There was no sound. Even sound itself had been crushed along with the Glory Hall.
A figure, brilliant as a shooting star, streaked across the darkness with the only force capable of tearing through it. The impact struck with an overwhelming force, yet not even a single echo escaped. The surrounding marble structures crumbled away like piles of ash, dissolving into nothingness without a whisper.
The ten liches, once the preserved bodies of past Popes, shattered under the pressure, reduced to fine dust. Some of them had been in the midst of casting spells—the light of magic still flickering in their hands—yet those spells, too, vanished without a trace. No shockwave was released from the collision. Matter, magic, and even the air itself—all things within its radius were obliterated. The white light and black aura, two forces of absolute opposition, clashed in a struggle so intense that their destructive force extended beyond their own boundaries, grinding everything—seen and unseen—into the smallest, most irreducible fragments.
The only things that remained intact were the two figures at the heart of the impact—one wreathed in blinding white, the other cloaked in an abyssal black.
In an instant, the meteor-like radiance that had been charging forward came to an abrupt halt, while the figure shrouded in black was sent hurtling through the air. In the blink of an eye, their roles had completely reversed—one motionless, the other flung away.
No sound came from the collision, but every one of the thousands in the plaza felt it—a deep, violent tremor that resonated through their very hearts.
The dust settled. Half of the Glory Hall was gone. At the center of the impact lay a vast, semicircular crater, stretching dozens of meters in radius.
Nothing remained. Nothing, except for Grutt—standing alone amid the ruin he had created.
The dozens of priests and swordsmen who had originally stood before the Glory Hall had been completely erased—no trace of them remained. In the collision of black and white forces, even the air itself had been pulverized, creating a vacuum that had swallowed them whole. Only four figures had managed to escape in time.
The moment Grutt's figure streaked forward, Asa and Lancelote had immediately grabbed the paralyzed Magnus and Talice, retreating as fast as possible.
Only those two had immediately understood the consequences of such a clash of power. Only they had the reaction speed to move in time. Only they could see clearly—within that blinding white radiance—Grutt's fist smashing directly into Jarvis' chest.
The newly risen King of the Dead had been blasted away like a cannonball. Even his body seemed to be fracturing, splitting apart mid-air.
Jarvis was nowhere to be seen now. In the direction he had been sent flying, all structures and trees had been obliterated, leaving behind a perfectly straight passage of devastation that stretched beyond the horizon. It seemed he had been flung beyond the boundaries of Glory Fortress itself.
The grayish-black aura that had shrouded the castle was now rapidly retreating. The corpses that had just risen collapsed once again.
A moment of silence followed. Then, the orcs erupted into deafening cheers and howls of triumph.
The swordsmen and priests, in contrast, stood frozen in stunned horror, overwhelmed by what they had just witnessed. This display of power had long surpassed anything comprehensible to mankind. Like the aura of the Black Star itself, it inspired only absolute awe and terror.
The dark energy on Talice' wrist was fading. She finally managed to take a breath, lifting her gaze to look at Asa—the one who had pulled her to safety. In a low voice, she asked, "Why do you save me?"
Asa didn't even glance at her. His eyes remained fixed on the Pope and Lancelote as he spoke quickly, "Hurry up! While we have the chance."
Then, he launched himself forward at full speed.
Magnus and Lancelote nodded in unison. The Pope had also regained his composure, though his expression remained just as grim—matching Lancelote's. Unlike the rest of the people on the plaza, who were either shocked or jubilant, the two church leaders showed no sign of excitement or relief. Their faces were still clouded with deep gloom.
Instead of charging forward alongside Asa, they stepped back. As they retreated, they shouted, "All personnel, evacuate Glory Fortress! Quickly! Move!"
Not everyone could hear their voices, and even those who did might not have reacted in time. Lancelote and the Pope first located several high-ranking priests and bishops within the crowd. Once they relayed the command, the order quickly spread, and the crowd began to disperse.
By this time, the orcs' cheers had also come to an abrupt halt.
Asa had returned, carrying Grutt in his arms, retreating into the ranks of the orcs.
Grutt's hand—the very hand that had just struck Jarvis—had turned completely black. What had once been the perfect embodiment of vitality and raw physical power was now lifeless, its flesh darkened like dead coal. The blackness was still spreading, creeping further up his arm.
Though he remained conscious, his strength was utterly drained. He could barely stand, and all his battle energy, power, and life force had been completely burned away with that one strike.
"Put me down… that bastard isn't dead yet…" Grutt whispered to Asa. His eyes remained locked on the direction where Jarvis had been flung. His voice was weak—barely audible—but his determination was unwavering. Even in those few words, his fighting spirit burned with unshaken resolve.
"But if you go back up there, you'll die," Asa sighed. He handed Grutt over to a few orc chieftains. "For now, we retreat."
The gray-black haze in the sky had only retreated from this place—it had not dispersed but was instead concentrating elsewhere. Asa could sense it clearly: that massive, terrifying black aura had not weakened much at all. The energy that had once filled the surroundings was now surging back, replenishing the damage from that single clash.
A temporary retreat. Asa let out a bitter smile. He understood better than anyone—this was the legendary Necromancer King, the one prophesied to bring ruin to the world, the same entity that had once destroyed the ancient Elven Empire. What was the point of retreating? What meaning did "temporary" even have against something like this?
But... this was only the sword's hilt. The true Dark Star was still a thousand miles away in Dehya Valley. This Necromancer King was likely incomplete. If they could gather more strength, heal Grutt, and seek aid from the elves in the Whispering Forest, perhaps there was still a chance. That was the only hope Asa had left.
"Forget about everything else—just get out of here as fast as you can!" Asa shouted.
But in truth, there was no need for him to say anything. Both orcs and humans were already fleeing. Their mutual hostility and vigilance had crumbled under the weight of sheer terror. Like wild beasts escaping a flash flood or a raging wildfire, none had the mind to continue their blood feud.
"Where's the girl who was with me earlier?" Asa grabbed Ruken and asked.
By this point, it wasn't just Asa and Lancelote who noticed it—every human, every orc, even the most ordinary among them, could feel it. The pitch-black aura that had briefly withdrawn was now returning, slowly surging in from the same direction. But this time, it was denser, heavier, as if it had plunged into the darkest abyss to be reforged, tempered, and reborn into something even more horrifying.
A simple retreat was no longer possible—the only option left was to fight their way out. Orcs and humans were no longer slaughtering each other; now, the battle was between the living and the dead. Under the resurgence of that oppressive aura, the corpses that had just fallen were rising once again. And this time, it wasn't just the bodies on the plaza—every fallen orc, human, and beast within the entirety of Glory Fortress was transforming into the undead.
The battlefield, once littered with the dead, had already surpassed the number of the living. Within mere breaths, a massive undead army had formed within the castle walls, launching an assault on all who still drew breath.
At the castle's edge, a colossal shadow loomed. A mass of darkness so dense, so absolute, that merely looking upon it filled one with gloom, dread, and utter despair—a darkness that reeked of death itself. It was as if a grim reaper had crawled forth from the depths of the underworld, revealing the full weight of death's majesty to the world. The shadow moved steadily forward—that was Jarvis, returning from where he had been struck down.
The ground writhed and shifted as countless bones erupted from beneath the surface. And it wasn't just human remains—far larger skeletons emerged, some belonging to dragons, others to monstrous beasts long lost to time. In the presence of this most concentrated, unrelenting deathly aura, these ancient corpses, buried for untold centuries, all stirred once more, reawakening as undead horrors.
The countless zombies and skeletons were relentlessly tearing, biting, and trampling any living being in their path. Even when they were shattered or destroyed, they continued surging forward without hesitation, as if celebrating their new unholy rebirth with a grand feast of death. The ground kept splitting apart, birthing more colossal, unimaginable skeletal monstrosities. Even within the limited land of Glory Fortress, the sheer number of corpses accumulated over millennia was beyond measure.
Orcs and humans no longer distinguished between friend and foe; instead, they had become a single force, pushing outward in a desperate flood of survival. Priests could even be seen bestowing blessings upon orcs—no one cared anymore about race or faith. As long as they were alive, as long as they were not among the dead, they were comrades.
Amidst the chaotic torrent of beasts, men, and the undead, Asa was not fighting to escape—he was searching for someone.
"Ayime! Ayime!" Asa shouted, but his voice was swallowed by the cacophony of battle. He pushed, shoved, and fought his way through the seething mass of bodies, carving a bloody path through the undead in his frantic search.
Though he had left Ayime with the orcs, the catastrophic events that followed had been so overwhelming, so horrifying, that no one had the attention to spare for a single girl. He questioned several orcs, but none had an answer. He had no choice but to keep searching himself.
This was no time to be looking for someone, but Asa knew—no matter what—he had to find her.
And then, at last, after blasting through a horde of skeletons and zombies to help a group of swordsmen rejoin the main force, he saw Ayime.
But no relief came. No joy. Only an ice-cold horror pierced through his chest and stomach, freezing his every nerve. It was not just cold—it was pain, a shattering agony that spread through his entire body. It felt as if an icy blade had stabbed into his core, freezing his blood and flesh solid before mercilessly grinding it all into shards.