way it once feared mine."