It was just a faint figure, and Grutt's charge no longer carried the immense and overwhelming aura that used to accompany his every movement. As he advanced toward the priests' magic, he didn't dodge or evade. Yet, unlike before, he no longer collided with and shattered the spells. His figure slightly paused and then accelerated again. All the magic dissipated and broke apart before it even made contact with his body.
One of the high priests didn't cast a spell but instead drew his longsword from his waist, roaring as he rushed forward. His voice was hoarse and savage, like a beast in its final moments. Grutt didn't even glance at him; he merely sped up and brushed past him. The high priest was swept away like a paper doll in a strong wind. Even before he hit the ground, his body and sword had already shattered into dozens of pieces in mid-air.
Although Grutt appeared less imposing than before, he was undoubtedly stronger—so much so that he had transcended the very concept of being 'human.' There was no longer any trace of murderous intent emanating from him.
A massive white sword of light came crashing down. The air near the blade compressed and cracked, emitting explosive sounds. All the swordsmen who witnessed this strike were frozen in place. No matter how long they had trained with their swords or how much experience they had in combat, they felt as though this was the first time in their lives that they truly understood what a sword was. This strike seemed capable of splitting the sky, of cleaving the Glory Fortress itself in two.
The Paladin gathered all his strength into a massive Holy Light Cross Sword, which extended tens of meters in length, reminiscent of the giant beheading sword once wielded by the Archangel. Even the oppressive force it emanated was similar. Under this enormous weapon, Grutt's figure appeared as insignificant as an ant. Yet, he still didn't dodge or unleash any aura or fighting spirit; he continued to charge directly toward the blurry figure at the heart of the light sword.
With a loud clang, the white sword shattered. Though the white sword wasn't a physical entity, it was far stronger than any weapon made of solid matter. It could even be said that no forbidden spell could surpass the might of this sword, which was the fusion of aura, magic, and martial technique. Yet, this sword was broken, and Grutt finally came to a halt.
Lancelote held his fingers like a sword, for that was the core of the Holy Light Cross Sword. His fingers had pierced Grutt's palm, and blood began to drip slowly from his arm. This strike had finally wounded him.
But it was only a wound, and by no means a fatal one. Moreover, this injury could hardly be considered serious. Lancelote's own body was already covered in blood. The force of the strike had exceeded his body's capacity, and the sword energy had already wounded him from within.
Grutt's other hand rested on Lancelote's shoulder. Under this hand, any person's body would feel like soft mud. But Grutt simply held Lancelote, preventing him from collapsing. Blood seeped from every pore of Lancelote's body. The sword strike, which had failed to injure the enemy, had first hurt its wielder. Despite his already weakened state, Lancelote had forced out every last ounce of his power, and this time, the sword energy had truly broken free from his body.
Lancelote's face was also covered in blood, and the once steadfast, resolute, and fierce expression was now completely overshadowed by fatigue. The mightiest warrior on the continent, this Paladin, was now on the verge of collapsing from sheer exhaustion.
It wasn't just physical exhaustion, but mental as well. Only he understood what this final strike, one that drained all his strength and life force, meant in terms of his current state.
Grutt glanced at his injured hand, then looked at Lancelote. His expression was strange—there was no joy of victory in his eyes, no fighting spirit to be seen. Instead, there was only a profound sense of desolation.
"From now on, where will I find an opponent like you?"
Grutt gently released Lancelote, and the exhausted Paladin slumped to the ground. Then, he turned his gaze toward Adra.
At that moment, Talice suddenly shouted and charged at Grutt with her sword raised. Until now, she had been stunned by the overwhelming aura of both Lancelote and Grutt, frozen in place. Only now did she react.
Grutt didn't even spare her a glance, waiting for her to charge at him. And she already knew the outcome of this. Her shout, like that of the earlier priest, was devoid of any fighting spirit or power. She was like a lamb facing a fierce tiger. The scream was not a show of strength, but a hysterical, desperate cry, born from pure terror, a reflexive struggle driven by fear.
But Talice didn't make it close to Grutt. Instead, another figure rushed up, knocking her aside, pinning her to the ground, and twisting her wrist to quickly subdue her. She struggled desperately for a few moments, but then, with a long sigh, Talice completely relaxed, looking at Asa and saying, "Just kill me."
Her voice was full of that kind of helplessness after despair, but there was also an odd sense of relief. She glanced at Asa once before turning her head away, no longer looking at him.
Asa sighed softly, releasing her and standing up. From the tone of her voice and the look in her eyes, he knew she was utterly drained and incapable of doing anything further.
At that moment, the swordsmen surrounding the plaza seemed to awaken from their stupor and began rushing toward them, even the nearby orcs no longer seemed to matter.
"Everyone, stop moving."
A commanding voice rang out. It wasn't particularly loud, but it carried an authority that no one could mimic deliberately—a kind of imposing presence that only true leaders possessed, a presence that made even the swordsmen halt in their tracks without thinking. They quickly realized that rushing forward at this point would serve no purpose.
The one who shouted was Adra. He neither fled nor recklessly attacked; he was the only one among them who, upon seeing Grutt, could remain unaffected by his overwhelming aura, his tremendous force.
Grutt raised a hand, and all the orcs immediately stopped. He didn't need to speak; his mere presence had completely dominated their will.
"What exactly are you?" Adra murmured, his gaze fixed on Grutt.
"What are you?" Grutt replied, his voice calm. His once obsidian eyes, which had once felt like a bottomless abyss capable of devouring everything, were now as serene as a vast ocean—immense, infinite, with faint ripples moving across its surface.
"I am the current Pope, Gavin Magnus." Adra answered, not hiding his identity any longer. Facing such an opponent, any pretense was meaningless. "The first thing I must tell you is that the death of Theodorus has nothing to do with the Glory Fortress. It was at the hands of Agrenel. If you seek vengeance for Theodorus, then go after her. That young man over there knows her whereabouts."
"Okay?" Grutt glanced at Asa, a fleeting look of surprise crossing his face before he quickly returned his focus to Adra. "But that's a matter for later."
"I understand. I will follow you, and I'll ensure that these orcs make it safely back to the Barbarian Highlands," Adra replied.
"It's not just that," Grutt continued, his gaze sharpening as he pointed at the ring on Adra's finger. "I also want the ring you're wearing."
Adra hesitated for a moment, before answering, "This is a treasure passed down by the former Pope, and… it's already drained of its power. It no longer poses any threat to you or anyone else. You should be able to see that."
"I know. I can tell," Grutt said, his tone flat. "But I still want it."
"Very well," Adra sighed deeply, removing the Ring of Kings from his finger and handing it over.
Outside the Glory Hall, in the plaza, thousands of people—orc and human alike—stood frozen, motionless. No one dared move, their will completely crushed under the weight of Grutt's presence.
"Also…" Grutt's gaze shifted to the Glory Hall behind Adra. His eyes sharpened as if he could see through the outer walls, sensing something hidden inside. "What's in there?"
Adra froze for a moment. "Inside there…?"
Since Grutt's gaze turned towards that direction, it had not wavered. His eyes grew increasingly bright, yet there was a hint of confusion, his brow furrowed as if he was both looking and trying to recall something, grasping at vague, unclear memories from the depths of his mind. Then, suddenly, his body shook, and he turned to look in another direction. This time, his gaze was purely sharp and fierce, like two swords merging into the air.
"Who's there?" Adra also reacted at the same time and looked in the direction Grutt was staring. Not just the two of them, but Asa and Lancelote also looked towards that spot.
Among the group of swordmasters and priests closest to them, a figure in a full gray robe was waving his hands, murmuring indistinct words. Though everyone in the Glory Hall was watching him, no one could tell who he was. He was actually facing away from the Grand Hall and facing the many swordmasters and priests in the square, as if giving a speech to them.
But that voice was not the voice of a speech; it was the sound of someone deliberately suppressing the chanting of a spell. The man's hands were moving faster and faster, becoming a blur. With waves of strange, eerie magical fluctuations emanating from him, everyone could tell that this person was preparing a large, complex spell. However, no one could tell exactly what kind of magic it was, nor could anyone understand why this person was preparing it in such a manner in this place.
The larger the magic, the longer the preparation time, and the more easily it could be interrupted. If interrupted, the backlash could be fatal. In such an environment and with such a tense atmosphere, preparing magic like this seemed no different from courting death.
The swordmasters and priests, looking at this person, had confusion on their faces, but there was no great surprise or suspicion. Without a doubt, they all recognized this person, but they did not understand what he was doing.