With a thunderous crash, Lancelote's figure barreled through the front lines of orcs, smashing through the magical shield the bishops were desperately maintaining. He crashed into a wild bull charging toward the swordsmen, his body sinking into the bull as they flew sideways for over ten meters, finally landing and coming to a stop.
The bull was dead, and Lancelote, covered in blood, slowly rose to his feet. He spat out another mouthful of blood. It wasn't the blood of the bull, but his own.
He knew very well that if it weren't for the Glory Armor drawing on the healing power of the Universal Salvation, he would have died at least five times over. The force of that kick had far exceeded his expectations and the durability of the Glory Armor. In the air, the armor had been continually damaged and then repaired by the Universal Salvation, with his chest and abdomen constantly breaking and healing. Finally, after the healing spell ran out, the destructive force of the kick had been mostly neutralized.
Even a fully-formed Moriel might not have been able to deliver a blow of such intensity. This kick had unleashed the full power that the body was capable of, pushing the limits to their extreme.
"Now, my condition is at its best."
Grutt's voice wasn't loud, but Lancelote heard it clearly because it was meant for him. The two were over a hundred meters apart, yet the words pierced the air like a whisper just for Lancelote.
Grutt's wounds still bled, the deep cuts from the last two sword strikes reaching all the way to the bone. Unlike the orcs, he couldn't draw on the healing powers of Universal Salvation. He had expended too much energy earlier. Lancelote could tell that his injuries were severe, yet at the same time, it was clear that perhaps Grutt was indeed at his peak.
Physically, he was weakening, but his mind had sharpened to an unprecedented level. The murderous intent and overwhelming killing aura that had once surged like a tidal wave were gone. Even the surging fight spirit had dissipated. What replaced it was a more profound, almost otherworldly sensation that seemed to touch the very essence of his soul.
Grutt pointed at Lancelote and made a beckoning motion with his finger.
Lancelote stood frozen, unable to move. If this had been a true confrontation, he would have lost, died, countless times already. His eyes had already seen the scene near the teleportation circle.
"Don't move. Where do you think you're going?" Grutt's voice was cold, devoid of warmth.
Just as Lancelote was about to take a step, he stopped in his tracks. A chill ran down his spine, a sense of danger wrapping around him like a suffocating fog. The killing intent and pressure that others couldn't sense had already enveloped him completely.
If he dared move toward the teleportation array now, Grutt would be on him in a flash, faster and more powerful than he could ever hope to be. He was fully under Grutt's control, already in the enemy's grasp.
"You're too weak," Grutt said, shaking his head with a hint of regret and disdain.
"Weak?" Lancelote was taken aback. No one had ever spoken to him like that, let alone with such casual certainty. He had no rebuttal, not even in his own thoughts. The sheer pressure emanating from Grutt had already defeated him. He really was weak.
"You have too much on you, Sir Paladin," Grutt said, his gaze fixed solely on Lancelote. He didn't care about the ongoing battle elsewhere. In his eyes, Lancelote was the only opponent that mattered.
"...You're right. Too many unnecessary things," Lancelote sighed deeply. He no longer looked at the teleportation array but turned to face Grutt. With steady hands, he began to unfasten his shining armor, pulling it off piece by piece. Without hesitation, he picked up a longsword from the corpse of a nearby swordsman.
He knew he had lost earlier because he was working with others, desperately trying to win. He had been too focused on victory, thinking that if he could defeat Grutt, the remaining orc forces would be much easier to handle. He had been overthinking. As the sole person in Glory Fortress capable of standing against Grutt, as the spiritual pillar for all the soldiers, he couldn't die. He couldn't afford to lose. But in doing so, he had overburdened himself with expectations and worries.
Now, he was done thinking about all of that. His resolve had crystallized.
The clash between such peak-level warriors wasn't about martial skill or equipment anymore; those had become burdens. What truly mattered was the spirit and soul. It was a battle of concentration, a struggle to see whose soul could ignite their power most fully, burning with the purest intensity.
With the shining armor gone, the blessing of divine protection had faded away. The pain from the crushing blow to his chest was no longer suppressed, and Lancelote felt it more acutely now. He had no weapons or tools except the sword in his hand, and it had been a long time since he had felt this vulnerable.
Suddenly, memories of when he was thirteen flooded his mind. On a stormy, pitch-black night, bloodied and holding a greatsword, he had stood face to face with a fierce tiger. Back then, he too had been stripped of armor, his body nearly broken, but that had been the moment when he touched the deepest well of his soul's power.
"It's been a long time since I've felt like this..." Lancelote murmured to himself. He sheathed his sword and took a step toward Grutt. He was no longer surrounded by aura or a killing intent. Now, he looked like an ordinary man, no different than anyone else.
Each step he took felt like a deliberate choice, a return to a time when he had fought with nothing but his purest will and soul.
The two ogre warriors and several orcs charging at Lancelote were clearly caught off guard. They had expected an easy kill, but instead of a man on the brink of collapse, they found a warrior whose eyes were focused only on Grutt. Lancelote had shed his armor, and with it, the protection of his magical defenses. The absence of his aura and killing intent made him seem like an open target—a defenseless man, a simple prey.
But Lancelote remained unshaken, moving toward Grutt with the same steady, unwavering pace. Every step he took was deliberate and precise, as if each movement was a measured decision, honed by years of discipline. His gaze remained fixed on Grutt, unblinking, while the oncoming threat was completely ignored.
Then, suddenly, the orcs cried out in unison, their bodies collapsing as though their strength had been drained from them in an instant. They fell like empty sacks to the ground, twitching once or twice before going still. The injuries on their bodies were minimal—tiny punctures in their throats. Yet, these seemingly small wounds had reached the vital spot at the base of their skulls, severing the brainstem, and it was enough to take them down without a struggle.
The ogres, too, hesitated, confusion clouding their senses as they watched their comrades fall. Something was happening here, something beyond their understanding.
Lancelote's hand remained steady on the hilt of his sword, and it seemed as though he hadn't moved an inch. Yet, with a single motion, the world around him changed.
The two ogres, their eyes bloodshot with rage and their enormous war hammers soaked in the blood of countless slain swordsmen, were already in mid-charge. Their heavy armor, seemingly impervious to axes and blades, was covered in layers of gore, resembling two horrific monsters from a bloody inferno. Without hesitation, they swung their hammers down toward Lancelote, ready to crush him under their immense power.
Then, with a deafening clang, Lancelote drew his sword and pointed it directly at Grutt. He hadn't even moved towards the ogres, but the impact of his aura alone was enough. The two ogres, despite their immense size and armored protection, were sent flying apart as if they were nothing more than fragile toys. Their massive bodies, encased in thick armor, shattered into dozens of pieces, scattering across the battlefield as blood rained down like a storm.
Lancelote, drenched in the blood of his enemies, stood there. If before he had been a calm, immovable mountain, now he was a volcano—an eruption of pure, unfettered power. He was no longer just a stalwart protector; he had become an unstoppable force, one that burned everything in its path. The deadly aura surrounding him was now on par with Grutt's own overwhelming presence.
All the orcs charging toward him came to an abrupt halt, stepping back instinctively. The killing intent and fight spirit radiating from him were no weaker than Grutt's just moments ago.
This was no longer about a Paladin trying to defeat the general of Orford. It was simply a clash between two men—two beings driven by battle lust and bloodthirst, each seeking to stake their own existence on the other's demise. They both craved the moment of combat, the thrill of teetering on the edge of life and death, where they could touch the deepest recesses of their souls.
"Now this is how it should be," Grutt said, a faint smile appearing on his granite-like face. "Come, make me even stronger."
The area around the teleportation magic circle had descended into utter chaos. As soon as the white magical barrier shattered, the surrounding orcs swarmed in like a flood. Although some were drawn toward Lancelote's battle, the power disparity remained overwhelming. The archbishops wielded their holy magic with great skill, but the sheer number of orcs was too much. The paralysis spell had just immobilized four ogres when a orc's flail came crashing down, smashing a bishop's head into a bloody pulp.
Had it not been for the timely arrival of another person through the teleportation circle, this would have been nothing more than a one-sided massacre.
The one who arrived was Talice. As the magical barrier dissipated, she emerged from the teleportation magic circle.
She alone was, of course, no match for so many orcs, but she had brought several scrolls of elemental summoning. As she unfurled them, towering elemental giants materialized around her. Without hesitation, she activated another scroll— Earthquake Spells and Thunderclap Bomb. Instantly, over a dozen orcs and lizardmen were torn apart in a storm of magic, their flesh and blood splattering across the battlefield.
It was part instinct, part superior knowledge. Unlike the other archbishops, she knew far more. When she heard the alarm bells tolling in the grand cathedral of Alrasia, she did not rush to the battlefield immediately. Instead, she first made her way to St. Peter's Cathedral to retrieve all the high-level magic scrolls before arriving.
Once there was tanky front-liners and close-combat guardians, the power of white magic became immediately apparent. Heaven's Blessing, Divine Protection, Prayer—a cascade of high-level spells was cast upon the elemental giants. These summoned beings, now reinforced with divine magic, barely managed to hold back the surrounding orcs.
"Ayime! What are you doing here?" Talice quickly hugged Ayime as soon as she saw her in the teleportation magic circle. Ayime was still trembling, disoriented by the howls of the orcs and the scene of blood and carnage around her. It took her a moment to even recognize Talice.
At that moment, a figure finally broke through the orc's chaotic battleground, crossing the area where Grutt and Lancelote had been fighting. The figure rushed toward the teleportation magic circle, and upon arrival, casually cast a fiery wall spell. More than a dozen orcs were caught in the inferno, falling to the ground, blackened and charred.
"Bishop Inham, you're just in time!" someone exclaimed in surprise.
The archbishop nodded and quickly scanned the battlefield. His gaze landed on Ayime, who was still in Talice's arms. He paused for a moment, looking surprised, with a cold, mocking smile crossed his face. He muttered softly to himself, "Unbelievable! I never expected she would actually arrive."