Asa led Ayime into the midst of the orc horde, swiftly reaching an open space at its center. The surrounding orcs formed a tight perimeter, while above, two wyverns struggled to maintain their flight, making it impossible for outsiders to see what was happening within.
In the careful protection of several orc chieftains, Grutt lay on the ground. His chest was tightly wrapped in cloth, but the massive sword wound that had pierced through his body continued to seep fresh blood, staining both his body and the ground around him. Yet, his eyes remained slightly open. Though weak, they were still open—he was not dead.
"Lord Asa is back!" A heavily wounded orc chieftain crouched anxiously nearby. Seeing Asa, he immediately stood up. He had no tail, but his massive claws bore several rings embedded with magical gemstones—this was Luken. Beside him, a massive cleaver fashioned from a Behemoth's claw was stabbed into the ground, and in his hands, he held a golden greatbow.
"As long as you can hold on, that's good." Asa let out a sigh of relief as he looked at Grutt. Although he hadn't seen it happen with his own eyes, both Lancelote and the Pope firmly believed that Grutt was dead, and their belief wasn't mere blind confidence. It was a certainty. There were no healers among the orcs, and even if the Pope himself had used white magic, it would have been impossible to heal the wound caused by Lancelote's full-force sword strike. That strike had pierced straight through Grutt's chest—an unquestionably fatal injury.
If Asa hadn't arrived just in time with the orcs, Grutt would have indeed died. Only by simultaneously using natural magic to restore his waning life force and necromantic magic to prevent the deadly sword energy from further ravaging his body did Asa barely manage to pull him back from the brink of death.
"Didn't expect I'd end up owing you one," Grutt said as he propped himself up. Even though his body was weakened to this extent, there wasn't the slightest trace of fragility in his gaze or demeanor. His presence remained as sharp and unyielding as ever, stronger than anyone else's. As long as he was alive, words like "soft" or "weak" simply had no connection to him.
"It's a bit too early to talk about that now." Asa smiled wryly. He really had no idea how to explain Theodorus' death. Grutt would find out the truth sooner or later, and once he did, he would definitely go after Agrenel. But Asa would never allow those two to fight.
"How did things go on your side? Did you get what you needed?"
"You could say so…" Asa had just begun to reply when he suddenly turned his head toward the direction of the Glory Hall.
In front of the hall, several high priests were chanting incantations in unison. As they completed their spellcasting, two Thunderclap Bombs and two Blazing Fireballs shot toward the orc encampment.
The orcs were tightly packed together—if these four top-tier spells exploded among them, at least half of them would be killed or injured. However, the moment the high priests began chanting, the corpses scattered around the battlefield started writhing and twitching. Then, just as the spells were unleashed, the corpses suddenly leaped up and stacked themselves together, forming a bizarre, grotesque shield.
All four spells struck the corpse-shield head-on. With a deafening explosion, charred body parts were sent flying in all directions. The sickening stench of burnt flesh mixed with the putrid odor of decay, spreading rapidly through the air.
Amid the flying debris, a gray shadow streaked through the air with a piercing, mournful shriek, hurtling toward the high priests standing before the Glory Hall.
The shadow came with incredible speed and ferocity, but the high priests remained unharmed—Lancelote stood before them, and no attack could possibly break through the holy knight's sword. With a swift horizontal sweep, Lancelote deflected the gray shadow, sending it spinning upward until it embedded itself into one of the massive stone pillars of the Grand Hall.
It was a massive gray blade, its crude craftsmanship unable to conceal its sharpness and savage design, its surface still covered in fresh blood.
Lancelote's expression darkened. He had seen it clearly—this blade was not thrown, but fired from a golden greatbow by a orc. The shot lacked true force; the orc was not skilled with a bow, and the weapon itself did not belong to him. But even in that brief glance, Lancelote recognized it instantly. He had known this bow for decades—just as he had known its owner.
After the battlefield had stabilized, he had not seen Welleskay anywhere. Lancelote had long suspected that his fate was grim. In such a brutal battle, he had lost more than just one comrade. Yet, the moment he saw the golden greatbow, the grief and fury he had been suppressing exploded like a breaking dam.
Throwing back his head, he let out a sorrowful howl, his voice rolling through the air like thunder, echoing across the entire Glory Fortress.
"Full assault—leave no orc alive!"
Before the words had even fully left his mouth, Lancelote had already transformed into a streak of white light, shooting toward the orc horde. The surrounding swordsmen and priests, long prepared for battle, let out a unified battle cry. The radiance of holy magic, the flashes of various spells, and the gleaming arcs of countless blades surged like a tidal wave toward the orcs at the center.
Faced with the holy knight cloaked in radiant white light, the orcs instinctively retreated. None dared to stand in his way—none could. Lancelote alone was like an unstoppable longsword, piercing straight into the heart of the orc formation.
This was no reckless charge. His unstoppable momentum did not just terrify the orcs but also filled the surrounding swordsmen with an unshakable belief in victory. In his figure, in his presence, they saw triumph. As Lancelote plunged into the enemy ranks, the warriors roared and surged forward in unison, eager to follow his lead.
But that soaring morale and unstoppable momentum lasted only for a fleeting instant. A thunderous explosion echoed through the battlefield.
Before anyone could fully grasp what had happened, they saw Lancelote hurtling back at ten times the speed and force he had charged in with. Like a blazing comet streaking across the sky, he crashed violently into one of the massive stone pillars of the Glory Hall. Dust and shattered rock burst into the air as the pillar, thick enough that it would take several men to encircle it, crumbled under the impact.
Struggling, Lancelote rose from the rubble. His once-pristine longsword was now reduced to shattered fragments. His body, once unyielding, was covered in wounds.
In the mere blink of an eye, the mighty war god—who had moments ago seemed unstoppable—was left battered, bloodied, and utterly humbled.
At the very center of the orc horde, Grutt stood tall and proud, his entire body radiating a dazzling white battle aura. The shouts and cries of battle did not diminish—instead, they surged even louder. But this time, they did not come from the warriors of Celeste. They came from the hundreds of orcs surrounding him.
Their war god had risen once more.
Everyone who laid eyes on him was stunned. Even the swordsmen who had been surging forward moments ago found themselves hesitating, their charge faltering.
"The last World Tree Leaf… That bastard…" Adra's lips turned pale, and his voice trembled.
Beside him, several high priests and bishops had already rushed to Lancelote's side, frantically casting healing spells, pouring their divine magic onto the fallen holy knight.
"I owe you another one, kid," Grutt said, looking at Asa.
"No need to say that. I just didn't want to die, that's all… But you…" Asa responded, though his gaze toward Grutt carried an unmistakable trace of uncertainty and doubt.
This was truly a choice with no alternatives. No matter how important the World Tree Leaf was, using it on Grutt was the only viable option. Only by restoring him could they have any hope of making it out of the Glory Fortress alive.
Even wounds that not even healing magic could mend were instantly healed under the power of this ancient elven artifact. However, what surprised Asa was that the effect of this World Tree Leaf on Grutt seemed different from the previous two times.
When it was used on Elaine, it had simply healed her injuries completely. When Asa used it, it had fused with the power of the Sunwell and his True Meditation, greatly enhancing his magical and life force. But now, the changes in Grutt were far more profound. It wasn't just about his wounds healing—he seemed different in a way that was hard to define.
If his killing intent before had been shocking and terrifying, something that evoked primal fear among his kin, then now, the presence emanating from him was something else entirely. It was an overwhelming aura of authority, an undeniable pressure that came from above, vastly different from the pure intensity he had previously radiated.
This was a force that reached deep into the soul. Asa had only ever felt something like it once before—from Moriel. It was the kind of aura that only a lifeform far beyond humans, something superior and immensely powerful, could exude.
It seemed as though the World Tree Leaf had triggered some latent transformation in Grutt's body—or perhaps, something had already existed within him, something inexplicable and subtle, that this near-death restoration had awakened.
Without realizing it, everyone's attention had been drawn to him, subdued by his sheer presence.
"…Forget it. It's not the time to dwell on this now," Asa muttered. "Let's move."
Grutt and Asa charged straight toward the Glory Hall, one ahead of the other. This was, after all, the heart of the Glory Fortress, surrounded by thousands of warriors and priests. Their only path to victory lay in striking down the enemy leader first.
As Grutt stomped forward, took off, and shot ahead, his figure blurred into a faint afterimage. Everyone watching felt their minds waver for a brief moment. The orcs erupted in an even louder chorus of roars and battle cries as they surged forward, while the swordsmen and priests hesitated for a second before realizing what they needed to do. The battle, which had momentarily stalled, reignited in an even more ferocious and abrupt manner.
But this time, the battle would not last long. Before the surrounding swordsmen could react, Asa and Grutt had already broken through to the front of the Glory Hall.
Lancelote's wounds had not yet healed. He was still covered in blood and scars, yet he roared, and in an instant, white battle aura condensed around him, forming a massive sword of pure light that he swung at Grutt midair. Within the glowing blade, traces of blood swirled—he understood now, after their last clash, that this enemy was no longer someone he could fight on equal footing. This was everything he had left, his final, desperate strike.
And it wasn't just him. The high priests, the bishops, and even Adra—all of them unleashed their strongest attacks toward the charging Grutt. Arrows of light, walls of fire, ice spikes, lightning bolts, and paralyzing spells all rained down upon the incoming figure.
These attacks weren't the result of careful strategy or calculated tactics; they were pure instinct. It was no longer determination that drove them but fear. The moment they saw that figure approaching, something primal took hold—a terror that reached deep into their souls, as if they were frogs watching a massive serpent lunge toward them.