Demon Lord: Erotic Adventure in Another World-Chapter 509: The Pale Storm

Mephisto's scythe curved low. Asmodeus twisted sideways, parried with the haft of his axe—

And the god's elbow slammed into his jaw.

The crack echoed like thunder against hollow stone.

Asmodeus reeled, boots dragging through molten dust. The moment he found footing, Mephisto was already there—already swinging again.

A fist drove into his ribs.

Another hit his shoulder—dislocated.

A roundhouse kick caught his temple and hurled him into a pillar.

Stone shattered.

The world reeled sideways as the black marble column crumbled over him. Rubble collapsed in his wake.

But the Demon Emperor launched from the ruin before it finished falling. With a savage roar, he brought his axe down in a vicious overhead cleave—

Mephisto caught it.

Bare-handed.

The weapon hissed and screamed. Red runes flared across its edge, biting deep into divine flesh—but Mephisto didn't flinch.

He met Asmodeus's eyes.

"I've killed kings with less effort."

And threw him.

Asmodeus flew backwards like a broken meteor, smashing through wall after wall, stone flying, lightning sparking through the fractures of the citadel. He crashed into the far side of the throne hall, a deep crater forming at his back.

He coughed blood.

Then stood.

No hesitation.

His shoulder snapped back into place with a sickening pop. Flame erupted from his spine again, his aura burning the air around him black.

He didn't speak.

He charged.

Mephisto met him halfway.

The collision wasn't clean—it was explosive. Their fists met midair, a flash of red and silver light bursting outward like a sonic bomb. The floor buckled beneath them.

They traded blows too fast to track—axe clanging against divine bone, scythe shrieking as it glanced off burning flesh. Fist to face. Boot to chest. Elbow to spine.

Mephisto drove him to a knee, and Asmodeus punched upward into his gut.

Mephisto staggered.

Asmodeus grabbed him by the robes, headbutted him—twice—then twisted his grip and hurled him like a ragdoll into the throne itself.

The obsidian seat cracked down the centre.

But Mephisto didn't stay down.

He emerged from the dust, robes torn, ribs visible beneath cracked skin that bled pure light.

He smiled.

"Asmodeus."

His voice was calm, mocking.

"You're... close."

Asmodeus was breathing hard now.

Blood ran down his neck. His left arm hung to the side, burned, twitching.

But his eyes—those burning sapphire eyes—did not yield.

"I don't need to be stronger than you," he said, voice low.

"I just need to survive long enough."

"Long enough for what?" Mephisto asked as he lifted his scythe once more.

The Demon Emperor's lips curled.

"For you to make a mistake."

He rushed again.

But this time, Mephisto braced.

And this time—

Asmodeus was slower.

The scythe came low, reversed, and slashed through his side.

The wound was deep.

The magic-laced edge bit through demonic armour, through flame, through sinew.

He didn't cry out. freewёbnoνel.com

But his knees nearly gave.

He dropped the axe.

Caught it mid-fall.

Then spun, axe dragging a crescent of blood through the air—

And missed.

Mephisto moved behind him.

Whispered:

"You're breaking."

And drove the hilt of the scythe into the centre of his back.

Asmodeus hit the ground hard.

But didn't stay there.

He rolled, flipped, and threw the axe one-handed—

Mephisto batted it aside.

Then blinked—

Asmodeus was already behind him.

Uppercut.

The god reeled.

Axe recalled to his grip with a burst of crimson flame.

He swung.

Contact.

The force flung Mephisto backwards, slamming into a column with enough force to crater it.

The two stood again.

Breathing.

Cracked.

Wounded.

Equal, and not.

And deep beneath the castle floor—

Something howled.

A sound of distant bells.

A crack in the divine chains of fate.

Their clash wasn't over.

But something was changing.

The room trembled beneath them.

Ancient columns groaned as dust sifted down from the fractured ceiling, each impact from their duel shaking loose centuries of stillness. Magic swirled like a storm without wind—radiant and black, thickening the air until even the sound of their breaths felt muffled.

Asmodeus wiped blood from his cheek.

It dripped from the black scales, hissing from the hot, fiery aura of magic that evaporated it. He cracked his fingers before grasping his axe, the blood-red metal pulsing faintly, as it filled with his aura.

Mephisto straightened slowly, dust sifting off his shoulders like ash shaken from cloth. Cracks ran across his right forearm where the last blow had landed—a deep, diagonal fracture glowing faintly with internal light as if created with divine quartz.

Still, his expression didn't change.

That unnerving calmness never wavered.

"You hit harder than most," Mephisto admitted, brushing a fragment of stone from his robe with careless ease. "But you still fight like a mortal."

"Peh—! I am one."

And with that, he moved.

Not in a sprint—but a smooth acceleration, like a blade sliding from a sheath. Asmodeus struck stone once, twice—then his form vanished into a blur, his axe rising high.

The arc of his strike was devastating—full-body, drawn from his hips through his shoulders, bringing the crimson blade down in a burning diagonal meant to split Mephisto clean in half.

But the god didn't dodge.

He stepped into it.

His scythe rose in a smooth vertical spiral, not clashing with the blow, but guiding it, diverting the power at the last moment. Steel met steel in a reverberating scream that cracked nearby columns and warped the air. The heat from Asmodeus's weapon bled into Mephisto's robes, searing the edge into threads.

Then Mephisto spun his scythe, twisted, redirected, and cut low with a snap of his wrists.

It approached like a reaper's kiss.

The blade kissed Asmodeus's thigh, just deep enough to draw blood. A slow, sweeping wound that hissed with divine recoil. The Demon Emperor staggered back one step, weight shifting automatically to his other leg. His eyes narrowed. Focused.

No pause.

He pounced again.

This time, their exchange became more brutal. Less like warriors. More like monsters.

Asmodeus spun his axe in a wild horizontal cleave—Mephisto ducked, struck upward with the haft of his scythe into Asmodeus's jaw. The Demon Emperor's head snapped back, teeth bared—but he retaliated mid-motion, slamming his foot into Mephisto's chest with enough force to lift the god off the ground.

The impact dented his robes inward, shattered ribs beneath.

Mephisto coughed once, then smiled.

His scythe vanished.

Not dismissed. Absorbed.

It twisted into his arm like a strand of light, and then his hands closed into fists.

No weapon now.

Just force.

And in that moment, he struck—not with magic or grace, but raw physical might.

A single punch caught Asmodeus in the gut.

It shattered his exoskeleton. It bent the Emperor in half, lifting him off the ground and into the air as Asmodeus vomited.

Then a brutal elbow came into his back, driving him down.

Asmodeus hit the ground on both knees, coughing blood across the stone. His hands planted instinctively, and the axe half-slid from his grip.

The pain rang through his spine like a gong, dull and rising.

But he didn't submit.

His right hand closed around the axe again.

He stood.

Slowly. But Asmodeus stood.

Mephisto's expression finally shifted—mild surprise.

Then something colder.

Respect?

Fear?

The god's jaw clenched.

"You're still moving. Even now."

Asmodeus's voice came low.

"I didn't come here to survive."

He straightened his back. Raised his axe again.

"I came to end you."

The golden sigil across his chest blazed once more—this time less like a flame, more like a sun igniting in miniature.

A blaze of blood-red fire lit the chamber.

Not from his weapon.

But from the cracks spreading beneath their feet.

Magic ran wild now.

Reality thinned.

And somewhere beyond the far walls, faint as a whisper in winter air—

He could feel them.

Vinea. Levia. Asmodea. Lumina.

Still alive.

Still fighting.

Still believing.

He exhaled once more.

And stepped forward.

"Come on, Mephisto! Let's Fight!"

"You will die."

The floor split beneath Asmodeus's boots. Magic, pressure, sheer kinetic force—none of it slowed Mephisto's next strike.

The scythe howled.

Asmodeus caught it mid-arc, axe twisting in both hands as his muscles screamed. Sparks burst. Metal shrieked. Their locked blades carved a crater beneath their feet, stone turning molten at the edges.

Mephisto's breath was steady. Measured.

"You are impressive," he said, almost sincerely. "But not enough."

Asmodeus drove his foot forward. The impact shattered the floor tiles, a straight thrust meant to break the lock and follow with a vertical cleave.

But Mephisto vanished.

A flicker—behind him.

The scythe came down.

Asmodeus turned too late.

A burst of crimson blood sprayed from his back as the curved blade bit deep across his shoulder. He staggered. His body struggled to recover, but Mephisto was already there.

Two strikes. Three.

Each blow chipped away at the aura surrounding the Demon Emperor. The very air groaned beneath their movements.

Outside the throne room, the Empresses reached the final archway, staring in horror through shattered pillars as their king was pushed back again.

Levia's voice cracked. "No…"

Mephisto stood tall, casting his long shadow over Asmodeus, who now knelt on one knee.

"You've played your part well," the god murmured, lifting his scythe for the final time. "But it ends here."

Asmodeus's hand trembled.

Not from fear.

But from the feeling behind him.

Soft. Familiar.

Small fingers pressed against his back.

"Don't you dare lose!"

Her eyes were glowing again, brighter than ever.

"Because if you fall, I'll drag your soul back myself."

The chamber froze.

"Ah... that's right, Serena... I can't lose. Not like this."

And then Asmodeus—

Smiled.

As a black flame surged.