Inham was sent flying, rolling over a dozen times before finally coming to a stop on the blood-soaked battlefield filled with corpses. He struggled to lift his upper body, spitting out a few words.
"How powerful..."
With his words came a mouthful of blood, mixed with fragments of his own lungs. His chest was almost entirely caved in—every single rib in the front completely shattered. If not for the Ghost King Robe, and if not for his extraordinary reflexes allowing him to instinctively retreat at the last moment to dissipate the force, that single punch would have pierced him clean through.
Necromantic magic manipulated his ruined muscles and internal organs, while white magic rapidly healed his wounds. Finally, he managed to stabilize his injuries.
Inham lifted his head. Before the Glory Hall, all he could see was an overwhelming flood of crimson. The blood-red surge had transformed into a writhing, pulsating barrier of red energy, completely engulfing the figures that once stood there.
"HAAH!!"
A single, thunderous shout erupted from within the crimson storm.
The sound shook the very walls of the Glory Fortress. Every person who heard it felt their bodies tremble, as though the world itself quaked in response.
And then—
A massive explosion of white light burst forth from the red barrier.
It was not ordinary light—it crackled, roaring like a thousand bolts of raging thunder, an unstoppable wave of divine fury, surging straight toward Inham.
As the radiant light tore through the crimson barrier, several figures became visible within. The most striking among them was Grutt, the one who had launched the devastating punch.
Amidst the dazzling brilliance, his aura of fight spirit shimmered in a mix of pure white and emerald green, as vibrant as fresh leaves. In that fleeting moment, even the blood-colored storm seemed to dim before its radiance. This was his full-force strike—no longer merely a distant shockwave through the air, but a direct, all-out blow infused with every ounce of his strength and battle energy. He wasn't just trying to break through the blood-red surge; he intended to kill Inham, the one who had cast this dreadful spell.
Yet, that brilliance lasted only for an instant.
The next moment, the crimson tide surged back with an eerie silence, swallowing him completely once more. This was power converted from the life force of thousands through the highest form of necromantic magic—no one could simply break through it. All that remained was that blazing mass of white battle energy, carrying an earth-shaking roar as it hurtled toward Inham.
Watching the unstoppable force barreling toward him, Inham did not panic. He knew that no magical shield, no matter how powerful, would be anything more than paper-thin before that raging blast. He knew that in his current state, even moving was a struggle. But that did not mean he was out of options.
Even the slightest movement of his fingers sent excruciating pain searing through his shattered chest. It was an agony that pierced to the very core. Yet, despite this, his hands moved swiftly, forming a strange, intricate gesture.
A pendant at his chest, crafted from a Star Fragment, flared with light.
And in the next instant, he vanished.
The battle energy strike plowed into the ground, carving a deep trench before slamming into a building at the edge of the plaza. With a deafening explosion, the entire structure was obliterated, as if struck by a dozen thunderburst bombs at once.
A flash of blue light flickered at the opposite end of the plaza—Inham had reappeared there.
His already exhausted face now looked even more drained, as if he had just endured three days and nights of bloody battle without rest, food, or even a drop of water.
Space Shift.
This was the space-manipulating spell invented by the genius Achibard—an ultimate escape technique that, for centuries, only necromancers bearing the mark of the Dark Star had been able to use.
But the spell was not only extremely dangerous—it also inflicted severe damage upon the bodies of those who wielded it.
Inham used the last ounce of his strength to pull out a teleportation scroll from his robes and unfurl it.
By this time, the nearby mages had already launched dozens of spells in his direction, and the surrounding swordsmen were charging toward him. However, amid the dense explosions and blazing magical light, the blue radiance of the teleportation spell remained unyielding, piercing into the sky.
By the time the swordsmen reached his location, all that remained was a battlefield scarred by magic.
Before the Glory Hall, priests had gathered around the crimson barrier. Normally, their sacred magic, so effective against all other forms of sorcery, would have cleansed such a force effortlessly. Yet, against this blood-red radiance, even the combined efforts of over a hundred priests casting purification spells had no effect.
Many of them shouted for Lancelote and the others trapped within, but no response came.
The blood-colored barrier continued to churn and tighten, its scope shrinking, its essence growing denser, pressing inward relentlessly. Those nearby could almost hear the crushing, breaking sounds from within—if there were still anyone left inside to make them.
Two high priests had attempted to strike the barrier with their swords, but the moment their blades touched the red light, an immense suction force erupted from within. Though the blood-red glow seemed formless, it pulled the two priests—swords and all—straight into its depths. Their screams barely had time to begin before, under the horrified gazes of those present, their bodies melted away within the seething crimson mass.
In the center of the plaza, the orcs did not move recklessly. Instead, under the command of their leaders, they maintained a tense standoff with the surrounding swordsmen.
The orc chieftains had regained their clarity. They knew that charging forward blindly would only lead to their deaths.
But if the crimson force truly consumed everyone trapped inside—then death awaited them all just the same.
In the palace of Alrasia, a blood-soaked and barely breathing bishop suddenly appeared within a teleportation magic circle, startling the surrounding guards into a panic.
Queen Catherine, upon learning of the situation, was anxious beyond words. However, she did not inform the Grand Cathedral. Instead, she had Inham brought into the palace for immediate treatment.
It did not take long for bishop Inham to regain consciousness. After casting healing magic on himself, his injuries quickly improved. Signaling for everyone else to leave, only he and the queen remained in the chamber.
"Glory Fortress is finished," Inham stated flatly. "Magnus, Lancelote, and over a dozen bishops are all dead."
"What?" The queen gasped, but after a brief moment of shock, a greater emotion surfaced—delight.
"Orford used Dimensional Gate to invade Glory Fortress. Both sides suffered heavy losses in the ensuing battle. Two leaders of Orford were also killed. Even if Orford still exists, it will take at least ten years before they can recover any significant power. You no longer have to worry about them.
Among all the kingdoms, Alrasia now stands as the strongest. None of the other monarchs are your match. If you proceed carefully, placing a puppet on the papal throne won't be difficult at all…"
As Inham spoke, two flames ignited in Queen Catherine's eyes, burning ever brighter and fiercer, even making her breath quicken. She hurriedly took a deep breath to calm herself and said, "The papal throne is certainly yours, but there's no need to discuss this now. You should focus on recovering first…"
"Don't worry, I have no interest in that position. And the reason I'm telling you all this… is because my usefulness to you is over. You can be at ease and rule as queen—I won't trouble you again."
"What are you saying…" Queen Catherine's brows furrowed tightly, her expression filled with both shock and barely concealed panic.
"From now on, you'll be busy with the affairs of your kingdom, and I'll likely have to flee to the Far East to avoid someone I can't afford to provoke. We won't have many chances to meet in the future. At this point, there's no harm in speaking plainly."
"You… we…" The queen's expression darkened.
"Would you give up Alrasia and leave with me?" Inham suddenly fixed his gaze on Catherine.
Her expression froze. Her eyes flickered for a brief moment before dimming, and she let out a soft sigh. Then, as if regaining her composure, she once again wore that serene and captivating look that could enchant the world.
"Well… thank you for everything."
Inham let out a sigh as well. After a long silence, he asked, "By the way, where did that young man who teleported here go?"
"What young man?" The queen was taken aback. "No one else used the teleportation circle before you…"
"What?" Inham suddenly leaped up from the bed, his entire body trembling violently. He turned sharply, his eyes filled with sheer terror.
"What's wrong? There's nothing there…" Queen Catherine followed his gaze. It was just an ordinary wall, completely unremarkable. But the way he stared at it was as if an unspeakably terrifying demon were emerging from the shadows.
The fear in Inham's eyes deepened, so overwhelming that it seemed to drown out all reason. Still facing that direction, his legs slowly bent, and he knelt down.
"How… how is this possible…" The words that escaped his lips were barely more than a groan of despair.
A thousand miles away, in the grand library of the Magic Academy, an elderly priest also sank to his knees, his face ashen.
In the remote Dehya Valley, three elderly men, each dressed in distinct attire, also knelt down. Their expressions varied, yet none of them looked at ease.
Celeste, Glory Fortress, the square in front of the Glory Hall— the crimson magical light that had been poised to consume everything had vanished. Just when everyone had been at a loss, the red glow had inexplicably surged into the great hall, as if some colossal beast within had taken a deep breath and swallowed it whole.
No one knelt here. Instead, every gaze was fixed upon the Glory Hall. Though nothing could be seen, they could all feel it—the tide-like aura pouring out from within.
An aura that drowned all, overlooked all, and disregarded all.
It was the aura of death. The aura of a god.
Under this presence, every soul trembled from the deepest recesses of their being. They felt their insignificance, their helplessness. Whether they were devout priests or raging orcs, their expressions were the same—despair and fear.
Yet, two people stood apart from the rest. They had been at the very heart of the surging red light just moments before.
Both were covered in wounds, their faces etched with exhaustion. One knelt on one knee, his face filled with disbelief and astonishment. The other stood tall, his gaze locked onto the Glory Hall—not with fear, but with a piercing brightness, as sharp as a blade.