King Baalrek watches through Jacob's eyes, a presence heavy and iron-hard behind the curtain of every thought. The old Infernal lord never gets tired of the kid's reckless, mouthy attitude, but even he finds himself surprised by the raw, stupid audacity on display right now.

He has watched humans burn bright and then snuff themselves out for millennia, and still, something about this boy keeps him from turning away.

Jacob leaps over a coil of the Heavenly Snake Lord, Hell's Sword flickering with embers in one hand and Dark Blade drawn from the other. The air crackles with the monster's anger, and Jacob's movements, though desperate, have a kind of lunatic confidence.

King Baalrek, observing from deep within, marvels at the sheer gall.

He almost laughs out loud in the inner void when Jacob, mid-leap, shouts in his mind.

Don't just watch, King Baalrek! You've been squatting in my head since the Dungeon! Either pull your weight or get out! I'm not dying for a freeloader!

King Baalrek is floored.

No one—mortal or not—has ever spoken to him this way. He has spent centuries as a terror to gods, a legend to monsters, a nightmare in the collective memory of entire empires.

Yet now, a pup barely at Gold Rank is calling him a freeloader in the middle of a deathmatch with a Platinum-cusp serpent.

The balls on this kid, King Baalrek thinks, equal parts amused and offended.

* * *

Jacob's focus sharpens.

The Grimoire spins pages of insight, veins and flows of mana mapped in glowing diagrams only he can see. The monster's attacks become mathematical—angles, force, weaknesses all calculated and catalogued. Jacob twists left, then right, dodges a lashing tail, and answers a snapping jaw with a slash from the Dark Blade. The weapon flickers with oily shadow, the edge warping the air as it cuts.

The Heavenly Snake Lord rears back, black blood beading on its scales where Jacob landed a hit. The Grimoire pulses with new flaws: weak joint at the jaw, fragile nerves along the third vertebra, mana channels vulnerable to disruption by shadow.

Jacob presses in, driving the Dark Blade again and again into the monster's soft spots, all while ducking and weaving, never still for more than a heartbeat.

* * *

On the cliffs above, nobles lean in so close that a stiff wind could send them tumbling. The fight below has everyone's attention, every head tracking Jacob as he ducks one massive strike after another, the darkness in his hands burning brighter with each pass.

A heavyset noble in deep blue robes breathes out, "Look at that! He's dancing around that thing's attacks, and he's not even a Platinum Rank!"

Another noble, eyes shining with delight, exclaims, "The Skill—what is it? It's slicing into the monster!"

The cliff swells with murmurs. There's no malice now, only awe and disbelief.

Sir Renquell, however, stands with arms folded, a deep scowl on his face. Lord Clearwater turns to him, concern shadowing his eyes.

"He looks like he's holding his own, doesn't he? Those dodges, the counters—could he win?"

Renquell's jaw tightens.

"He's surviving, not winning. You see the drain on his movements? He's burning too much mana, pushing too hard with every exchange. If he keeps fighting like this, that thing will crush him. Jacob Cloud doesn't look like a boy with a plan. He looks like someone gambling on a miracle."

Clearwater frowns, but cannot look away. "What would you do?"

Renquell just shakes his head, not actually having an answer.

"Pray for a God's help, I guess."

* * *

Inside Jacob's mind, King Baalrek's attention sharpens. He watches every feint, every block, every reckless attack.

He can't deny the kid has guts, and a part of him, the old Infernal pride, wants to step in and see Jacob pull through. Still, he knows the path to real strength is not paved with easy wins.

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If Jacob wants to survive, he needs to start thinking, not just reacting.

King Baalrek leans forward in the void.

Listen, brat. You're not going to outslug this thing. Dispelling the Dark Blade and conserving your energy might buy you more time. Focus on defense.

When you use Dark Lattice, do it in bursts—drain a little, pull back, let the snake waste its own mana and health.

Stop trying to win with brute force.

Jacob stumbles, barely dodging a fang that would have taken off his head. He grits his teeth.

I don't have time to play your slow games! That snake's getting faster. One mistake and I'm done. I need something!

King Baalrek's voice grows harder.

You want to live? Start listening. You're running out of options, and that blade is eating you alive. Your style burns too hot. The monster's waiting for you to slip. Slow down, drain it out.

Jacob ducks, slashes, and barely avoids a sweep that cracks the earth.

Jacob starts listening, even though every instinct tells him to keep pushing. His lungs ache, and sweat stings his eyes, but he begins to cut his attacks short. He lets the Dark Blade flicker out, then only calls it back for a single feint, a quick slash, or a desperate block. Each time, he pays attention to how much mana leaves him and how much the serpent loses. He sees that King Baalrek is right: every burst of Dark Lattice steals a sliver of power from the beast, but if he overuses it, the backlash starts eating into his own veins.

So he waits, circling, never standing still for long.

This isn't enough! I need something more. Give me a move—something real, not just tactics!

For a split second, King Baalrek hesitates. The kid is reckless, but his will is steel. King Baalrek knows there is one thing that could work, though it is no gift.

All right. There is a technique, but it's not for beginners. Not even for Infernals who haven't bled and nearly died a dozen times. It's what separates a real Infernal Warrior from every poser with a bit of Darkness in them. But you— King Baalrek snorts again, half proud, half grim. You want a miracle in a minute? You want to master a true Infernal art with a snake snapping your head off?

The serpent coils, tail whistling down with the force of a landslide. Jacob leaps aside, but not far enough—a fang grazes his shoulder, and he staggers, blood spraying into the grass.

JUST TELL ME!

King Baalrek watches, a strange satisfaction in his voice.

That's what you get, kid. You think you can snap your fingers and leap to the top of the infernal mountain? The Black Flame isn't some party trick. It's the mark of the masters—the power that's let my kind burn down armies and raze the gates of heaven. Most who try, even Infernals, die screaming, bodies scorched from the inside out. You want it? You have to take it, knowing you might die just for trying.

He studies Jacob, noting the wild light in his eyes, the frantic, brilliant energy that refuses to give up.

I'll say this: you have more guts than sense. You insult me, call me a freeloader, and demand the a technique that'd save you—something that'd take years to master.

You'll probably die like a fool, coughing up ashes in the dirt.

It'll be a sight to see.

King Baalrek turns his focus inward, sending the memory of black flame through Jacob's core.

The Black Flame isn't just power. It's the root of what we are. All your fire, all your darkness, the pain you've suffered and the will that's kept you alive—mash it together, squeeze until only the purest essence remains. Then force it out.

You'll need to fuse the Hell's Sword and the Dark Blade—that's why I summoned it for you. I was waiting for you to get acquainted with it, but it seems you'll have to work with it not even being at max level before you try out our greatest technique.

He waits for Jacob to flinch, to hesitate, to balk at the impossible. But the kid just wipes blood from his face and grins.

I'm beaming the diagrams of the vein paths in your mind right now. One major mistake and you'll die burning from the inside out. One flaw, Jacob Cloud, and you're dead.

* * *

Down in the arena, the nobles have gone silent. Their gazes fix on Jacob as he ducks, rolls, and surges at the serpent.

The black fire flickers along his blade, at first no more than a spark.

Lord Clearwater leans forward, unable to look away. Sir Renquell's eyes narrow.

"Now," he mutters, "this is a real trial."

* * *

King Baalrek expects Jacob to fail. He knows how hard the technique is, how many died before they could even shape a sliver of Black Flame. He is ready to see the boy burn out, ready to watch him fall, ready to watch the snake finish what nature demands. This is how the world works. The strong survive. The unworthy perish.

But Jacob, staring down the gaping maw of the Heavenly Snake Lord, refuses to fold. He draws every ounce of pain, rage, stubbornness, every failure and every victory. He pulls his mana and his life into one burning point, and, instead of shattering under the pressure, he snaps.

In the split second before the snake can close its jaws around him, Jacob howls.

[Black Flame - Analysis Completed]

[Path Assist Circulation Activated.]

[Follow the Channels for Optimal Flaw Reduction.]

[Skills Fusion Initated]

A black flame explodes from his core—no slow build, no gentle crescendo.

It tears up his arms, overrides the veins mapped by King Baalrek's diagrams and follows the ones created by the Grimoire, instantly fusing Hell's Sword with the Dark Blade. The two powers coil together like twin snakes and then ignite, the shadow drinking in the flame until the sword in Jacob's hands is no longer red-gold or oily-black.

Now it burns with a darkness that shines.

Pain floods every nerve.

It feels like every mistake he has ever made is burning away, every time he was weak in Shit's Creek, every time he let someone else win. It hurts, but the pain doesn't matter. He refuses to let go. He clamps down on the power, biting through the agony with a cracked smile.

The serpent senses danger.

Its eyes widen and the coils pull back, but it's too late.

Jacob swings.

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