Grutt made his move, bringing his palms together. His hands, with clearly defined joints and long, slender fingers, caught the sword that Lancelote had turned into a streak of white light. The moment it fell into Grutt's grasp, it became completely motionless.
No matter what kind of weapon it was or who wielded it, nothing could break through those hands. Those hands themselves were the most terrifying weapon.
With a sharp clang, the sword shattered. After all, it was just a casually picked-up longsword, unable to withstand the immense pressure between the two of them.
Shards of the broken sword scattered to the ground, but Grutt's chest had already blossomed with a crimson spray of blood. And it wasn't just his chest—his entire upper body was suddenly covered in countless fine cuts, with blood gushing from his sculpted, near-perfect physique.
Though the sword had been stopped between Grutt's palms, the sword's momentum and energy had not. No matter what, the tension that had been stretched taut in him like a drawn bowstring had already been unleashed. Even if his body could still react, his spirit and will had already wavered. Lancelote, though affected, still maintained his momentum. Had it been anyone else—had the sword not broken—the residual force and intent from the strike alone would have been enough to shred any body into a heap of fragments.
Grutt let out a muffled groan, his grip loosening. In that instant, the hilt of Lancelote's sword struck his chest.
With a loud boom, Grutt was sent flying backward.
The hilt that struck his chest was nothing more than a blunt, bladeless handle. It did not pierce his body, yet on his back, a massive sword appeared—a blood-red sword. The force and intent of the strike had already pierced through him.
Blood gushed not only from his body and back but also from his mouth, spilling into the air as he was sent flying, leaving a crimson trail along his trajectory.
Did I win? Lancelote stood frozen in place, watching as Grutt was struck by his sword, spewing blood as he was sent hurtling through the air.
Sword intent, sword momentum, and sword energy were not tangible, yet their destructive power far exceeded that of physical weapons. To take such a strike directly to the chest—no one could possibly withstand it.
But Lancelote's first reaction was not joy from victory—it was rage. He turned abruptly and shouted, "Who interfered?!"
No one responded. The bishops who had launched the sneak attack had not even left behind their corpses.
He had truly won.
Grutt was sent flying for dozens of meters before crashing to the ground. The sword light that had pierced through him carved a deep trench into the earth behind him. He did not rise again.
No one could remain standing after losing so much blood and taking a sword strike straight through the chest—not even the strongest man on the continent.
Yet the one who had felled the continent's mightiest warrior with a single strike, Lancelote, felt nothing but emptiness and loss.
The paralysis spell had not only affected Grutt—it had affected him as well. The bishops had assumed that Grutt's sudden halt would grant Lancelote a perfect opening, but they were wrong. The battle of wills between them had been absolute, like two forces locked in unyielding balance. If one was suddenly weakened by an external force, the other would also falter.
This strike had not been a masterful, decisive blow. It had merely been a reaction to his opponent's momentary lapse—an instinctive, imperfect attack, far from his full strength.
And yet, with this hurried, imprecise strike, he had brought down the very man he had staked his soul and spirit upon defeating.
"General Grutt…"
A heart-wrenching cry broke out from one of the orcs who had witnessed the scene. Then, every orc turned to look, frozen in shock. That was their war god—yet now, he had been struck down.
All the orcs who could break away from the battle surged toward Grutt's fallen form.
They had already been at a disadvantage due to their overwhelming numerical inferiority, and now, with their leader down, signs of collapse began to spread through their ranks.
This was the perfect opportunity to charge forward—Grutt had fallen, and no one else could stand against him. And yet, Lancelote merely let out a weary sigh, turned away, and sprinted toward the Glory Hall.
He was not alone.
Talice was also heading in the same direction, carrying the unconscious Ayime over her shoulder. She was enveloped in a Divine Protection Shield, which had allowed her to withstand the sandstorm Grutt had kicked up moments ago. Thanks to this, she had managed to put some distance between herself and Inham, who was in close pursuit.
She knew she was no match for Inham. And from the way this ever-enigmatic necromancer had just ruthlessly struck down the obstructing orcs, it was clear—he had abandoned all restraint for the sake of that leaf. Even if it meant killing to take it, he would not hesitate.
But the entrance to the Glory Hall was guarded by an entire squad of elite swordsmen, along with a bishop and several high priests. With their combined strength, they would be more than enough to deal with Inham.
"Inham, what are you trying to do?"
Lancelote, noticing the chase, suddenly accelerated and cut between the two, blocking Inham's path.
Forced to stop, Inham's expression remained cold as he replied, "Knight Talice stole something from me. I am getting it back."
Lancelote found it strange.
This man—always elusive, always unreadable—now had a trace of panic and impatience on his face. Even more surprising was that he could barely contain his killing intent. If it weren't for the fact that he lacked the certainty of instantly killing Lancelote on the spot, he might have already struck.
Whatever it was that could make a man like Inham lose his composure like this, Lancelote didn't need to know the specifics to understand how it should be handled.
Calmly, he said, "No need to be so anxious, Your Excellency. Whatever it is, if it truly belongs to you, you will naturally have it returned."
As soon as he spoke, he felt something stir within the bishop—like a beast lurking in the darkness, poised to devour its prey.
But Lancelote remained unfazed. At this distance, even without a sword in hand, killing a mage was no challenge at all.
"It seems this war is coming to an end."
Lancelote cast a glance toward the center of the square, where the orcs were gathering. No, rather than gathering, they were being driven back. Grutt's fall had dealt them an almost fatal blow.
"Why don't we go see His Majesty together?" Lancelote continued, his tone indifferent. "Let him decide whether that item should be returned to you."
Just then, a figure rushed out from the Glory Hall—it was Archbishop Adra.
He scanned the surroundings, then cried out in a sorrowful voice to everyone present, "Everyone, His Majesty has passed away!"
"What?!"
Everyone who heard—including Lancelote—was struck by shock.
But before they could even process this revelation, Adra raised his right hand, clutching a document, and shouted something even more astonishing:
"The situation is dire! His Majesty has left a decree naming me as his regent—this is his final testament!"