Inside Mt. Gelmir, the battle had long since reached white heat. The Nights Cavalry were indeed battle-hardened. After discovering that the great serpent grew stronger the more it ate, apart from the dozen or so Nights Cavalry fighting alongside Margit, the rest suppressed the line from the back. The abandoned ballistae were put to use. Giant crossbow bolts, comparable to spears, were fired one by one.
The Omen, relying on their powerful physical strength, acted as javelin throwers, adding dozens of bloody holes to Rykard's body. However, Rykard was not without the power to fight back. BOOM—
A mass of ancient incantations exploded on the roof. The erupting lava turned several soldiers into fire-men. The lava ball continued to fly forward, leaving a trail of scorching lava in its wake, until a giant sword composed of golden light blasted it apart in mid-air.
"Retreat further! Everyone, watch out and dodge!" Margit roared, bringing his palms together. A golden light axe, fully ten meters long, slashed at the great serpent's head, almost slamming its entire head into the ground.
Several Nights Cavalry seized the opportunity to swarm up, wielding spears and axes, hacking the great serpent until it was covered in bloody wounds. However, Rykard suddenly spun around, like a rolling giant earthworm, crushing the surrounding ground to pieces. He then reached out, grabbed a Nights Cavalryman who couldn't dodge in time, and shoved him directly into his mouth. This damned monster!
Margit's eye twitched. Another Nights Cavalryman dead. These weren't conscripts, replaceable fodder—they were the heart of his legion, and this monster was gobbling them down like scraps. Anger burned through him, scorching away restraint. While the beast chewed, he raised his cane and slammed it into the ground.
Golden Partition. A thin, razor-sharp curtain of light erupted from the earth, slicing through the great serpent's neck. Scales tougher than steel parted like paper. The wound gouged deep, exposing bone. The serpent roared, its cry shaking the heavens, and spat a torrent of dark green venom. The ground hissed and bubbled where it landed.
The Nights Cavalry, poised to strike the finishing blow, scrambled back. The serpent writhed, its grotesque form twisting to reveal a face both familiar and alien. Rykard's head was more monstrous than Throne had ever seen—hair and beard replaced by writhing, crimson buds of flesh.
Pain sharpened the greed in Rykard's eyes. He spotted Margit and bellowed, "You again!"
"Yes, it is I. You dare defile the golden order so brazenly? I'll kill you!"
Margit's twisted visage radiated grim resolve. No matter how others scorned the golden order, he clung to his faith, dispensing justice with a body cursed by fate.
Rykard laughed, a guttural, unhinged sound. "Hahahaha! Yes, that's exactly what I want! Your hatred proves I'm right!"
His massive arms rose, conjuring a molten sphere ten meters wide above his head.
"Retreat!"
Margit stepped forward, cane raised, and slammed it down with even greater force. The ground trembled. Wrath of Mt. Gelmir! Golden Shield! The serpent's head transformed into a volcano, spewing lava in every direction. The eruption was meant to incinerate miles of land, but a shimmering shield of light contracted inward, deflecting the molten tide.
Lava struck the shield, sending ripples across its surface. The shield's advance slowed, then halted. Two colossal forces locked in stalemate. Rykard sneered, lava still pouring from him.
"A mere clone dares come to Mt. Gelmir to die? Is your head broken?"
Margit lifted his head inch by inch, teeth clenched.
"Rykard, you've grown stronger since Leyndell's defense. Is this the power of devouring? A demigod, undone by greed—even daring to consume death?"
Rykard hesitated.
"I admit to devouring power, but death? When have I ever devoured death?"
His mind was a mess, caught somewhere between dreaming and waking. He wondered if he'd eaten something strange in his sleep. It didn't matter. If it vexed Margit, it pleased him.
"What is death? I'll devour everything in the Lands Between!"
Margit's voice cut like a blade.
"So it was you causing trouble behind the scenes!"
Margit's face twisted, his murderous intent cresting like a tidal wave. Years of searching—finally answered. That witch sought the northern Haligtree for a reason. A whole damn buffet served on silver platters.
"You dare lay hands on the Haligtree? Malenia? Miquella?"
Rykard's eyelids drooped slow as molten lead, hunger pooling in his gaze.
"Such exquisite morsels. I'll start with you—this avatar—then hunt them down."
"Impressive power." Margit's cane snapped upward. Lava surged toward him in thick, rolling waves. His arms rose, flesh warping into a colossal golden blade.
"Evil never conquers justice!"
"Justice?"
Rykard's laugh crackled like burning fat.
"You hypocrites reek of it."
His jaw unhinged. A hand plunged down his own throat, wrenching free a greatsword sheathed in weeping scar tissue. Flames erupted along its length—not just heat, but the screaming souls of the devoured.
No more talk.
Steel met steel at the heart of the chamber. CLANG—! Lava sprayed like blood, searing flesh and spirit alike. The ground beneath Margit cratered instantly, fracturing outward in a spiderweb of cracks. His knees buckled inch by inch, yet he held like a rusted nail refusing to yield.
"Kneel!"
Rykard threw his full weight forward, serpentine muscles coiling. The vengefire blade hovered a hair's breadth from Margit's brow. Two reasons to kill him: rage against the Golden Order's watchdog, and greed—what better centerpiece than the Fell Omen himself?
Margit's shins ground deeper into stone. He tilted his head back, tendons standing rigid along his throat, and roared at the smoldering sky.
"NO!"
Twelve lances charged through the inferno. Some riders ignited mid-gallop, toppling from their steeds with shrieks. Others vanished under the whip-crack of Rykard's tail. Not one faltered.
They crossed the locked blades—
—and drove their weapons deep into the serpent's flank. THUNK. THUNK-THUNK. Warhorses slammed home the momentum. Steel bit through scale, through muscle, through things that should never be pierced.
Hooves scrabbled on stone. Erickson and eight others leaned into their saddles, forcing the colossus back inch by screaming inch.
"Vermin!"
Rykard thrashed. Flesh-melted arms sprouted from his sides, swatting riders like flies. More came. Black armor. Black cloth. Greatswords and axes rose and fell in a frenzy, hacking at the flailing limbs. When steel couldn't breach scales, they used shoulders, weight, sheer fucking stubbornness.
The pressure above Margit eased. His knees, centimeters from the stone, straightened.
He bared his teeth at Rykard's flickering panic.
"See it now? This is justice."
"Lies! I'll never—"
Margit didn't wait. Demigods didn't duel. Evil didn't deserve honor. He rose fully, the golden blade in his hands drinking in the legion's resolve. Light flared—enough to sunder mountains, to part rivers.
The swing came.
Rykard's flaming sword spun away. Sacred radiance split the volcanic haze clean in two.
SHIIING—!
One cut.
All it took.
Rykard swung the Blasphemous Blade, but the force twisted its body. The strike sliced deep, wedging into bone. One more hit, and it's over. Margit's eyes lit up as he watched the giant serpent tilt, a jagged gash splitting the flesh beneath its head.
"Attack together! Don't let it escape!"
"My lord!"
Hundreds of Nights Cavalry soldiers roared in unison, weapons ready, their unique skills primed to strike. But then—the sky shattered into blinding gold. Time crawled for Margit. The golden greatsword had already swept past, and a forest of blades and spears lunged toward the monster.
The next strike would sever the serpent's head. Margit was certain. But behind him—a pulse of energy, thick and suffocating. He turned, catching a glimpse of a figure in the corner of his eye. A Gelmir Knight. No weapon in hand, just a jade-like staff. Not charging on horseback, but unleashing raw, terrifying magic.
This was it—the climax of the demigods' clash, the collision of ideals. The Nights Cavalry's collective will was cold, unyielding. But in that moment—
The oriole arrived. Throne stood atop the mountain peak, his pale blue cloak rippling with magic. He raised his wand, a smile playing on his lips. For Radahn, he could be honorable. For an enemy, respectful. But soft? Never. Naivety would cost him—Allen, Iji, Arnold, all of them. This was war. No room for weakness.
Magic threshold disengaged. Power gathered. Meteors formed.
Beyond the vengeful flames and golden radiance, azure erupted—a third force. Throne lifted his staff and aimed it across the river of lava, toward the chaos and the serpent. Legendary sorcery—Stars of Ruin.
Caught off guard. Arriving at the critical moment. Throne embodied it perfectly. The battlefield was a frenzy, and when they turned—fire and meteors rained down.
"Scatter!"
Margit's voice tore through the air.
Twelve azure meteors streaked toward him. No time to strike the serpent. Margit twisted, his massive golden blade sweeping upward. Explosions roared as he intercepted several meteors, shattering them midair. But the rest hit the ground.
Boom—rumble—
Throne's magic threshold disengaged, amplifying his power beyond even Lusat's reach. Mushroom clouds erupted, scattering shards of blades, fragments of armor, and chunks of flesh in every direction. Rykard roared in fury. Throne had aimed for it, but the Nights Cavalry paid the price.
Their armor couldn't withstand the scorching magical turbulence. Even the strongest Omen were shredded. Within ten meters—certain death. Beyond—injury or worse. The church's facade crumbled, stairs vanished, and the ground melted into the texture of lava.
A large chunk of flesh was missing from Rykard's body, and the left half of its torso had been blown away. White smoke billowed from its wounds, tentacle-like hands sloughing off like melted jelly. Around it—nothing but charred meat. No food. Rykard froze in shock. Margit seethed with rage.
The battlefield stank of blood and burnt flesh. Corpses sprawled in grotesque angles, wounded men screaming through shattered teeth—a quick tally showed nearly a hundred fallen. His Nights Cavalry, gutted in an instant. One-fifth gone here, another third butchered by Rykard. Margit's gauntlets creaked as his fingers curled into fists.
"No matter who you are—" His voice tore from his throat like a warhorn, raw enough to taste copper. Bloodshot eyes locked onto the knight standing motionless on the cliff. The killing intent radiating from him could have flayed skin from bone.
"I will kill you!!!"
The Nights Cavalry moved before he could. Steel clashed as they swarmed between him and the cliff.
"Your Highness, retreat's cut off! Lord Eamon's dead!"
Another rider galloped close, visor frosted with panic-breath.
"Caria's elite—a thousand vanished overnight. No trace."
Each report hit like a hammer to the ribs. Even Throne's Gelmir armor felt weightless now. Someone had dug this grave in silence, waiting for him to stumble in. They meant to bury the Nights Cavalry here, every last one.
The mastermind didn't matter. Caria's role didn't matter. Only the bleeding needed stopping. Without this army, how would he leash Leyndell's gilded jackals?
"Your Highness—Rykard flees!"
Margit whipped around. The serpent's bulk slithered backward into the church ruins, leaving strips of its own smoking flesh across the stones. Smart bastard, seizing the chaos to escape. His molars ground together. He could give chase now, run the coward down—
But dare he?
If the Nights Cavalry shattered here, who'd pick through the pieces after? He turned back to the cliff. Empty. The knight had vanished. Margit's face twisted through a dozen expressions in a heartbeat. Enemy or ally to Rykard? That sorcery reeked of the Hermit Village. The bloodstains—had they turned on each other?
Possible. The attacks had focused on Rykard. Could they unite to crush the blasphemer? Then why no parley? Why did his gut scream danger?
For the first time in his life, Morgott hesitated. In Leyndell he'd been a cornered beast, all teeth and nothing left to lose. Now the weight of every life here pressed on his spine. The rumors spreading through the capital—who planted those seeds?
The Fell Omen bared his broken horns at the battered faces of his men.
"Retreat."
The word clawed up his throat like broken glass.
"I'll cover the rear."
Silence. The cavalry knew only one version of their prince—the one who carved forward through corpses.
"Retreat!"
Spittle flecked his lips.
"Push further and we risk annihilation. Regroup. Hold what ground remains."
His voice stayed steady even as his face contorted, as if the order flayed him alive.
"You cannot die; otherwise, if the nobles unite to meet the Morgott, who will stop them?"
The truth hung in the air like smoke. None of them owned their lives anymore.
A beat. Then steel rasped as blades sheathed.
"Understood. Retreat!"
They moved like shadows, lifting the wounded without a word. Orderly. Silent. The way men walk when they know death watches.
Margit walked at the rear, eyes darting across the jagged terrain. No sign of the knight. Where was he? Throne perched high on the mountain slope, his grip on the sword shifting—loose, then tight. He hesitated to charge. The Nights Cavalry, though shaken by the sudden attack, hadn't broken. Their discipline held. Admirable. Regrettable.
If Morgott had been rash, pursued without thought, the entire force would've been annihilated. Yet here he stood, calm in the face of danger. A man who knew when to bend, when to strike. Worthy of respect. A true leader.
Throne watched as the Nights Cavalry retreated, their golden greatswords carving a path through the volcanic rock. Margit didn't take the obvious route back. Smart. He kept his focus sharp, scanning for traps, for ambushes.
Still, Throne waited. He saw the wounded dragged through the crack in the wall, the lightly injured peeling away from the fight, and finally Margit himself, stepping back with measured caution. That's when Throne struck. He leaped forward, staff raised, its tip blazing with violet light.
The lava river below bubbled violently, then surged upward as if slapped by an invisible hand—Scorching Lava Wave. In the past, Throne had thrown blades. Now, he wielded the mountain itself. Margit turned the moment Throne moved. An enemy. Of course. He'd made the right call.
Trapped inside the volcano, the outcome would've been catastrophic. Margit slammed his cane into the ground. A golden barrier erupted outward, colliding with the molten wave. The shield shuddered, threatening to collapse. Before the first wave subsided, a second rose.
Cracks spiderwebbed across the barrier as the lava roared in again. Some Nights Cavalry turned, ready to charge the caster, but Margit barked, "Go! Now!"
He knew better than anyone—inside a volcano, a sorcerer held all the advantage. Gravity Magic required only a pull, a push. Margit had to expend immense energy just to hold the line.
"Who are you?" Margit growled, veins bulging on his forehead. As the third wave surged, his body erupted in golden light. For a moment, he became a blazing sphere. The cracks in the barrier sealed, and with a roar, he shoved back.
The lava rolled away, cascading into the ruined town below. Flames erupted, devouring what remained of the buildings. Smoke billowed skyward. Margit hunched slightly, breathing hard.
Through the haze, his eyes locked with Throne's. The Gelmir Knight. Margit took a long, measured look, then began to retreat. The invincible Fell Omen, stepping back. He suppressed the urge to charge, to fight to the death. The enemy's strength was unknown. If he were caught, the already battered Nights Cavalry would suffer further losses.
One step. Two. Three. Then he turned and vanished through the crack he'd carved.
"Clear-headed. Putting the big picture first. Impressive."
Throne stood motionless, watching until Margit disappeared entirely. Only then did he exhale, a quiet acknowledgment of the man's resolve.
The Fell Omen was exhausted. If his enraged opponent dared to return now, he wouldn't stand a chance against a near-full-strength fighter. First, he'd kill this avatar. Then he'd settle things with Rykard. Once the Fell Omen died, "Morgott" couldn't hide anymore. Morgott would retaliate—furious, desperate—but that didn't matter now.
Ready to hunt down the Primeval Sorcerer? Or interrogate every Gelmir Knight? His gaze locked onto the church's gaping maw of darkness.
"I can't kill Morgott's avatar," he murmured. "But you will die."
He stepped back slowly, turning his back on the fissure. Margit wouldn't return. And Moongrum's Carian elite were already here.
The annihilation of the Night's Cavalry was an acceptable price for ripping off the veneer of civility. Lava churned. The scorching air clawed at his lungs. Throne stripped off his gear, piece by piece, letting it fall carelessly to the ground. He stepped over corpses and shattered blades as he donned the Dark Moon armor. Margit could retreat. Rykard wouldn't escape.
No more distractions. Time to meet his brother-in-law. The silver armor gleamed, cold and flawless—the self-repairing Dark Moon set restored to perfection. Throne cradled the helmet, its silver hair faintly glinting, as he mounted the final stone step. This had been a church once. Now the pews were dust.
On the ground lay a statue broken into several pieces, which might have been a serpent once. The pulpit was gone, replaced by a gaping hole. A dry, foul wind hissed from the darkness below. Throne circled the edge. Melina appeared beside him, silent.