Grutt did not move. Asa did not move. The Pope, Lancelote, and Talice naturally did not move either. While maintaining this delicate balance between them, they remained only on guard against this strange and inexplicable figure, rather than instinctively stopping him at the first moment. After all, his spellcasting direction was clearly not aimed at them.
"You'd better stop him," Adra's face turned pale. He still couldn't discern what kind of magic this was. The person's magical power and control over magic were not particularly high in his eyes, yet he was able to complete such a complex magic circle at such an astonishing speed. Even with Adra's previous body, it would have taken at least twice the time.
Grutt let out a cold snort. He still did not move, but the light in his eyes suddenly intensified. The surrounding air seemed to contract for a moment before erupting outward under his gaze. Everyone near him felt an inexplicable and chilling sense of dread.
The gray-robed figure continued preparing his magic, completely absorbed in his incantation. However, two patches on the back of his neck began seeping blood—slowly at first, then more and more, until streams of crimson trickled down his skin, as if the flesh there had suddenly turned into two blood-soaked sponges.
Grutt had not moved, nor had he attacked. But his gaze, his hostility, and his killing intent had already reached the man's back. This was not magic—it was pure intent. Yet under the weight of this pressure, under Grutt's focused killing intent, the body itself could no longer endure. It was as if two real, physical blades had pierced into the man's flesh and twisted.
During the preparation of a grand spell, even the slightest mistake in incantation or hand gestures could trigger magical backlash, often fatal to the caster. Suffering such an injury, any ordinary mage would already be as good as dead. But this man did not stop. His hands did not tremble, his chanting did not waver, and there was not even the slightest deviation in his movements. It was as if the torn, decaying flesh on his neck had nothing to do with him at all. Instead, his actions only became faster. His hands traced an incredibly complex magical array in the air with near-invisible speed, perfectly synchronized with his incantation. The magic surging through the void had reached its peak, flowing in perfect harmony.
"It's that guy." Asa suddenly let out a cold snort. In the next instant, his figure burst forward, lunging straight at the man.
He had finally recognized who this was. Although the complexity of the gestures and incantations had already surpassed his knowledge, the aura emanating from this person was unmistakably necromantic magic. And that gray robe—Asa had felt a vague sense of familiarity with it from the beginning. As the fluctuations of necromantic energy became more distinct, the robe itself seemed to stir and resonate in response. That was when he finally remembered what it was.
The only person who could be standing here, using necromantic magic in such an unorthodox manner while wearing the stolen Ghost King Robe from Sandru, was none other than Inham.
Though Asa still didn't know exactly what Inham was trying to do, he was certain of one thing—whatever it was, it had to be stopped. If someone like Inham, who always preferred lurking in the shadows, had now chosen to risk exposure in such a high-stakes moment, then what he was planning was far more than just casting a single spell.
But Asa had realized this a moment too late. Just as he dashed forward, Inham's spell was completed.
An overwhelming surge of magic, suppressed for who knew how long, suddenly burst forth like a dam breaking under the pressure of a raging flood. The power exploded from Inham's body, surging in accordance with the intricate sequence of gestures and incantations he had constructed. It resonated, transformed, amplified, and warped—until, in a single instant, it erupted forward like an unstoppable tidal wave.
The swordsmen and priests facing him only now realized the terrifying power of this bishop, but it was already too late for them to react. Once a grand spell had begun its preparation, the caster's stance, posture, incantation, and gestures all became one, completely locked in place—unchangeable. This spell was indeed being released exactly as Inham had intended, with his back to the Glory Hall and aimed directly at the mass of swordsmen and priests gathered on the plaza.
Whoosh!
It was a sound like someone spitting out a mouthful of water mixed with air—except this noise was amplified tens of thousands of times. That was because it came from the simultaneous expulsion of blood from over a thousand swordsmen and priests at once. Even if each individual's sound wasn't particularly loud, together they formed a deafening, grotesque symphony.
And they weren't spitting saliva. They were vomiting blood.
Within the massive arc-shaped blast zone emanating from Inham, every swordsman, priest, and orc facing him erupted in a fountain of crimson.
It wasn't just from their mouths—blood gushed from their eyes, noses, and ears as well. It was as if they had all been turned into overfilled water skins, violently squeezed at once. Torrents of blood shot from their bodies in all directions, forming a gruesome rain of scarlet arrows. For some, even their organs and flesh liquefied and burst outward, leaving only withered husks. Others, in the same instant that they spewed forth an ocean of blood, were reduced to dried corpses. Some didn't even have that much left—just a lonely, stripped-clean skeleton standing in the wake of the carnage.
With just that single moment, over a thousand people fell simultaneously in that grotesque and tragic manner. A sea of blood erupted into the air, forming a floating crimson ocean above the battlefield. Before the gates of the Glory Hall, the once-glorious plaza was now transformed into something out of legend—a nightmarish blood-soaked abyss, like the fabled Hell of Blood Pools.
The deafening sound of a thousand people losing their blood in unison had barely faded before another chilling noise followed—the heavy, sickening thud of their bodies collapsing to the ground. The eerie, muffled impact sent shivers down the spines of all who remained. In the wake of such horror, absolute silence gripped the battlefield.
Guided by the unseen force of magic, the thousands of streams of blood did not merely splatter and disperse. Instead, they wove together, forming a massive crimson web in midair before surging toward Inham, converging in front of him. Despite the nightmarish spectacle, the air was utterly devoid of any scent of blood.
At last, Inham turned around.
Not every human or orc within his spell's range had suffered the same fate. Among the humans, a dozen still stood—some barely holding on, blood seeping from their facial orifices as they wobbled unsteadily. Two of them, despite being drenched in blood, remained standing tall and firm. Without exception, these survivors were all holy warriors.
As for the orcs, only a small portion had succumbed, while the majority were merely injured.
This spell's destructive power might not surpass that of a forbidden curse, but no forbidden magic had ever produced such an utterly terrifying effect.
At that moment, every remaining warrior, every priest, every orc—all eyes were locked on Inham. Even the swordsmen who had once regarded him as the Pope's most trusted cardinal now looked upon him with nothing but horror and fury.
"Soul Devourer?"
In mid-charge, Asa immediately pulled back, retreating at full speed.
This was one of the highest-tier necromantic spells, something he had only ever seen briefly mentioned in Sandru's notes. It was a spell so advanced that even Sandru himself might have been incapable of casting it. There was no way Asa was foolish enough to approach now.
Turning around, Inham paid no heed to the thousands of murderous gazes fixed upon him from behind—gazes that, if capable of killing, would have torn him apart instantly. His focus remained solely on the few standing before the Glory Hall: Adra, Lancelote, Grutt, and Asa—who had halted his charge in haste.
From the very beginning, these few had been his true targets. Everyone else, no matter their numbers, were nothing more than tools, mere instruments to be sacrificed.
Behind him, the surviving priests, clerics, and mages finally grasped what had happened. A barrage of spells surged toward him all at once. Explosions and flames erupted in a chaotic storm, yet Inham stood unmoved amidst the onslaught. No matter how fierce the magical bombardment, none of it could penetrate the Ghost King's Cloak draped over him. The overwhelming waves of necromantic energy still rippled within the cloak, causing all spells to be repelled before they could even reach him.
Now that he had turned to face them, those before the Glory Hall could finally see him clearly. His facial orifices were streaked with blood, and crimson still dripped continuously from his mouth. It was unclear whether this was the backlash of his own magic or the effect of Grutt's gaze, charged with unparalleled killing intent. His veins bulged beneath his skin, crimson currents pulsing unnaturally beneath the surface. The once-elegant and refined face now appeared ghastly and grotesque.
Yet, the most unsettling thing of all was his smile.
Despite his eerie, almost monstrous appearance, there was no mistaking the meaning behind that smile—it was the smile of victory.
He had won.
Before the eyes of countless witnesses, he had successfully completed his grand spell. He had gambled everything on the chaos of the battlefield, on the reactions of those around him, and it had all played out exactly as he had predicted.
Floating before him now was a massive, blood-red crystal—an object formed from the condensed essence of life itself, the culmination of the thousands of swordsmen and priests he had just slaughtered.
With a sharp crack, the crimson crystal shattered. It disintegrated into countless fine, dust-like particles—or perhaps it reverted back into liquid form, transforming into an enormous blood-red torrent that surged toward the few standing before the Glory Hall.
The blood-colored streak made no sound as it cut through the air, not because it lacked speed—on the contrary, it moved with the swiftness of a beam of light, arriving in an instant—but because the very air surrounding it had been utterly annihilated, broken down, dissolved into nothingness.
This was the concentrated life force of thousands, unleashed through necromantic sorcery. In a single instant, the overwhelming crimson surge enveloped the entire space in front of the Glory Hall, spanning dozens of meters. Grutt, Adra, and Lancelote were completely engulfed within its range.
If these three were eliminated, Inham would have nothing left to fear. There was no living being on this continent capable of withstanding such an attack. That certainty made him smile.
He had wagered everything on this final gamble, and now, with his most formidable threats about to be completely erased, it seemed as though everything had gone exactly as he had foreseen.
However, at that very moment, something unexpected happened.
Grutt did not even glance at the crimson maelstrom rushing toward him. Instead, he threw a single punch—straight at Inham.
The distance between them was nearly a hundred meters, with the massive blood-red surge in between. The punch was nothing more than a strike into empty air.
Yet, with a deep, muffled boom, Inham's body was suddenly sent hurtling backward like a cannonball.