The moment the blue figure moved, the surrounding Holy Warriors unsheathed their swords, and the priests began chanting their prayers.
These were Celeste's elite forces, the finest warriors assigned to guard the teleportation magic circle. Though they had been shaken by the overwhelming aura of killing, their reactions remained swift, their actions steady. But in the mere blink of an eye between drawing their swords and standing their ground, more than a dozen of them had already been reduced to shattered corpses.
Even those who managed to unsheathe their swords found that it made no difference. The only exception was an aged Holy Warrior, the most skilled warrior among them, who managed to thrust his sword halfway toward the rapidly moving figure.
The intruder's speed had already surpassed what the human eye could track. Only this veteran knight, with years of hardened combat experience, could strike based on instinct alone. But even then, it was only half a strike. Just as his sword lunged forward, the same battlefield instincts that had honed his attack warned him of imminent death. Without hesitation, he aborted his strike, dropping into a desperate roll to the side in an attempt to evade.
His reflexes were the fastest a human body could possibly achieve—refined by countless battles and sharpened by years of teetering on the edge of life and death. But no reaction, no matter how fast, could make up for the sheer gap in strength.
The old knight managed to dodge only halfway. A moment later, his upper body was sent flying through the air.
The blue glow of teleportation had completely faded, replaced by a blinding aura of white fight spirit. It was dazzlingly bright, yet in the eyes of all who beheld it, it evoked a fear far deeper than any darkness or crimson bloodstain ever could. It was a light that signified only one thing—death.
The white fight spirit moved at incredible speed around the teleportation circle, swirling like a raging storm. The swordsmen and priests who charged toward it were nothing more than scraps of paper caught in a hurricane—lifted, torn apart, and flung into the air. Flesh and blood rained down upon the plaza like a Gruttesome downpour.
No one in Glory Fortress was weak. Those who witnessed the massacre—priests, acolytes, and mages alike—recovered from their shock in an instant and unleashed a barrage of spells. Dozens, then hundreds, of glowing projectiles—light arrows, fireballs, ice spikes—poured down like a torrential storm, all aimed at the blinding figure.
Yet, before a single spell could reach its target, they shattered mid-air, utterly failing to land. It was as if tiny snowflakes had tried to reach the blazing mouth of an erupting volcano—they simply could not get close. The sheer wind pressure and force radiating from that fight spirit twisted the trajectories of the spells, scattering them into nothingness.
Not only did shattered limbs and blood rain down from the sky, but the overwhelming, boundless killing intent also surged through the air, growing thicker, more suffocating. The sheer force of it sent shockwaves through the entire castle. Some mage apprentices and acolyte priests collapsed to the ground in terror—this was the Glory Fortress, yet it felt as if they had been plunged into a battlefield from the depths of an infernal realm.
Then, with a thunderous roar, a massive white light sword cleaved through the sky, originating from the direction of the Glory Hall. Unlike the blinding white fight spirit of the intruder, this sword's brilliance was heavy, vast, and unshakably steady, radiating divine authority and unyielding power.
The sword had not yet reached its target, but the ground along its trajectory was already crumbling. The marble surface split open, forming a deep trench under the force of the sword's aura, while the flying debris was swept up in the sword's energy, resembling a divine thunderbolt honed over millennia. It thundered and crashed through the air, striking fiercely into the storm of fighting energy.
A deafening sound shook the entire Glory Fortress. The storm of fighting spirit and the sword of light dissipated simultaneously. In the aftermath of the explosion, those with slightly weaker powers, including the surrounding priests and mages, were thrown into the air. Two figures staggered back from the center of the blast. One was clad in shining armor surrounded by a radiant white light, while the other was bare-chested and unarmed. It was Grutt and Lancelote.
That single exchange had already pushed both warriors to their limits.
Lancelote's face was twisted in fury and shock. He bellowed, "What are you trying to do?!"
With Theodorus' ability, obtaining a teleportation scroll for Glory Fortress was not difficult. Lancelote and the Pope had long been on guard against elite lone warriors like Grutt attempting sudden assassinations. And as the core of the church, it was impossible to shut down the teleportation array just to guard against a single super warrior among the orcs, as that would undermine Celeste's prestige. This was why Lancelote made sure to stay in Glory Fortress as much as possible—so long as he was present, someone capable of matching Grutt in combat, Grutt's arrival would mean certain death. After all, the castle housed thousands of knights and priests.
But unexpectedly, Grutt had truly come. And this killing aura, this overwhelming presence, was far beyond a mere ambush or assassination—something far greater and more terrifying was driving it. Lancelote could feel it.
Grutt's pupils remained deep and black, but the whites of his eyes were now laced with blood-red veins, a result of his near-uncontrollable killing intent and battle fervor. The slaughter he had just unleashed, along with his fierce clash with Lancelote, had already released much of his pent-up bloodlust, yet when he finally spoke, his voice still carried the chilling sharpness of a blade drawn from its sheath.
"Die."
Grutt's words were simple. Then, he reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a small object—seemingly a jade ornament. Bending slightly, he flicked his wrist, sending the tiny item soaring through the air with a piercing whistle.
He didn't throw the object toward Lancelote, nor toward anyone else. Instead, he hurled it high into the sky. With the sheer strength in his hands, the object shot up thousands of meters in an instant, vanishing beyond everyone's line of sight.
Lancelote's face turned deathly pale, even whiter than paper. Though he couldn't sense it exactly, he could guess what it was.
Stephen's expression also darkened. He had just arrived nearby with Inham, and now, staring up at the empty sky where nothing was visible anymore, he let out a cold snort. "That fool, Aisri… That was the only completed product we created after countless efforts and the use of top-tier magic stones…"
Inham's expression, however, remained unchanged. It was as if he had anticipated everything that had just transpired. Without saying a word, he, too, gazed up at the sky. But unlike the others, his face bore a faintly satisfied smile—like a playwright watching his script being grandly performed at the royal theater by the most renowned stars.
No one could see where the small object had flown, but what they could see was the clear, cloudless sky suddenly darken—turning red. A massive, dark-red cloud began to form high above.
This cloud was vast and heavy, almost as if it weren't a cloud at all, but a colossal mass of burning rock suspended in the sky. At the center of the cloud, a vortex gradually took shape, emitting a trembling roar and immense magical energy.
A massive, dark-red fireball emerged from the vortex, trailing a long, slanted tail of crimson flames as it plummeted toward the ground. Below, the entire Glory Fortress erupted into panic—shouts and screams filled the air as people at the fireball's predicted impact site desperately fled for cover.
With a thunderous crash, Glory Fortress jolted as if it had been stabbed by a giant needle. This wasn't merely an explosion—what had fallen was not a magically conjured fireball but a boulder, the size of a small mountain, weighing tens of thousands of pounds.
Flames erupted, fire spread, and entire sections of buildings shattered like a child's stack of toy blocks. A massive crater appeared in the ground. The sheer weight of the boulder, combined with the momentum from falling thousands of meters and the searing heat of the surrounding flames—so intense that the rock itself was nearly molten—made it an unstoppable force of destruction upon impact.
But it wasn't over. The rumbling from the crimson clouds above grew louder and louder. From the swirling vortex within the clouds, more fireballs began to descend—not just one this time, nor three, four, five, or even eight, but dozens, raining down in a deluge of fire and annihilation.
This was the most devastating of all forbidden spells—not only did it merge the pinnacle of fire and earth magic, but it also incorporated the power of wind and space, making it the only forbidden spell to unite all four elements. This was meteor firestorm.
If cast by a mage, this spell would drain the magical reserves of four top-tier spellcasters, reducing them to the level of mere apprentices in an instant. And this was the first-ever meteor firestorm scroll ever created. Even for the immensely wealthy and mage-filled Dehya Valley, the creation of this scroll had cost countless resources, gemstones, and an incredible stroke of luck. It had ultimately fallen into the hands of Aisri, who had sacrificed a portion of his own magic power to complete it and had carried it with him ever since.
In truth, the necromancers had crafted this spell less for practical use and more out of a sheer obsession with magic. Though its destructive power was nearly unstoppable, the casting time was excessively long, making it suitable only for large-scale sieges against fortresses. And given the nature and combat style of the necromancers, it seemed like a spell they would never truly have a chance to use.
And now, this most powerful forbidden spell had found the perfect place to unleash its full force.
Strategically speaking, destroying the Glory Fortress would only serve to utterly enrage all the theocratic nations, leaving no room for retreat. The heart of the Church lay here, but its true power was not. That was why Theodorus had held back this accidental secret weapon until now.
But now, Orford had long stopped caring about strategy or tactics. What remained was pure destruction born from the desire for revenge, a thirst for battle.
Dozens of fiery meteors tumbled down, their flames blazing. No matter how sturdy the Glory Fortress's defenses were, no matter how many high-tier swordsmen and mages it had, against this most powerful of forbidden spells, they were as fragile as ants. Humanity could never contend with such force, one that bordered on the power of the heavens themselves.
At that moment, a massive white figure suddenly appeared in the sky above Glory Fortress. Standing several dozen meters tall, with a majestic and imposing presence, a pair of large, pure white wings spread from its back. In its hands was a colossal beheading sword, as grand as a monument.
The Pope had appeared atop the Glory Hall. Just like the time he had faced the Fire Phoenix, he stood motionless, gazing at the sky. His expression was devoid of any emotion, save for the unmistakable aura of desolation and weakness. He looked toward the giant angel whose face resembled his own.
The angel, in turn, looked down at the falling meteor firestorm, spread its wings, and soared upward.