Malthus' horns ripped my dress.

Now I was bare-chested — abs glistening like they were sponsored by divine lighting, or maybe just a lot of sweat and the ambient glow of hellfire. My six-pack, a result of questionable diet choices and constant near-death experiences, flexed involuntarily, a sudden, sharp contraction like they were trying to audition for the main role in "God's Anatomy." They truly looked ready for a montage scene.

Then it happened — the background moans.

Not battle cries from the enemy. Not gasps of awe from a bewildered public. No, these were literal moans. They were the sound of a thousand bad fan-fictions being written simultaneously.

From the women watching.

Because apparently, the apocalypse is a turn-on now.

This fight was already hard.

Their moans made it harder.

But as Goggins says…

Stay Hard.

[ That's not what he meant by that, moron. ]

'The greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist.'

[ …And what the hell does that have to do with this situation? ]

'God is dead.'

[ You are creeping me out, man. Focus on the fight. ]

'Yeah, I was just messing around.'

The System went quiet — probably praying for a reboot, or filing a formal complaint about my use of existential dread in a combat scenario — and Malthus lunged at me again. His face was a mask of pure, unadulterated demon fury, the kind you only see when someone cuts you off in traffic on the way to eternal damnation.

He swung his massive red sword like he was trying to split the world open out of spite, a world he clearly felt was personally insulting him by continuing to exist. I caught his horns — both hands gripping tight.

They were firm. Hard. Solid. Less like bone and more like something you'd forge in a demonic smelter, then polish with the tears of fallen angels. They were exactly like someone gave two middle fingers form and texture, and then mounted them on a rage-filled demon's head.

I tried to rip them off, a task that required the core strength of a hundred gym bros doing planks, but they were stuck tighter than guilt in a Catholic, or maybe just a very stubborn barnacle. His blade came down again, the air singing with the lethal velocity of the swing, and I had to let go or risk becoming a meat smoothie for Malthus's post-battle protein shake.

I blinked out of sight — appearing behind him like an unpaid nightmare.

Problem: I didn't have my katana anymore.

I'd dropped it earlier. It was falling toward the ground in slow motion like a cinematic betrayal.

I was about to chase it when—

[ Skill: Bluetooth Pairing — Activated. ]

What.

My katana glowed gold.

Then my hands glowed gold.

Before I could even process it, the sword zipped back into my grip like a boomerang made of pure loyalty.

'You're the best, System.'

[ I know. Now shut up and swing. ]

I turned back to Malthus. His back was exposed — all broad, red, and screaming "stab me like rent's due."

But no, I wasn't satisfied. Those horns had disrespected my gi.

And that was personal.

[ Skill: Valeryn Steel — Activated. ]

Huh?

'Game of Thrones?' I muttered.

[ Just the name. Don't worry, no copyright cops in this dimension. ]

'I hope so.'

Anyway, just after that Skill, The blade's edge turned crimson, humming with power — like molten sin forged by caffeine and spite.

I swung.

SHRILL!

The air itself screamed.

My katana sliced through both his horns like butter left out in the sun.

They fell — two lifeless black sticks clattering against the ground.

Malthus froze.

His head jerked down.

His eyes widened.

His soul probably filed for early retirement.

He stared at his fallen horns — once proud, now just sad demon leftovers.

I smiled like I'd just unsubscribed from his bullshit.

He was trembling now, staring at me with pure hatred — shoulders quaking, face twisting.

"You bastardddd!!"

He launched at me, full rage mode unlocked.

But I was ready.

"Pervert Breathing. Second Form—"

I let him come close. His sword flashed red, eyes burning.

"MOANS OF MOLESTATION!"

The world blurred.

I moved faster than light — or faster than regret, depending on who you ask.

I appeared and disappeared around him, slashing, cutting, teasing.

Every strike whispered "I'm better," every dodge screamed "You mad bro?"

He tried to keep up, but without his horns, he was like Wi-Fi during a storm — laggy, unreliable, and full of dropped connections.

My sword traced a symphony of violence across his body — dozens of cuts blooming like red flowers on his skin.

He was bleeding. Badly.

And… not healing.

Interesting.

I stopped, hovering mid-air, admiring my artwork like a deranged painter.

Blood streamed down his body, dripping in rhythm — a crimson applause to my craftsmanship.

No regeneration.

No recovery.

His horns were gone, and so was his healing.

Perfect.

Time for the finale.

I raised my blade, the air thick around me.

"Pervert Breathing. Final Form."

The air warped.

Reality exhaled.

The atmosphere got denser than an influencer's ego.

I leveled my katana, tip aimed straight at Malthus' heart.

He realized it too.

Panic. Fear. Desperation.

Then—

"SOLDIERS!!" he screamed. "Forget everyone else! Attack this human!"

Ah. The old "call for backup because I'm losing" strategy. Classic coward move.

But nothing happened.

No one came.

No footsteps. No movement. No loyalty.

Only silence — the kind that hurts worse than being ignored on double blue ticks.

Malthus' eyes darted downward.

Confusion.

Then disbelief.

He saw the ground.

Saw what I already knew.

Every single soldier.

Down.

Nano Bites tore through them like mechanical gods on Red Bull.

The air shimmered with the quiet hum of victory — my victory.

Malthus' voice cracked.

"No way… Impossible!"

I smirked. "Even the impossible says I'm possible, Malthus."

"Huh? I never said that." Someone from the audience spoke.

"So? When did the lord hero say that you said it?" Another man spoke. "He was talking about impossible, not you."

"I am Impossible."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. My name is Impossible and I never said that I am Possible. Possible is my twin brother."

"What the fuck? What is the name of your father then?"

"Probably."

…

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