Sieg's sabre was already in motion.
A perfect, lethal arc—aimed straight for Nyxar's heart.
But at the very last moment—Nyxar moved.
A flicker. A distortion of space. He wasn't there anymore.
I see it with my own eyes, one second before it happened. Sieg had expected this.
He had already adjusted mid-swing.
Instead of a killing blow—his blade carved through Nyxar's arms.
One.
Two.
Three.
The severed limbs twisted unnaturally in the air before hitting the ground, writhing like dying insects. Thick, black ichor spilled from the wounds, steaming, reeking of something ancient and foul.
And Nyxar screamed.
Not just a sound.
Not just pain.
A cry that ripped through the cathedral, shaking the foundations, warping the air itself—a guttural, inhuman wail that felt like it came from every direction at once.
I gritted my teeth. The weight of it pressed against my skull, digging into my mind, whispering something just beneath the edge of hearing—but I didn't falter.
Because I saw it.
Nyxar was down.
"He's down!" Naestra's voice cut through the ringing in my ears. "Orlan stripped his immunity—go!"
I didn't move.
But I was already in the air.
I barely had time to process it—one second I was on the ground, the next, I was above Nyxar, sword raised, body moving on its own.
A teleport.
Naestra's doing.
Below me, Rikard was already there. He, too, had been transported—his greatsword gleaming, aimed for another of Nyxar's grasping limbs.
Nyxar looked up—too slow.
I brought my sword down.
The blade sliced through his arm like rotted cloth. Flesh split. Black ichor burst into the air, thick and steaming, drenching the ground beneath us in the blood of a god.
And in that moment—I felt it.
Everything.
Every choice. Every sacrifice. Every moment that had led me here.
I was no longer just a soldier.
No longer a nameless footman, thrown to the front lines, meant to die so that others could live.
I had been that man once. Weak. Disposable. Forgotten.
But now—
Now, I had cut the arm off a god.
A being worshiped across realms. A force of nature, untouchable, immortal.
And yet—I touched him.
I wounded him.
This—this was what it meant to be strong.
Not just to fight. Not just to survive.
But to stand above all others.
And I wanted more.
Nyxar twisted, his maw opening in another silent, wordless scream.
But I barely heard it.
Because this wasn't enough.
Not yet.
Rikard landed at the same time, his strike clean, calculated, brutal.
His greatsword cleaved through another arm.
And then, below us—
Naestra.
Her form flickered, twisting through the air like a shadow detached from the world itself.
Her dagger flashed.
A final cut.
The last arm fell.
Nyxar collapsed to his knees.
The last arm fell.
But then—
A sound.
Deep. Rumbling. A tremor that shook the very air itself.
A growl that wasn't a growl.
A vibration that sank into my chest, into my bones.
I had heard something like this before—a beast at the edge of destruction, pulling in breath for a final, annihilating attack.
Nyxar's maw opened.
And Sieg—Sieg moved.
But he hesitated.
A flicker—and I was gone.
I barely had time to register the shift—one second I stood near Nyxar's kneeling form, sword dripping with divine ichor, the next—I was in the corner of the cathedral, far away.
Rikard stood beside me, phantom blade raised, his stance solid.
And then—
The world exploded.
Nyxar unleashed.
A blinding, searing green beam erupted from his gaping maw—not just a blast, not just magic, but pure devastation.
It wasn't just heat.
It wasn't just force.
It was destruction itself.
The beam was wide—so wide it swallowed the entire cathedral in one sweeping motion. The walls, the altar, the pillars—everything disintegrated on contact.
The roof collapsed, stone and steel crashing down, statues crumbling into dust. The very ground beneath us fractured, split, twisted as the force of the blast tore through everything in its path.
I gritted my teeth, bracing for the impact, for the inevitable collapse.
But—
The debris never touched us.
The moment the first stone should have fallen—it stopped.
Mid-air.
I blinked.
The wreckage floated—jagged slabs of broken cathedral, massive statues, shattered pillars—all suspended harmlessly, frozen in place.
Not falling.
Not crushing us beneath its weight.
Just hovering.
And then, as the beam finally died down, I saw him.
Orlan.
And Sieg—Sieg was standing next to him.
Orlan's skeletal fingers were raised, his bony lips moving in silent incantation—words I did not understand, words that weren't meant for me.
But I knew.
I knew that the only reason we were still standing—
Was because of him.
Orlan kept chanting.
His voice—low, steady, unbroken. A language that didn't belong to men.
And then—
The sky cracked open.
Above, through the swirling dust and broken remnants of the cathedral—something formed.
A shape.
A massive, iron nail.
It materialized out of nothing, vast and unyielding, its surface inscribed with markings that burned with cold, blue fire.
Nyxar looked up.
And for the first time—
He didn't move.
Didn't dodge.
Didn't shift reality to escape.
He just watched.
Because there was nowhere to run.
The nail slammed down.
The air roared.
The force of it split the sky, shattered the very space it passed through.
And Nyxar—Nyxar could do nothing but face it head-on.
It struck his gaping maw, piercing through flesh, through bone, through the black abyss that lay beyond.
It didn't stop.
It drove through him.
The massive nail erupted from his back, pinning him straight into the shattered ground beneath.
A deep, hollow sound rang through the ruins—a death knell, long and final.
Nyxar twitched.
Once.
Twice.
Then stilled.
Sieg exhaled. Straightened.
And with a single, effortless motion—he sheathed his sword.
Above us, Orlan flicked his wrist.
The floating wreckage lurched sideways, falling harmlessly into the ruined earth.
A beat of silence.
Then—
A laugh.
Soft at first, then bright, full of breathless relief.
Naestra.
"He did it," she whispered. Then louder—"Skelly did it!"
I could hear the excitement in her voice. The sheer disbelief.
He killed Nyxar.