A deep concussion boomed through the void and rattled the Demon King’s skull. For an instant, he nearly blacked out; the blow was that heavy. He clenched his teeth, forced himself steady, and threw a punch.0

The Demon King’s fist carried the power to kill gods and lance through creation. Even Ketal would be left with a hole through his body if it landed clean. A single mistake would not be forgiven.0

For Ketal, that had always been ordinary life. He slipped his head past the blow with a breath to spare. Cold prickled his nape, and he savored it as he brought the axe down. The Demon King caught Ketal’s striking wrist with his free hand and squeezed to crush bone.0

Ketal answered by driving his forehead forward. A thunderclap cracked the air and pushed the Demon King back. The exchange was crude, brutish, the sort of brawl street thugs would admire, yet every motion carried a tier of strength that could rip a world.0

Ketal laughed aloud and rushed in again. His skull throbbed where bone had met bone, but he did not care. He had never intended to win without taking damage. The Demon King’s fist howled forward again. Ketal raised the axe. In technique, he stood above the Demon King, and that edge was why he had been tilting the fight in his favor.0

“I cannot beat you with technique alone,” the Demon King said, and even as he admitted it, his eyes hardened. “But in handling demonic energy and...0