Thicker than the storm clouds from Meteor Shower, an endless expanse of deathly gray spread across the sky. At this moment, it felt as though even the heavens had perished.
Fear. Submission. These were the only emotions shared by the thousands gathered in the square. Like the boundless, lifeless gray above, the aura of death enshrouded everything, suffocating every soul. This was not the fear of facing an enemy or a monster, a fear tinged with resistance or defiance. This was absolute, inescapable terror—the primal dread of a force beyond all struggle, the instinctive horror of a creature standing before an immutable law, the fear of death itself.
The wounded and weak people collapsed soundlessly beneath this suffocating presence. Even the strongest among the warriors and orcs stood frozen, their bodies stiff as lifeless statues.
From within the Glory Hall, a figure slowly stepped forth. The once-radiant hall had lost all brilliance; the shimmering white glow that had always flowed through the architecture of the Glory Fortress had vanished entirely. Even the marble itself had turned into a lifeless gray. Though the man emerged from the hall, it was as if the entire building, the entire fortress, was drowning in the shadow cast by his presence.
With each step he took, the ground beneath his feet cracked and withered, crumbling into carbonized dust. Only those closest to the Glory Hall could still make out his form. Even the very light that touched him seemed to wither and die upon contact.
His once-handsome and sunlit face was now a mask of absolute indifference, colder and more lifeless than death itself. His eyes, devoid of color, were a soulless shade of ash. His skin, now as black as obsidian, pulsed with no trace of life. A vast, endless ocean of black mist seeped from his body, consuming everything in its wake.
In his grasp, he held the artifact of Dehya Valley—the hilt of the Black Star.
The aura that once emanated from the sword hilt was now seeping from every inch of his body—darker, heavier, and more suffocating than before. It was not that the hilt had become a part of his body, nor that he had become a part of the hilt. They had fused completely, indistinguishable from one another.
His hollow, empty gaze seemed to see nothing, as if nothing in the world was worth noticing. Yet, his eyes fell upon the four figures standing before the Glory Hall—Asa, Grutt, Lancelote, and the Pope Magnus, who now occupied Adra's body. Though all life before him was nothing more than dust, these four specks of dust were, at least, more noticeable than the rest.
"How could this be?" The Pope's face was as pale as a sheet, his usual composure shattered beyond recognition. His entire body trembled uncontrollably before finally collapsing to his knees. But this was not merely physical submission—his spirit had crumbled as well, devoid of even the faintest will to resist or flee. Those few words were the last remnants of his rational struggle.
When the King of Necromancers emerged, all necromancers were destined to become his thralls. This was the fate decreed by Achibard upon every wielder of necromantic magic. The price of freely roaming the Spiral Shadow Mountains was the brand of the Black Star, imprinted within every necromancer's soul—an unbreakable bond of fate. Even if Magnus was not truly Adra, even if his will and soul were peerless in their strength, before the force accumulated over millennia by the Black Star, he was no different from an ant.
"Jarvis? How could it be him?" Lancelote's expression was scarcely better than the Pope's. Even Achibard himself had never witnessed what would happen if the so-called world-ending artifact, the Black Star, was fully awakened. But now, they were seeing it firsthand.
Talice knelt on the ground, her face covered in cold sweat from the pain. The prosthetic limb at her severed wrist had withered and fallen off. The artificial limb, meticulously crafted with white magic by a bishop at Lancelote's request, now shriveled as if it had been thrown into a furnace. The ominous aura spread from her severed wrist, creeping into her body, extinguishing every trace of life it touched.
"Anyone who can use Holy Arrow, attack him! All mages, unleash your spells!" Lancelote's commanding shout rang out, but this time, his voice no longer carried the usual calm and authority of a knight; instead, it bordered on hysteria, driven by fear.
Holy Arrow was a relatively low-level white magic, yet among those gathered in the square, over a thousand people could wield it. As Lancelote's order resounded, thousands of radiant white streaks shot forth from different angles, all converging toward Jarvis at the entrance of the Glory Hall. Though many spells dissipated mid-air due to distance, the collective glow remained blindingly brilliant.
However, as the light struck Jarvis, it merely caused the black mist surrounding him to ripple slightly before being swallowed entirely. He remained motionless, not even moving a single finger. The very magic designed to counter undead creatures had no effect on him whatsoever.
In the next moment, fireballs, ice spikes, acid arrows, and hundreds of spells from mages came hurtling toward him. But before they could reach him, a glowing white barrier materialized in front of him, causing every incoming spell to vanish upon impact without a sound.
This was not his own power—the barrier had been conjured by the figures emerging from behind him.
A dozen frail, white-robed elders slowly stepped out from the Glory Hall. Their movements were stiff, their bodies emaciated to varying degrees—some nearly skeletal. But the one thing they all had in common was the eerie, ghostly fire burning in their eye sockets—the unmistakable mark of liches.
Lancelote's expression had turned unspeakably grim—his lips even trembled. And it wasn't just him; everyone who could see this scene reacted the same way. Every member of the Glory Fortress recognized these elderly liches. Their appearances were unmistakable—these were the preserved corpses of past popes, once sealed deep within the Glory Hall in crystal coffins.
And it wasn't just here. The vast field of corpses left behind by Inham in the square had now become the most active place. Desiccated corpses and skeletons, all of them, were staggering to their feet.
No one had deliberately cast necromantic magic—there was no need. Necromancy itself had been created by Achibard as an imitation of the Black Star's aura. And now, this aura, in its purest, strongest, and most absolute form, was radiating freely. The entire Glory Fortress lay shrouded beneath it. The once-holy sanctuary, the city of faith, had become nothing more than a land of the dead.
"Run… This is no longer a monster that humans can fight."
In front of the Glory Hall, Asa let out a deep sigh and forced out these words with difficulty.
He didn't understand why Jarvis was here, or how he had come to wield the Black Star's hilt. But he knew better than anyone what it truly meant to hold that weapon. He had once felt its aura firsthand, had experienced it in the deepest, most visceral way.
And he knew—whoever could fully control this sword was no longer human.
He wasn't sure if it was just his perception, but it seemed as though Jarvis's eyes, which no longer held any focus or expression, were staring directly at him. For a fleeting moment, there was a strange feeling in those eyes, a sensation that contrasted with the overwhelming aura surrounding him. But at that moment, Asa knew he couldn't afford to focus on such things. He had been planning to seize the opportunity when the priests' magic worked, to try and take the Black Star's hilt from Jarvis. But now, it seemed unnecessary to even try.
Just as he was about to turn and walk away after uttering those words, he saw a figure dash forward, bursting with a blinding light.
In a world of dead black and ashen gray, this light shone brilliantly, full of life and vigor. Even the thousand beams of white magic from earlier couldn't compare to the brightness, purity, and strength of this light. Mixed within it was a vibrant green energy, so powerful that it seemed to pulse with life. Though the entire Glory Fortress remained shrouded in a grim shadow, where this figure passed, all the black and gray was dispelled, as if a shining meteor streaked across the night sky. Even the thousands of onlookers in the square, who had felt nothing but the oppressive dark aura, found their hearts lightened by the passing of this radiant light.
There was only one person—only one—who could have rushed forward like this at such a time: Grutt.
He was the only one in this deathly place who could still stand upright, without the slightest hint of weakness, completely unaffected by the overwhelming aura. Since the moment Jarvis' presence and aura emerged, Grutt's gaze and attention had been entirely focused on him. Despite being battered by Inham's magic and the overwhelming dark aura that no human could resist, the fire in his eyes, the light of determination, was stronger than ever.
He didn't need to ask who or what this was. As soon as he sensed the presence and aura, it felt as though a voice told him, this was the enemy.
Perhaps it was because his vitality was too strong. While everyone else was completely intimidated by the deathly aura, only he had the strength to resist, the ability to summon his fighting spirit and animosity, and the instinctive feeling of disgust. Maybe it was because the World Tree Leaf he had just used rejected this aura, or perhaps it was some other reason that even he couldn't understand. But the sudden surge of hostility and fighting spirit was so strong, emanating from the very depths of his soul.
Within this surge of fighting spirit, there was also a feeling akin to when he fought the Paladins of Lancelote in a death struggle—a feeling that touched his very soul. Half of it was animosity and fighting spirit, and half of it was to deepen that feeling even more. With that, he charged toward Jarvis.
Once again, the white light shield flashed in front of Jarvis. The dozen or so death mages behind him instinctively cast their protective magic. These mages, all former top-tier spellcasters in life, even though their mastery of white magic clashed with the aura of the Black Star, the combined magical barrier they cast far surpassed any single mage's defense.
The white light was like a meteor burning with the utmost intensity, streaking across the sky, unleashing the brilliance accumulated over millions of years, crashing into the massive black hole that devoured everything. The light shield, which had just withstood hundreds of spells, shattered under this powerful clash, like paper shields under a cannon's fire. The white and black collided without obstruction.