The gravity field had completely dissipated, yet none of the skeletal behemoths could rise again—or rather, not a single one remained intact.
It wasn't just the skeletal giants; the entire sea of the undead seemed to have quieted down. The ground was littered with broken bones, and though undead figures continued to approach from the distance, for the first time since entering this forbidden land of death, the entire group had a moment of stillness—a chance to catch their breath.
Even the strongest ogres were nearly collapsing onto the ground. The entire coalition army was teetering on the edge of exhaustion. While everyone wanted to press forward, their bodies simply had no strength left to move.
Grutt's fight spirit faded as he landed. The one who had single-handedly carved out such a massive space in this sea of the undead didn't stop to admire his work. Stepping onto the thick layer of shattered bones, his gaze remained fixed ahead.
Perhaps it was the result of his overwhelming assault, but the suffocating darkness in the air had somewhat dissipated. Even the strongest orcs among the army could now stand without the aid of the priests' holy magic. Yet, in stark contrast, the towering mass of darkness ahead seemed even blacker, denser, and more immense than before.
Against that colossus of darkness, Asa, sprinting across the battlefield, looked no larger than an ant rushing toward an ancient behemoth.
At some unknown moment, the dark mass that had been steadily advancing toward Dehya Valley had come to a halt. It now remained motionless, as if waiting for something.
Grutt stopped in place, slowly bent his knees into a stable stance, and drew his bow.
Moments ago, he had loosed countless arrows, but this was the first time he had pulled back the Phantom Devine Bow with such deliberate precision, such solemnity. It was as if he had always known this moment would come. Anticipating his action, Lancelote had already led Master Granden back toward the coalition forces.
As Grutt moved, his bow gradually warped under the tension, and the ground around him began to sink.
It wasn't a minor shift in the earth—it was the entire terrain within a hundred-meter radius that started caving inward. A strange creaking and a series of subtle, explosive cracking sounds filled the air. It was as if the ground wasn't merely being pressed down, but the very space around him was collapsing inward.
Though many people in the coalition were too far away to see Grutt's exact movements, everyone could hear the eerie screeching. It was the sound of something reaching its absolute limit, on the verge of rupturing and exploding. And this sound was not merely carried through the air—it seemed to resonate from deep within each person's soul.
The bow was fully drawn, as round as a full moon, yet no arrow rested upon its string. The Phantom Devine Bow had never loosed mere arrows—it fired the archer's fight spirit, power, spirit, and very soul.
Now, the bow looked entirely different from before. The black of its frame was no longer visible, drowned in a swirling, dense array of ancient elven runes composed entirely of light. These runes did not merely cover the bow; they surged and danced around Grutt himself, causing his figure to flicker in and out of sight within the radiant flow.
Crackling sounds echoed—perhaps real, perhaps illusions birthed within the mind. Every person present could feel something fracturing, as though reality itself was beginning to shatter and warp before their eyes. The bowstring had not yet loosed its shot, yet the sheer force amassed had already swollen to the brink of rupture, distorting space and perception alike.
The runes that surfaced on the bow had grown to the size of a palm, their radiance now blinding. They no longer clung solely to the weapon but soared wildly through the air, flowing in strange, otherworldly trajectories across the almost-breaking expanse. Unlike the emerald glow of previous arrow shots, these runes burned with an intense, dazzling white, yet within them pulsed a faint, vast vitality—a green essence, the very color of Grutt's fight spirit.
Around this swirling radiance, the surrounding darkness recoiled as if it were steam vanishing under searing flames. Even the oppressive presence of the Dark Star began to shrink away—not merely seeming to retreat, but truly dispersing, truly dissolving.
Almost everyone was captivated, overwhelmed by the sheer presence of that drawn bow—except for Lancelote and Roland, who instead turned to look behind them.
Above the endless sea of undead, a small shadow was rapidly approaching from the direction they had come—more precisely, from Dehya Valley.
The figure soon drew near, revealing itself to be a massive, cyan-scaled dragon. This was no skeletal monstrosity like the undead dragons before—it was a true, colossal black dragon. In the suffocating aura of the Dark Star, it showed not the slightest discomfort; rather, the surrounding darkness flowed smoothly into its body, as naturally as water returning to the sea.
Upon the dragon's back stood several figures. At this moment, only one group could possibly be drawing near—the necromancers of Dehya Valley. At the head of them, seated atop the dragon's massive head, was Vadenina. This was the Dark Dragon she had summoned.
Yet despite riding atop a spell manifested at the level of a Forbidden Curse, the lich showed no hint of satisfaction. Though her skeletal face was expressionless, everything about her demeanor made it clear—something was very wrong.
The distant glow of Grutt's green-white runic radiance stretched across the battlefield, its light reaching her even from afar. Under its illumination, her dry, withered flesh shriveled further, like moss exposed to the searing sun, curling up and flaking away. Even the flames within her hollow eye sockets flickered and wavered, disturbed by some unseen force.
"Don't let him fire!" A hoarse, shrieking howl tore from the lich's throat.
At her command, the Dark Dragon beneath her opened its enormous maw. A sphere of green fire formed, then shot forth in a streaking, razor-thin arc, aimed straight at Grutt's back.
A normal fire breath wouldn't have reached far enough, and it likely wouldn't have even pierced through that radiant layer of runes. But this was different—this was all the dragon's fire condensed into a single point, an attack like a concentrated blast of infernal might. And this was the Hellfire Blast of the Dark Dragon. Even the legendary fire spells of the once-great pyromancer, Aisri, would be utterly insignificant before this fireball.
Yet, the streaking blaze barely made it halfway before it shattered. First, it split into two halves. Then those halves split again, and again, and again—fracturing endlessly until nothing remained but an impossibly fine mist of scattered embers.
"Roland! You bastard, how long do you plan on interfering?!" Vadenina shrieked, her voice twisted with rage. "Do you still think you're a match for me?!"
The fireball had been sliced apart by an intricate, densely woven net of sword energy. It was a net cast by none other than Captain Roland himself. Only his Void-Piercing Sword Aura could have shattered such an unstoppable force.
At the lich's furious cry, a green firebird erupted from her hand, shooting toward its target. The moment it left her grasp, it ravenously absorbed the surrounding darkness, swelling in size until it nearly matched the Dark Dragon itself. The scorching heat and the foul stench of decay surged outward, overwhelming even the oppressive gloom.
But this terrifying spell, despite its immense power, never made it far. A brilliant white sword of light soared skyward, cleaving the firebird's head clean off in a single stroke.
The firebird was merely the manifestation of the spell—it was never truly alive. But the moment it was beheaded by that single strike, its entire form collapsed instantly. That Holy Light Cross Slash had completely dismantled the very structure of the spell itself.
With the two strongest swordsmen covering him, Grutt finally loosed his arrow. The swirling runes in the air seemed to have amassed all the power they needed, converging upon his hand. Then, with a sound so immense it seemed to tear the world asunder, the arrow was unleashed.
All who were still alive, including the orcs, reacted the same way—they clutched their ears. Yet even so, they felt as though their bodies were being ripped apart by the overwhelming force of that sound.
The sky trembled. The earth quaked. It was as if time and space itself had shattered, collapsing into the cascading tide of his fight spirit-infused runes. The storm of runes twisted into a colossal green arc, a roaring torrent that crushed everything in its wake. Even the vast Sea of the Undead swayed under the impact of this one arrow.
With a deafening crash, the arrow struck the blackest heart of the darkness before Asa could reach it. The darkness cracked.
It had been a void so utterly black that nothing could be seen within it—like a realm before creation itself. But in the face of this brilliant emerald light, it was torn open.
Seizing the moment, Asa, who had already reached the very edge of the darkness, leaped forward and plunged through the breach.
Not only did the blackest void crack, but the entire blackened sky over the Sea of the Undead also split open, as if a massive black crystal dome had been shattered by a tremendous blow. Sunlight, unseen for so long, streamed down through the fissures.
The countless undead surging forward suddenly froze in place, like puppets whose strings had been severed. Many simply collapsed where they stood. That single arrow had not only torn through the darkness but had also disrupted the entire Sea of the Undead, bringing the swirling, cycling death energy to a standstill. It had all fractured at once.
But the rupture lasted only a moment. In the next instant, the blackest void and the dark sky above merged back together. Asa's figure was swallowed whole, vanishing into the abyss without a trace, without a sound. Yet, the darkness in the air had undeniably thinned. After all, this was death energy accumulated over millennia by the Black Star—no single person's power, no matter how great, could completely erase it in one stroke.
Grutt did not concern himself with what followed; he had already done what he set out to do. He turned to face the descending Dark Dragon. Against the sheer enormity of the summoned beast, his figure seemed minuscule. His hands were empty—the Phantom Devine Bow had vanished. That arrow had not only loosed its power, but the bow itself had dissolved into the countless runes that had been unleashed.
"You dare to strike the great King of the Undead..." Standing tall atop the dragon's head, Vadenina trembled as she looked down at Grutt. "Unforgivable. I will turn all of you into zombies."
"What took you so long? Do you know how long I've been waiting for you?" Grutt said calmly.
"You've been waiting for me?" The lich was momentarily stunned. Then, she suddenly realized—Grutt wasn't even looking at her. His gaze was fixed on something behind her.
She turned around.
In the distance, a black figure was emerging, tearing through the surrounding darkness. Though cloaked in black, it was nothing like the stagnant, lifeless gloom that enveloped the area. It was a darkness of power, vast and overwhelming—so immense that merely looking upon the figure sent a chill of terror through anyone who beheld it.