No one in the world can ever truly account for everything. Reality is not a novel. Compared to the vast and intricate workings of the world, humans are nothing more than fleeting ants in the grand scheme of existence. The notion that one can control everything and reshape destiny is merely the delusional arrogance of those who only half understand the world.
Marquis Inham had understood this truth long ago. Yet, when he saw the twisted and deformed steel prison before him, his mind momentarily went blank, leaving him completely at a loss.
He was indeed intelligent, and his greatest wisdom lay in not believing himself to be infallible. That was why he always acted with caution, never allowing his desires to cloud his judgment. Because of this, his plans had always unfolded seamlessly, with every step progressing exactly as he had envisioned. Even though he knew the unpredictability of fate, he had still developed an illusion—that everything was truly within his grasp.
But no matter how meticulous his planning was, he could never calculate the precise trajectory of a Meteor Shower or predict the exact shielding capacity of an archangel. Only a few of the fiery meteors had bypassed the executioner's greatsword and crashed into the Glory Fortress, and among those few, one had happened to land directly on the steel prison where Asa was being held.
Human strength alone could never break that specially reinforced steel prison. However, in the face of a fiery meteor weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds, it was no stronger than an ordinary house. Now, embedded at the edge of a massive crater, all that remained was a crumpled mass of iron, resembling torn paper. The anti-magic enchantments on its surface had been completely obliterated beyond recognition.
Inham carefully examined the heap of scrap metal, and his expression darkened like never before. He stood there in stunned silence for a moment before letting out a cold snort. Then, without hesitation, he turned and swiftly flew toward the central plaza, where the sounds of slaughter were at their most intense.
Ayime had mentally prepared herself before using the teleportation scroll, but when the blue glow of the teleportation magic faded, she nearly collapsed in terror.
A massive white barrier of light enclosed the teleportation array, trapping Ayime within it as well. All around her, the air was filled with an overwhelming cacophony—battle cries, screams of agony, the relentless clash of weapons. Surrounding the barrier were over a hundred orcs, their faces twisted into monstrous snarls, wielding their weapons like madmen as they furiously struck against the glowing shield.
A blood-soaked orc leaped high into the air, but as soon as it collided with the white barrier, its body froze midair, becoming embedded within the shimmering light. A holy warrior lunged forward, his sword flashing as he cleaved the orc in two from head to toe. Blood and viscera sprayed in all directions, yet the moment they touched the barrier, they were instantly repelled.
Inside the protective glow of the barrier, with mutilated orc corpses and chunks of flesh flying through the air, Ayime felt her stomach convulse. She collapsed to the ground, retching violently.
Encased within the barrier along with her were over twenty others. Judging by their attire, they were all high-ranking clergy members. Among them were four archbishops and two senior holy warriors, while the rest were bishops and high priests. These were leaders from various religious districts and theocratic nations who had responded to the alarm bell's magical summons, arriving instantly through teleportation scrolls.
The orcs' combat was nothing more than a mindless rampage fueled by rage, lacking any strategic intent to destroy the teleportation magic circle. By the time a few of them regained some clarity and realized its significance, several bishops had already arrived through teleportation.
Each of these bishops was a master of white magic, yet even their formidable spells couldn't withstand the sheer brute force of the orcs' heavy weapons in such close-quarters combat. They barely managed to hold their ground, relying on the gentle, descending rain of divine healing magic to sustain themselves.
As more orcs came to their senses, their numbers around the teleportation circle swelled to dozens, then hundreds. Fortunately, at that moment, a few archbishops teleported in and immediately joined forces to erect a protective barrier of white magic.
This barrier appeared to be nothing more than a thin, translucent veil of light, yet no matter how fiercely the orcs struck it, they couldn't break through. However, with every impact, the archbishops maintaining the shield began to grow visibly paler from the strain.
"Help us, now!" a bishop roared at Ayime.
Everyone within the teleportation circle was an ally. Though they had no idea why a young girl was among them, they could immediately sense that she was a mage.
Ayime heard the words in a daze, but she didn't react at all. Her mind was in turmoil, just like her churning stomach. These familiar yet horrifying scenes overlapped and boiled within her thoughts, triggering an overwhelming sense of fear and nausea. A sharp pain tore through her head.
The bishops and high priests were hurling firewalls and ice arrows at the orcs outside. However, their proficiency in elemental magic was limited, and the orcs were both cunning and resilient. Some orcs even knew how to cast basic fireball spells. Their ability to kill the orcs couldn't keep up with the rate at which more of them gathered.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Two massive bulls, driven by half-orcs, charged toward the magical barrier, their thunderous hooves shaking the ground. If they crashed into the barrier, it wouldn't just be the magic shield that shattered— even fortress walls wouldn't withstand such an impact.
"Divine might prison—Freeze!"
Two of the archbishops simultaneously cast a paralysis spell. Instantly, the two bulls became as lifeless as statues, frozen completely in place. The half-orcs riding them, caught off guard by inertia, were flung forward, crashing headfirst into the white magical barrier.
But with the loss of the two archbishops' magical support, the glowing white barrier began to waver. The relentless attacks from the surrounding orcs caused ripples to spread across the shield, like stones disturbing the surface of a tranquil pond.
"We can't hold on any longer!" someone shouted. The faces of the archbishops were grim. Never had they expected that mere moments after Celeste's alarm bell rang, the enemy would have already stormed the central plaza. Though they were all highly skilled white magic users, their divine magic was nearly useless in the face of hundreds of orcs engaged in brutal close combat.
It wasn't that no one had considered the possibility of the archbishops using the teleportation circle to arrive. Many swordsmen stationed on the outer edges of the plaza had also tried to fight their way through—but they couldn't break through.
Near the teleportation circle, the once grand and pristine central plaza had been reduced to ruins.
Lancelote and two temple knights were locked in battle with Grutt. Though only four men clashed, the sheer force of their combat—each strike, each collision of weapons and raw power—had carved out a battlefield spanning a hundred meters at the heart of the plaza. The swirling currents of energy and killing intent made it an arena solely for these four warriors. No one else could step into it.
Led by Lancelote, three figures surrounded by white light from various auxiliary spells moved in sync with the dazzling aura of fight spirit at their center. They leaped and collided in a continuous rhythm, each clash creating a thunderous explosion, with fight spirit surging around them. Occasionally, a temple knight would be sent flying by a loud crash, but right away, he would return to the fray, leaping back into the battle with renewed intensity.
Lancelote and the two temple knights wielded their swords with brilliance, their weapons infused with concentrated fight spirit and divine magic. Meanwhile, Grutt remained barehanded, meeting their strikes with his fists alone. His body, however, was now covered in wounds—though none were deep, the crimson blood staining his entire form made him look as if he had been drenched in it.
The two temple knights fought recklessly, each willing to take a heavy punch in exchange for landing a sword strike on Grutt. As long as the blows they received weren't to the head, no matter how severe their injuries, the descending divine light healed them rapidly. Even when their glory armor, warped and crushed by Grutt's devastating punches, deformed under the impact, it was miraculously restored alongside their wounds under the continuous grace of Universal Salvation.
Within this hundred-meter battlefield, the divine radiance seemed drawn specifically to the temple knights, no longer gently descending from above but instead surging straight into their bodies.
Lancelote, however, did not engage in reckless attacks like his companions. He remained steady and composed, immovable as a mountain, swift as a forest—his sole focus was defending against Grutt's blows, creating opportunities for the other two knights to strike.
This was no longer just a three-on-one battle—rather, it was four against one. Half of the Pope's full-powered Universal Salvation was being channeled into this battlefield alone.
Their relentless assault had completely suppressed Grutt, yet the more they pressured him, the more astonished they became. The sheer potential, endurance, and terrifying resilience of this opponent were beyond anything they had ever encountered. The greater their efforts to subdue him, the more ferocious his counterattacks became—his momentum and killing intent did not wane in the slightest. Instead, they grew fiercer, burning ever brighter like an unstoppable wildfire.
It felt as though they were desperately trying to contain a living volcano. If they failed to completely restrain, crush, and destroy him, then in the end, they themselves would be the ones torn apart and reduced to ashes in an eruption of unstoppable fury.
They dared not let their focus slip for even a second. Any moment of hesitation, any slight easing of their assault, could allow the pressure they had built up to detonate into an overwhelming counterattack, ripping them to shreds. Not only could they not afford to let up, but they had to finish this as quickly as possible—pouring in everything they had. Because the moment Universal Salvation ceased to fall, they would lose their last advantage, and then, they would have no hope of keeping him down.
Grutt's eyes remained pitch black, but the whites had turned completely red. This was a color formed by killing intent, battle lust, and a primal instinct hidden deep within his soul—an instinct he wasn't even fully aware of. Even his once-pure and radiant fight spirit now carried streaks of crimson, tinged with an odd shade of green. His consciousness had sunk into a state of pure exhilaration, where his entire being—his body, mind, spirit, will, and soul—was completely on fire. This feeling was even more intense than the battle he had fought against Lancelote in Turalione. Even when his opponent's sword pierced his body, cutting through skin and severing blood vessels, spilling blood, the sensation was not just pain—it was ecstasy.
Anger, battle fervor, killing intent, pain, and pleasure—these emotions surged like a wild torrent inside him, intertwining and churning violently. Something deep within him, something ancient and powerful, was being awakened and drawn out by these overwhelming forces.
This is what I want. This is what I crave. This was the only thought left in the shreds of his sanity, a fevered and almost mad concept.
Then came a roar—earth-shattering, world-rending.
It sounded like the cry of a monstrous, ancient beast, one that had broken free from chains that had bound it for eons, releasing all the killing intent and wildness it had accumulated over countless years.
All the orcs—whether in the heat of battle or dying—felt a deep, involuntary shudder of fear.
The two long swords of the temple knights pierced through his palms and into his shoulders, or rather, he had grabbed the swords mid-flight. The sword blades penetrated through his hands and into his shoulders, but he held tightly onto the sword hilts, including the hands of the two temple knights who were also gripping them.
With a squeeze, the knights' hands silently fused with the sword hilts, and with a violent pull, the two temple knights collided with each other. Their arms, along with the shining holy armor on them, twisted and contorted like withered vines.
Their hands shattered—without even a single sound of pain. When they collided, they could feel their bones, like dry noodles, breaking apart inside their bodies. Still, neither of them screamed. Seizing the rare chance of proximity, they both drew short daggers from their waists with their still-working hands and plunged them into Grutt's side.
At the same time, Lancelote's sword thrust into Grutt's chest and abdomen. But what Lancelote first felt was shock. He hadn't expected the strike to succeed so easily. His sword was meant as a crucial strike to save the two knights, but since the enemy hadn't defended himself, there was no one to save.
With a loud pop, the heads of the two temple knights exploded like watermelons. Grutt used his head to slam into them, crushing both knights and their helmets into pieces. Then, with a forceful kick, he sent the paladin flying like a cannonball towards the direction of the teleportation magic circle.
Lancelote shot forward with a white streak, moving so fast that it was invisible to the naked eye. Several tall, strong orcs were instantly torn apart, their blood and flesh flying in all directions. Then, the already wobbly white magic shield shattered completely.
The light rain above had stopped flowing into the two temple knights, and now, with the knights dead, the magnificent armor and the Universal Salvation spell were of no use. The rain of light shifted, instead pouring into Lancelote's shining armor as he shot through the air.
Finally, the white magic rain that had been floating in the sky stopped, and the dense white magic that filled the air dissipated. Universal Salvation, the forbidden white magic spell, had exhausted all its power.
Grutt was soaked in blood, with three long swords piercing his body. Yet, he stood straight in the blood, unyielding.
Then, with another thunderous roar, the three magic swords used by the temple knights shattered under the force of his fight spirit.
All the orcs who saw this and heard the roar went wild. It was the sound of pure, primal longing, the kind of sound that resonated deep within their souls, calling them to the very core of their being.