The winter sunset hung low along the western horizon of Brillda, casting a final stroke of deep purple across Creti Memorial Square.
On the eastern side of Saint Astri Palace, the terrace stood with solemn majesty, resembling a colossal vessel poised to set sail.
Upon this terrace, fourteen hundred marble pillars bore the weight of a towering dome. At its center rested a throne carved from Wind Island stone, etched with the royal crest of Syros. Emperor Saint Bardo strode past the throne, draped in a magnificent crimson-purple velvet robe. A crown of pure reddish gold sat firmly upon his head, painted with a soft halo by the twilight.
Looking out from the terrace, one could clearly see the distant Creti Memorial Square and the War Gods standing beneath the Twelve Foundation Seats of Creti. Looking straight ahead, they stood ever ready to protect the empire and the emperor. There was Saron in dark cloth armor, Guyatt in deep emerald robes, Jasper in her formal dress and mechanical gauntlet, and Lugayed in spotless white healer's vestments. Each War God carried a distinct bearing, yet united, they formed the most impenetrable bulwark of the Creti Empire.
Stretching for miles along the streets outside Creti Memorial Square, gathered before giant broadcast screens throughout Brillda, assembled in the living rooms of families equipped with projection units in Botswana Province, and across the entire Creti Empire, hundreds of millions looked up toward Saint Astri Palace.
On this momentous and joyful National Day festival, every heart leaped with the thrill of the holiday and the celebration.
"My beloved people of Creti, at this solemn and sacred moment, we once more bear witness to the millennium-enduring majesty of the Creti Empire, and we feel anew the divine protection of the God of War and Swords."
Emperor Saint Bardo stood at the very front of the terrace, his voice mellow, deep, and resounding with power.
According to the official program, the Royal Cavalry Guard had conducted its review parade earlier that afternoon, marching past Saint Astri Palace in salute to the Emperor, followed by the War Gods' attendance and the completion of the blessing rite.
In the grand finale, the royal family would return to Saint Astri Palace by carriage or horseback, under the protection of the War Gods.
Now, at sunset, His Majesty the Emperor delivered his closing address to the populace from the open terrace of Saint Astri Palace. Accompanied by the aerobatics demonstration of the Royal Machinist Corps, the celebration reached its supreme crescendo.
"Looking back upon the past year, the Creti Empire has once again demonstrated its courage, wisdom, and resilience. Our producers have brought forth bountiful harvests through their diligent hands; our mana artisans have wrought countless wonders through supreme craft; our scholars have propelled technology and culture forward through profound learning; and our armed guards have defended the empire's lands and honor through fearless valor. It is because of you—the industrious, brave, and wise people of the Creti Empire—that we stand proud atop the pinnacle of the Southern Continent, and our descendants may live in peace and prosperity!"
Saint Bardo's voice swelled in volume, reverberating through the sky above the square.
The citizens erupted into applause, waves of cheering crashing without end.
"Yet, my people, we must never rest upon past glories! The future belongs forever to the brave, the wise, and the trailblazers. In the coming year, under the guidance of the gods, let us forge a brighter, more glorious future for the Creti Empire! Let us strive unceasingly for peace, justice, and freedom, and let the banner of the Creti Empire fly high over the Southern Continent for ten thousand ages to come!"
Saint Bardo raised his right fist, his cadence soaring higher and higher.
At this moment, he seemed no longer merely the ruler of a nation, but the very embodiment of the dreams and hopes of every citizen of Creti.
"Long live the Creti Empire!"
The roar of the crowds outside the square surged like an overwhelming tidal wave. Confetti and glittering gold foil drifted over the streets like a radiant curtain of rain.
"Finally, let us pray together in the names of the God of War and Swords and the Twelve Heroic Spirits of the realm's founding: May the Creti Empire prosper eternally! May our glory never fade! Long live the Creti Empire!"
With that, Emperor Saint Bardo drew the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword. The sword's divine luminescence seemed to illuminate the falling dusk, causing the silhouettes of the founding spirits to manifest behind Saint Bardo like a flowing river of light.
Those ethereal apparitions, reminiscent of divine murals from the age of gods, stood beside him like guardian deities, imparting an aura of divinity to Saint Bardo's figure.
Some of the residents nearest the front could not help but fall to their knees in prayer, thanking the gods for blessing Creti with prosperity.
At the same time, the aerobatic display of the Royal Machinist Corps swept across the sky above the square, trailing vibrant ribbons of colorful smoke. Weaving into the shape of the Creti Empire's national emblem, they painted the heavens with dazzling radiance. Music swelled across the square, merging with the roars of the populace into a magnificent symphony.
Just as the celebration reached its height, dazzling fireworks shot into the clouds, bursting into brilliant blossoms against the night sky.
The fireworks were reflected in the eyes of the people, mirroring their joyful smiles and high hopes.
Yet amidst this jubilant ecstasy, no one noticed the subtle anomaly unfolding upon Creti Memorial Square.
Though the War Gods stood at attention, an imperceptible flicker of pain and confusion crossed several of their faces.
Beneath the stele of the Third Foundation, the Sardonyx Seat:
*It feels like I was trapped in an endless dream...*
Guyatt had just weathered a dizzying vertigo, barely regaining his senses. He gritted his teeth and clenched his right fist so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Cold sweat beaded on his pale forehead and dripped down onto the flagstones of the memorial square.
If his dream had been real, then he had likely been brought under the sway of an immensely powerful Tier 9 vampire of the Blood Clan, his will altered so that he would obey the entity's bidding at a crucial juncture.
Not far from him, before the Fourth Foundation, the Jasper Seat:
Jasper felt a stabbing agony radiating from her prosthetic eye, as though countless needles were piercing it.
She instinctively moved to cover it, but checked herself. This was one of the grandest ceremonies of the Creti Empire; as a War God guarding the Emperor, she bore an essential duty and could not allow herself to lose composure.
Holding her breath, she fought to maintain her unyielding posture.
A similar affliction gripped the Fifth War God, Lugayed of the Mica Seat, whose complexion was noticeably paler than usual.
As a pinnacle Tier 8 doctor, he was better equipped than the others to regulate his bodily state.
He felt the medical case on his back grow extraordinarily heavy, as if filled with lead, weighing him down until he could scarcely breathe.
Surveying the square, Lugayed noticed he was not alone in his distress. Conzel, the Eighth War God of the Chrysoprase Seat, and Ryan, the Ninth War God of the Amethyst Seat, also looked visibly unwell.
On the square at this moment, only ten of the Twelve War Gods remained.
After the blessing of the God of War and Swords concluded, Violet, the Sixth War God of the Aquamarine Seat, had departed recklessly toward the sky without regard for protocol, baffling everyone present and leaving Emperor Saint Bardo in profound embarrassment.
Fortunately, Hyacinthus had smoothed things over.
Worried about Violet, Hyacinthus had offered his apologies to Emperor Saint Bardo and set off in pursuit.
Thus, two War Gods were absent tonight, leaving only the remaining ten to carry out their duty of guarding the Emperor and ensuring the National Day ceremony concluded smoothly.
Though the Third, Fourth, Fifth, Eighth, and Ninth were in poor shape, Saron the Second War God of the Obsidian Seat, Philip the Seventh War God of the Blood Chalcedony Seat, Julius the Tenth War God of the Rubellite Seat, Simonro the Eleventh War God of the Emerald Seat, and Bianca the Twelfth War God of the Cat's Eye Seat were all in fine condition.
They had keenly detected their comrades' strained expressions.
Bianca, the feline scout, exchanged a worried glance with Saron, currently the strongest War God present on the square.
"..."
Saron maintained his nonchalant demeanor, arms crossed over his sword, but his eyes were open, ready to meet any contingency with martial force.
Julius, the Tenth War God, scanned his gaze over Guyatt, Jasper, and Lugayed.
He was prepared for battle even more overtly than Saron.
At a time like this, none of them could act rashly.
As the strongest guardians of the Creti Empire, they bore the responsibility of upholding the War Gods' unshakeable prestige on such a momentous day. They could not afford any more breaches of etiquette like those made by Violet and Hyacinthus.
The slightest sign of abnormality could ignite widespread panic and suspicion among the populace, dealing a devastating blow to the credibility of the Hall of Divine Descent.
Moreover, none of them could pinpoint the source of this unsettling disturbance.
All they could do for now was swallow their misgivings, maintain a flawless posture, listen to the Emperor's address, and see the final rite to its end.
Emperor Saint Bardo's resonant voice continued to reverberate through the streets of Brillda.
As twilight gave way to night, countless brilliant lamps illuminated Creti Memorial Square as bright as day.
"I thank you all."
Upon the terrace of Saint Astri Palace, Emperor Saint Bardo stood tall, his eyes brimming with warmth and gratification, a smile like a gentle spring breeze gracing his face.
"The Creti Empire, this ancient civilization, strides gracefully into a new era carried by its boundless glory and mystery."
Emperor Saint Bardo slowly raised his right hand in a final farewell.
"In the names of the God of War and Swords and the Twelve Founding Spirits, my blessings be upon you, people of Creti."
"Together toward the future!"
The voices of countless citizens merged into a single resounding oath, echoing across time into the distance, reverberating under Brillda's night sky, over the rolling waters of the Grande River, and deep within the heart of every Creti citizen.
The night sky hung over Brillda like a cavernous, icy abyss.
In the distance, a blood-red moon slowly climbed into the sky, gazing down upon Creti Memorial Square like a colossal, baleful red eye.
Its rays filtered through the thin haze of clouds, bathing the entire square in a faint crimson sheen.
Immersed in passionate celebration, the citizens noticed nothing amiss.
"The moonlight is so beautiful."
"I saw a red moon tonight."
Pure joy shone on their faces as they conversed with their loved ones.
"Long live the Creti Empire! Long live Emperor Saint Bardo!"
Tens of thousands continued to shout in unison, their voices thundering through the night as they bid farewell to Emperor Saint Bardo across the square.
Right at that moment, an abrupt surge of magical fluctuations shattered the harmony.
"Aaaargh!"
Guyatt, the Third War God, suddenly let out a strangled roar.
He clutched his head tightly with both hands, his face contorting in agony, a terrifying red light flaring in his eyes.
Crimson mental energy erupted from his body like a leaping viper, stretching toward the distant night sky. His entire form became shrouded in abyssal shadow, his mana running completely amok.
Immediately afterward, Jasper the Fourth War God, Lugayed the Fifth War God, Conzel the Eighth War God, and Ryan the Ninth War God underwent the exact same transformation.
They screamed in torment, thrashing about as if locked in a struggle against an evil spirit inside their minds.
Yet this time, they could no longer pull off the fleeting miracle of regaining their senses.
Their eyes turned completely blood-red, leaving behind only sheer savagery.
Mana and auras verging on the divine realm burst uncontrollably from their bodies. The protective barrier over Creti Memorial Square shuddered violently. Stone pavers along the distant streets fractured. Citizens standing too close collapsed with blood pouring from their eyes, noses, and throats before their smiles could even turn to terror.
The next instant, the five berserk War Gods lunged toward the Saint Astri Palace terrace towering above the western edge of the square at speeds invisible to the naked eye!
The ground beneath their feet shattered instantly as they moved, protective wards bursting one after another, every strike delivered with full killing intent.
Their hollow, crimson gazes locked straight onto Saint Bardo, flashing with madness and murderous desire.
"Kill—!"
They bellowed in inhuman, chaotic voices that echoed over the square.
The crimson energy around the War Gods linked to them like puppeteer's strings, turning them into the most vicious marionettes of slaughter.
At that precise second...
Saron, the Second War God who had stood on guard all along, finally gripped his hilt. With a heavy metallic rasp, his blade cleared its scabbard in a sweeping slash, bisecting Creti Memorial Square horizontally.
Even the reinforced barrier could not halt the earth from cleaving under his blow.
And from the cleanly severed fault line, the erupting sword aura kicked up a colossal updraft, blasting back all five War Gods lunging at Emperor Saint Bardo.
"Thank goodness, Saron! Good thing we have you, meow!"
Bianca, the Twelfth War God, cried out in relief. When the sudden turn occurred, she had reacted in time, but lacked the raw force to intervene.
Only Saron possessed sufficient strength to hold back the other War Gods.
In that split second, the remaining lucid War Gods—Philip the Seventh, Julius the Tenth, and Simonro the Eleventh—exchanged glances and charged forward to intercept their abruptly maddened comrades.
The square plunged instantly into pandemonium like a living hell.
Laughter ceased abruptly, replaced by a crescendo of screams.
The crowd surged backward like a broken dam, shoving, trampling, and scrambling desperately to escape the nightmarish scene.
Countless citizens fell to the ground, crushed beneath the stampede as piercing shrieks tore through the air.
Cries, sobs, and pleas for help wove into a deafening din that carried for miles through the streets outside the square.
"The War Gods are fighting each other? The world is ending!"
"The War Gods have gone mad! Run!"
"Run for your lives! If we don't leave now, it'll be too late!"
Panic spread like a wildfire, sweeping everyone into its frantic torrent.
In the chaotic crush, countless people were tripped and injured. Mothers screamed desperately for lost children; children searched in vain for aging parents. Helpless hands reached out to grab onto nearby figures, only to watch loved ones and friends drift away and disappear into the sea of bodies.
Celebratory banners were cast aside; joyful masks were discarded, baring primal terror. The populace scattered like headless flies, desiring only to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the battlefield upon the memorial square.
Back on Creti Memorial Square:
The five berserk War Gods had nearly broken through the barrier defenses, closing in on the terrace. Having transcended mortal bounds, stripped of reason, they had become avatars of pure destruction.
Meanwhile, within the square, the five lucid War Gods swiftly moved to shield Emperor Saint Bardo, with Simonro reinforcing the barrier.
"Holy Healing Tempest of the Wind God Horvath!"
Simonro shouted, striking the ground heavily with his emerald staff. The square's barrier resonated with his call, isolating the turbulent mana from the innocent citizens while radiating gentle healing toward the suffering people in the distance.
"What on earth happened to you? Wake up!" Bianca yelled anxiously at her comrades.
This was no mere dereliction of duty—this was regicide!
Even if they regained their senses later, they would face trial, and escaping without paying a steep price would be all but impossible.
"It's useless. Hold them off first," the usually reckless Julius said with uncharacteristic coldness, grabbing Bianca to pull her out of the path of a merciless strike from Ryan.
"I never thought the day would come when I'd fight you lot."
Philip, the Seventh War God of the Blood Chalcedony Seat, showed no hesitation, entering his peak combat state before anyone else.
Facing fellow War Gods in battle actually stoked a flicker of excitement within him.
His eyes fixed on Lugayed; Philip only ever relished challenging those stronger than himself.
"A five-on-five isn't guaranteed to go our way," Simonro warned anxiously as he finished reinforcing the barrier and continued to bolster it.
"Leave Guyatt and Jasper to me. You three just hold Conzel and Ryan," Saron declared, drawing his blade completely and walking toward Guyatt and Jasper.
"Understood."
Bianca said no more, locking her eyes onto Conzel and Ryan as they broke through the sword aura barrier, keeping Simonro covered behind her.
Though the lucid War Gods, aside from Saron, were collectively weaker, Saron's sheer, disproportionate strength was indeed enough to hold Guyatt and Jasper at bay.
The two factions clashed in a fight to the death on Creti Memorial Square, practically mirroring the civil war among the War Gods on Bloody Purge Day twenty years prior!
Structures surrounding the square collapsed like buildings caught in a tidal surge. The clashes between the War Gods came faster than thunderclaps, shaking the whole of Brillda.
The earth trembled. Wide fissures tore through the stone-paved streets, causing them to cave in step by step as if swallowed whole. Under the impact of ten War Gods clashing, the elaborate sculptures and stained-glass windows of ancient Syrosian architecture shattered instantly, fragments scattering in the gale.
The violent torrents of mana from their battle battered the barrier around the memorial square, threatening to rupture it at any moment. The night sky blazed brighter than twilight, and the sheer disturbance altered the local weather: dark clouds drifted in to blot out the stars, and violet lightning flashed amidst rolling thunder in the dim expanse.
*Just what is going on...*
Behind the terrace barrier, Emperor Saint Bardo knitted his brows, gripping the hilt of the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword. Maintaining a veneer of composure, he directed the Imperial Guard to bombard the War Gods using city defense installations.
Wielding the sacred blade, he was no weakling—even a Tier 7 Imperial Guard captain would struggle to harm him. Yet if he fled now and put distance between himself and the lucid War Gods, he might plunge into greater peril and tarnish the valiant image he needed to project before his subjects.
The outskirts of Creti Memorial Square had transformed into a living hell, littered with corpses, awash with blood, and ringing with wails of agony. Saint Bardo suppressed the growing annoyance in his eyes.
He was already profoundly dissatisfied with the War Gods' conduct today.
First was Violet, the arrogant High Priestess of the Moon Goddess. Had it not been for her unique status within the Elsaya Sanctuary, he would have taken her as an imperial concubine long ago, eager to tame that untamed she-wolf.
Then came Hyacinthus, unreliable as ever, who had laughed things off and slipped away early.
Now, among the ten who remained, half had ceased following orders.
Worst of all, and utterly intolerable to Saint Bardo, these War Gods had turned their blades directly upon him!
Amidst the chaos, on the square cordoned off by the Saint Astri Palace barrier, Saron took the lead. His dark blade traced sharp arcs of luminescence, simultaneously carving through Guyatt's illusion seals and the encirclement of Jasper's mechanical legion.
The edge of the Obsidian Seat carried sharp, indomitable sword intent. Wherever his sword aura passed, even spells were torn asunder.
He was the only one among the top six War Gods who had not bound an Original Slate. In his view, he had no need for an Original Slate to grow stronger; altering his combat style for the sake of a slate would only become a shackle.
Saron moved like a wraith between Guyatt and Jasper, leaving a blur of sword shadows. At times he simply checked his hilt without completing the strike, driving the berserk pair backward step by step.
Yet even so, the two mad War Gods showed no sign of faltering, intent on slaughtering their way toward Emperor Saint Bardo with utter disregard for their own injuries.
"If you two don't come to your senses soon, I might stop holding back," Saron said as he fought, but his calls seemed entirely incapable of reaching their minds.
"Regicide—!"
Guyatt and Jasper merely roared, their eyes burning with bestial bloodlust.
"..."
Saron fell silent. His eyes, calm as a tranquil lake, had already pierced through their internal mana pathways to identify their weaknesses.
Just as his blade was about to be unleashed in full, he shifted his stance, reversing his grip on the hilt. He refrained from using lethal swordsmanship against his own comrades.
On the other side of the square, flames tore through the mist.
Philip barred Lugayed's path, his hands engulfed in blood-colored molten energy as he clashed against Lugayed's golden medicine chest.
Between them, one could see only the smoke of medicinal vapors, silhouettes dancing in fire, and ceaseless eruptions of sanguine magma.
"Lugayed, for a physician, your physique is absurdly tough," Philip muttered in astonished excitement.
Aside from duty, he was thoroughly enjoying the fight.
Ever since Lugayed of the Mica Seat had jabbed a syringe into his own arm, he had been able to trade blows head-on with a dedicated martial artist like Philip.
And since Lugayed could heal himself continuously, he held the upper hand in a protracted struggle.
Yet Philip did not care in the slightest. Being able to fight unreservedly was more than enough; only battles like this offered the chance to grow stronger.
He wasn't sure when it had begun—perhaps ever since that unforgettable clash against High Priest Loren. From that day forth, he had harbored an obsession with fighting the truly powerful.
If the High Priest had not been sealed away, Philip would have freely acknowledged him as the opponent he most wished to duel one-on-one.
Even knowing he would lose, Philip yearned to experience once more that power that grew greater the longer Loren fought, and that unyielding conviction that persisted until death.
Philip glanced toward the far end of Creti Memorial Square.
Undoubtedly, the messiest fight was the brawl among the other five War Gods.
Julius, Simonro, and Bianca were teaming up against Conzel and Ryan.
Even three against two, the battle was deadlocked.
Julius had already deployed crimson heavy ordnance, unleashing an endless barrage of artillery from his armored frame against Conzel and Ryan.
Conzel stood like an unyielding fortress, pushing forward through Julius's firepower. Ryan mounted rapid ambushes aimed straight at Julius, and it was only through the support of Bianca and Simonro that Julius managed to repel him.
Julius, Simonro, and Bianca constantly shifted formations and rotated their attacks, trying to find openings in Conzel and Ryan's defenses.
Yet Conzel and Ryan seemed largely unfazed, pressing toward Saint Astri Palace with inhuman speed and strength.
"Damn it, why aren't Hyacinthus and Violet here right now?!" Bianca shouted in frustration as she fought.
If Hyacinthus were present, these berserk fighters would have been subdued in no time.
Or if Violet were here, with her mastery over Sanctuary divine arts, she might have dispelled the War Gods' erratic state.
Simonro's purification spells alone were completely ineffective against them.
Then again, it made sense: against a sinister mental art capable of dominating high-ranking War Gods, it would have been miraculous if Simonro, who ranked near the bottom, could dispel it.
"Conzel, Ryan, wake up!"
Simonro brought the base of his emerald staff down hard on the ground, erecting a shield of holy light that barely withstood Conzel's mountain-heavy charge.
If this continued, catastrophe would strike today, reenacting the tragedy of Bloody Purge Day.
The moment the barrier gave way, the situation would spiral out of control.
Although Brillda was the empire's greatest city-state, tens of times larger than any border town, a no-holds-barred deathmatch among ten War Gods could easily level an entire city-state; it was only a matter of time!
"Kill! Behead Emperor Saint Bardo!"
The maddened War Gods clashed violently with their rational counterparts, the air thick with the stench of blood and gunpowder.
Far behind this chaos, Emperor Saint Bardo stood behind the terrace's defensive barrier, clutching the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword.
His expression was dark, fury flaring in his eyes as he heard their shouts.
Though he maintained the outward majesty and composure befitting a monarch, a tempest raged within him.
"Guyatt, Jasper, Lugayed, Conzel, Ryan! As my War Gods, you dare turn mad and commit regicide on a day such as this? Is this treason?!"
Saint Bardo's voice was dark, frigid, and laden with wrath and imperial authority.
"I placed immense trust in you, regarding you as my confidants and right arms! But now, have you considered what disaster your actions will bring upon the empire? What wounds you will inflict upon the hearts of our people?"
Saint Bardo slowly raised the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword, leveling the tip at the berserk War Gods.
The sacred radiance upon the blade shone like divine judgment, illuminating his stern features.
As if responding to its master's will, the legendary blade hummed with a low vibration.
"If you insist on walking this path of no return, then in the name of the empire and its people, We shall administer justice personally!"
Saint Bardo's words cracked like thunder through the night.
He stared directly into their blood-red eyes, seeking to shatter their madness through sheer force of will.
The light upon the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword grew blinding. A pillar of brilliance descended from the heavens, and divine judgment lightning briefly repelled Conzel and Ryan, paralyzing them momentarily. Yet against Guyatt and Jasper, the strike had virtually no effect.
Faced with Saint Bardo's interrogation and pressure, the maddened War Gods remained entirely unresponsive.
They merely roared, reckless in their desperation to break past their comrades' blockade, kill Emperor Saint Bardo, and achieve tonight's objective.
Amidst this fray that verged on complete collapse, a crimson starlight suddenly flared across the night sky west of Brillda.
It was a red comet, trailing a long, bloody tail as it carved a rift through the cloud layer.
The energy it radiated was so immense that even the War Gods locked in fierce combat far below felt it distinctly.
"!"
The lucid War Gods blanched.
They realized an even more dreadful entity had arrived.
An unprecedented sense of crisis gripped their hearts.
None felt it more acutely than the strongest War Gods present.
Judging from the fluctuations of this mana, the source of their comrades' madness was unmistakably this mysterious, overwhelming presence!
The terrifying mental pressure and Tier 9 mana, carrying power akin to the divine realm, made the fleeing citizens below feel as though their very souls were collapsing, turning them into marionettes with severed strings.
With the red moonlight at its back, ruin, calamity, and despair unfolded—just as inscribed in ancient grimoires.
"Tier 9?"
Bianca's eyes widened, her vertical pupils fixed on that direction.
The strength of that crimson silhouette completely surpassed her comprehension; the only possibility she could conceive was the Tier 9 realm.
Even Saron tightened his grip on his sword in earnest.
Before they could fully react, the red comet plummeted straight toward Emperor Saint Bardo on the palace terrace. Its speed was staggering, slamming onto the terrace in the blink of an eye.
"Stand down, foul spirit!" Saron commanded.
Recognizing the severity of the threat, he moved to intercept this extraordinary foe at Saint Astri Palace.
Yet Guyatt and Jasper before him threw themselves at him as if summoned by the comet, disregarding their lives to block his path.
At the same time, a crushing mental weight descended upon the lucid War Gods, drastically slowing their movements!
The maddened War Gods, however, were unaffected.
Instead of breaching the line, they pivoted to pinning down their peers, sacrificing everything to prevent them from protecting their emperor.
"Damn it, what on earth is that thing?!" Simonro cursed through gritted teeth, straining to hold back Conzel's assault with his gale.
Upon the terrace, Emperor Saint Bardo felt the terrifying pressure as well.
Gripping the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword, his brown hair streaked with gray whipping in the wind, he stared resolutely at the crimson figure.
The red comet halted before the terrace balustrade. The glow dissipated, revealing its true form.
It was a youth who appeared only twelve or thirteen years old.
He possessed an exquisite, beautiful countenance like an angel descended from the heavens, his short hair fluttering in the night breeze, bright as moonlight.
Yet most arresting of all were his eyes.
They were a pair of blood-red orbs that seemed to hold endless ages, having borne witness to countless cycles of life and death.
Rasheal drifted down onto the terrace, as if savoring an entertaining play.
When his gaze settled upon Saint Bardo, a faint smile curved his lips.
"Your Imperial Majesty, Emperor of the Creti Empire," Rasheal said, his voice crisp yet chilling to the bone. "Please, be on your way."
His words fell like an incantation, instantly blanketing the whole of Creti Memorial Square. The movements of the lucid War Gods were suppressed once more, grinding to a crawl.
Never had they encountered an enemy who could effortlessly suppress and disrupt them all with sheer mental force!
Saint Bardo felt an unprecedented weight bearing down upon him, as though the entire world had settled onto his shoulders.
Radiance flared repeatedly from the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword, contesting Rasheal's vampiric power.
He held the blade firmly.
Had it not been for the sacred sword's protection, he would have collapsed to his knees already.
"This sword isn't bad at all." Rasheal glanced at the blade in the Emperor's hand, his raised hand pausing as he eyed it with keen interest.
"A creature like you could never shake the centuries-deep heritage of my Creti Empire!" Emperor Saint Bardo barked harshly, a surge of relief rising within him as he saw the adversary hesitate before his blade.
"..."
Rasheal's hesitant expression shifted into a smile, then twisted into a vicious sneer. He abruptly amplified his mental mana suppression.
The very next instant...
Saint Bardo fell to his knees against his will, his left hand trembling as it clutched his throat, engulfed in suffocation.
Even with the sacred sword's protection, he could no longer resist mana of this magnitude.
"I merely said the sword is impressive. You, however, are nothing more than a mortal. Did you truly believe holding a sacred blade would let you defy me?" Rasheal asked playfully, looking down at him.
"No..."
Saint Bardo's eyes bulged, his face contorting in agony.
"Save... someone save me..."
His eyes darted toward the War Gods fighting on the square below.
He felt his consciousness dimming, his mental faculties rapidly draining away.
Rasheal simply stood there with a smile, relishing Saint Bardo's wretched state.
A shroud of dark crimson energy swirled around him as though alive, shifting between blades and claws, threatening any living being that dared draw near.
Saint Bardo gritted his teeth, enduring the searing pain as he tried to use the sword to stand.
The Syros Heroic Spirit Sword flared with light once more, as if answering his will and granting him strength.
"I am... the Emperor of the Creti Empire..."
Saint Bardo raised the blade, its holy radiance flooding the entire terrace.
The War Gods were beyond reach.
At this moment, he could rely only on himself. This sacred blade possessed a potent special efficacy against evil entities threatening the imperial bloodline; the more foul the fiend, the closer the sword could be pushed to its ultimate limits!
The light blazed so brightly that it chased away the darkness like dawn, illuminating Saint Bardo's face and the fighting spirit in his eyes.
Outside the square, the citizens witnessing this sight felt immensely heartened.
They saw their emperor standing tall against such a formidable foe—even with his War Gods ensnared—refusing to yield, even calling upon a multitude of heroic spirits to grant him power and swordsmanship.
"Long live Emperor Saint Bardo! Vanquish this foe!"
Invigorating shouts erupted from the crowd, cheering for their emperor and praying for their realm.
At that moment, all hearts beat as one.
Saint Bardo's courage made them believe that with such an emperor, the tragedy of Bloody Purge Day would never repeat.
And yet...
In the next instant, it all turned to ash.
Watching Saint Bardo's defiance, the sneer at the corner of Rasheal's eyes grew only more disdainful.
With a contemptuous wave of his hand, a blood-red claw struck Saint Bardo with full force.
*Splat.*
The Syros Heroic Spirit Sword clattered to the ground, its holy light instantly extinguished.
Saint Bardo's eyes widened in horror. His right arm was pulverized into a red mist beneath that terrifying power, the flesh torn away in an instant as blood erupted like a fountain.
"Aaaargh!"
Saint Bardo let out a bloodcurdling scream and collapsed to the floor.
The Syros Heroic Spirit Sword lay beside him. Instinctively, he reached to grasp it, only to find his dominant arm gone.
Clutching his stump, blood pooled beneath him.
The Emperor's face was ashen, his forehead drenched in sweat, his eyes losing their luster to pain and terror.
All of this unfolded in the span of a single breath.
The fleeing citizens outside the square fell deathly silent.
Everyone stared in disbelief, as though witnessing the end of the world.
Their emperor had been defeated so easily, cast down in such misery?
That seemingly omnipotent sovereign proved utterly frail and defenseless before a true terror.
Upon the terrace, stripped of his blade, Saint Bardo seemed to age ten years in an instant.
He was no longer the brilliant, martial sovereign, but a terrified mortal.
He clutched his severed arm, his eyes drowning in cowardice and dread.
Sobs and screams broke out across Brillda as terror flooded the city-state like a deluge.
The citizens realized that if no one could halt this Tier 9 fiend and he slaughtered their emperor with impunity, the Creti Empire was finished.
If even the emperor could be killed so casually, who was safe?
Piercing wails pierced the night, and people on the streets fled in utter frenzy.
They shoved and trampled one another, desperate to escape this nightmare, desperate to flee Brillda altogether.
The instinct to survive overrode everything; fear swallowed all reason.
On the Saint Astri Palace terrace, Rasheal glanced toward the beleaguered War Gods on the square. Even those five who were lucid and enraged could not reach him.
Rasheal turned his gaze back to Saint Bardo, kneeling on the ground.
He approached slowly, each step sending tremors through Saint Bardo's heart.
"Look at you now, Emperor of Creti."
Rasheal leaned down, his crimson eyes boring into Saint Bardo.
He extended a pale, slender hand, lightly pointing toward the reflection of Saint Bardo's face in the pool of blood on the floor.
That finger was as cold as death, compelling Saint Bardo to look where Rasheal indicated.
He finally saw his own pathetic, disgraceful state.
"What... what do you want...?"
Saint Bardo's voice shook. Enduring the agony and humiliation, he tried to reason with Rasheal.
Yet those blood-red eyes carried an uncanny power, making him feel as though his will was crumbling and his soul sinking into an abyss.
Rasheal casually strolled over, glanced at the sacred sword stuck in the ground, and attempted to draw it.
However, the moment his hand touched the hilt, his skin scorched as if touching ten thousand degrees of heat. Rasheal released it at once, tossing the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword aside.
"Tsk. Seems I truly cannot wield it."
Rasheal chuckled softly, wasting no more effort on the unmastered blade.
"You asked what I want?"
Rasheal turned back, looking down at Saint Bardo.
"What I want is the downfall of the Creti Empire. I want the Blood Moon Calamity to be reenacted across its lands."
Rasheal opened his arms, dark crimson energy swirling around him once more.
"And you, Saint Bardo, will be the first step of my voyage. Your death will serve as my proclamation to the Creti Empire."
Rasheal's voice became a death knell tolling in Saint Bardo's mind.
"People of the Creti Empire!"
In the next moment, Rasheal's voice resonated across the night sky, transmitted clearly into the ears of every resident in Brillda through mental magic.
"From this day forth, this world belongs to the Blood Clan! Your Emperor Saint Bardo shall be the first pig to be beheaded and displayed for all to see!"
As the words fell, crimson mana erupted from his person, blanketing Brillda and surging across the entire Creti Empire.
It was a wave of pure darkness, swallowing all light, transforming the heavens and the earth, cloaking the entire city in an eerie red.
Rasheal's voice boomed, forcing Brillda's citizens to clutch their heads in trembling agony, trying in vain to shut out his psychic presence.
Even the War Gods had fallen under his sway, and the Emperor was about to be slain. Who could stand against a Blood Clan Progenitor in the divine realm?
The fall of the Creti Empire was merely the beginning.
More nations and more living souls would become feast and fodder in this carnival initiated by the Blood Clan.
And the invincible Tier 9 Progenitor would reign as master of this feast—the new god of this world.
"Now then, Saint Bardo."
Rasheal stood before Emperor Saint Bardo, hoisting him aloft to display him to the masses. He intended to etch terror deep into the souls of the empire's people by executing him in the most humiliating fashion imaginable.
He prepared to subject this former ruler to slow, agonizing torment.
Below, the lucid War Gods roared in despair over their inability to protect their emperor. Grief, rage, and helplessness tangled within them, yet they could not bypass the suicidal assaults of their berserk peers and Rasheal's psychic pressure to attack the Progenitor.
At this knife-edge moment, where time itself seemed to slow for all present...
A piercing sword light of the divine age slashed across the horizon from miles away.
In an instant, it severed the entire palace terrace.
That silver radiance was so mighty and sharp it seemed capable of cleaving heaven and earth, severing all malice.
Rasheal's arm was lopped off by this sudden strike, flying into the distance before his astonished eyes.
Blood erupted from the stump, drawing an eerie red arc through the night.
Rasheal let out an enraged, startled roar. Blood surged like silk threads, linking to the severed limb and drawing it back to reattach, though the stitched seam continued to steam with the same blazing silver luminescence of the sword light.
This unforeseen turn threw Rasheal's plans into disarray. Emperor Saint Bardo was temporarily spared, shielded within a sword formation left behind by the sword aura.
Before Rasheal could gather his wits, a dim blue light manifested in the western sky.
A pale blue, waning meteor plunged toward the terrace at mind-boggling speed.
Its trajectory was so straight it seemed like an arrow loosed directly at Rasheal.
Lightning crackled around the comet, every discharge illuminating half the sky.
The atmosphere compressed under its high-speed advance, letting out thunderous booms.
"It's Hyacinthus! He's back!"
The battling War Gods looked toward that blue figure, sparks of hope kindling in their eyes.
The moment they saw the silver-gleaming slash, they knew Hyacinthus had arrived, for that was the divine radiance of the [Original Slate - Slash].
"Hyacinthus!"
"Lord Hyacinthus, sever this Blood Clan abomination!"
The citizens of Brillda witnessed the spectacle and shouted Hyacinthus's name, their voices rising like a swelling tide.
The roars echoed across Brillda, drowning out the rumbles of battle in the distance as countless hearts called out in unison to this heroic War God.
Their power of faith gathered like trickling streams into a raging torrent, pouring ceaselessly into Hyacinthus, invisibly blessing him. Carrying the faith of the Creti Empire, the First War God began to show faint signs of breaking through his mortal shackles.
To the people of Creti, it was like seeing a beam of dawn piercing through the dark.
The First War God, who stood for the pinnacle of strength, had finally arrived in their hour of direst need.
Yet when Hyacinthus landed upon the terrace of Saint Astri Palace...
Those who saw his state drew in sharp breaths of cold air.
The First War God was battered and drenched in blood, his blue combat robe stained a dark purplish-black. He had clearly weathered a brutal battle before arriving, looking as though he had just clawed his way back from hell.
Across his chest ran a horrifying gash, deep enough to expose bone, as if some weapon had nearly torn his heart from his ribcage.
Blood poured steadily from the wound, dripping down his robe to pool upon the stone.
To inflict such devastating harm upon the First War God, there was no candidate other than this Tier 9 vampire—unless Hyacinthus had done it to himself, but no one could be mad enough to shatter their own ribs and nearly sever their own heart.
Hyacinthus's face was chalk-white, his breath ragged, each heave rattling his wound and making him tremble.
Yet his blue eyes burned like inextinguishable flames as he stepped in front of Emperor Saint Bardo.
Those watching understood everything in an instant.
Before racing to the palace, Hyacinthus had likely fought a desperate battle against the Blood Clan Progenitor!
Judging from his wounds, that battle had ended in defeat.
In a flash, many lingering questions clicked into place.
Why Violet and Hyacinthus had left the grounds one after another as if sensing danger; why the berserk War Gods had briefly shown signs of awakening earlier; and why they had plunged back into madness afterward.
Violet and Hyacinthus had undoubtedly been locked in a mortal struggle with the Progenitor in some unseen corner.
They were heroes seeking to save the Creti Empire.
The injuries currently marking the Progenitor's body were likely the desperate handiwork of Violet and Hyacinthus.
The brief moment of lucidity the War Gods experienced on the square must have been the result of High Priestess Violet unleashing her full might. And judging by the current state of affairs, Violet had most likely met a tragic end.
Only Hyacinthus remained, barely holding on, chasing down the Progenitor at the cost of his own life.
The people of Creti had stood on the brink of despair. Terrified by the Progenitor and disgusted by Saint Bardo's cowardice, their spirits had nearly collapsed.
Yet Hyacinthus's arrival rekindled the fighting spirit within them like a beacon in the night.
They roared and cheered for Hyacinthus.
Even though Hyacinthus was only at the peak of Tier 8, no one doubted his strength at this moment.
If anyone could cross realms to defeat a Tier 9 Progenitor of the divine domain, it had to be Hyacinthus.
"Pathetic Hyacinthus, my defeated foe."
Rasheal fixed his eyes upon the battered War God before him, a composed smirk playing at his lips as he recited the lines he needed to speak.
"You were already defeated by my hand once. Why chase after me just to throw your life away? You could have simply lain upon the ground like Violet, waiting peacefully for death to end your agony."
At the mention of Violet, the hearts of every War God present sank.
Their suspicions were confirmed.
The Blood Clan Progenitor had corroborated it entirely.
The brief lucidity among the berserk War Gods earlier had occurred because Violet's Moon Goddess Immaculate Pure Land barrier had temporarily severed the Progenitor's mental grip over them.
She had been the first to discover the threat, buying the empire a fighting chance with her divine arts.
Yet as night deepened, Violet's power had waned, and in the end, not even her combined efforts with Hyacinthus had sufficed to defeat the Progenitor.
By now, she was almost certainly dead.
"Hyacinthus, strike him down!" Bianca yelled toward Saint Astri Palace, her heart aching with grief.
"I know."
Sorrow was plain in Hyacinthus's eyes as he pressed his lips together, standing firm before Emperor Saint Bardo.
"I will avenge Violet. It was all my fault for failing to protect her."
Though his voice was weak, every word fell like a warhammer upon the hearts of the people.
He resembled a sorrowful hero preparing for his final, desperate stand.
His words sounded like a clarion call, shaking the citizens watching the broadcast through the daring efforts of field journalists.
Many residents slowed their steps, no longer fleeing in panic, and halted on the streets to look back and scream toward Saint Astri Palace.
"Hyacinthus, keep going!"
At this moment, Hyacinthus needed their faith.
His odds might be infinitesimally small, yet he chose to fight on, chose to fulfill his duty.
If Hyacinthus could achieve another breakthrough, then despite his grievous condition, he might stand a chance against an immortal Tier 9 Progenitor.
"Hyacinthus, we're counting on you! We'll hold back the berserk ones with everything we've got!"
The lucid War Gods pieced together the sequence of events, beginning to understand why this war had befallen the Creti Empire, and why so many discordant, inexplicable incidents had arisen in recent years.
Without their knowledge, five of their comrades had fallen under this Progenitor's sway.
They dared not imagine how deeply the Blood Clan had infiltrated and corrupted the empire.
Had this upheaval not occurred tonight, they would never have uncovered which of the Twelve War Gods had been compromised.
Fortunately, at the most critical juncture, Violet had tracked the vampire down, forcing the Blood Clan into an early, all-out assault.
Yet the cost had been steep.
Violet was likely gone, and Hyacinthus was gravely wounded; the crisis was at its absolute worst.
Even so, all they could do was place their faith in Hyacinthus, believing he could strike down this root of all evil.
Across the entire Creti Empire, citizens watching the flickering broadcast held their breath.
Reckless journalists remained on the fringes of the square, reporting live from the scene, though their numbers dwindled by the minute.
Whether fleeing outside the square or watching through the broadcast, every heart hung in suspense.
They prayed for the War Gods, hoping a miracle would save the Creti Empire.
Astride the severed ruins of the palace's eastern wing, Rasheal stood nimbly upon the highest point, glaring coldly at Hyacinthus, as if receiving a mental transmission from him.
"Hyacinthus, do you truly believe you can contend with me in your present state?"
Before the words faded, dark crimson mana gathered in Rasheal's palm, warping the surrounding light.
With a flick of his hand, a beam of destruction erupted straight toward Hyacinthus.
Wherever the beam passed, the ground cracked and the air twisted, everything crumbling into dust before that terrifying Tier 9 mana.
"I am the only one left who can stand against you."
Hyacinthus's gaze was eerily serene. His blade erupted in silver brilliance as he poured every shred of his strength and will into this single blow.
Sword aura swirled around him like arcs of lightning. Under its impact, the atmosphere let out booming thunder, and the entire palace barrier shook under the pressure.
The two energies collided in midair—black-crimson and blue-white interweaving like two enraged dragons locked in celestial combat.
They bit, coiled, and whipped up a violent maelstrom of raw power.
Beneath the blood moon, lightning flashed through the clouds, illuminating the entirety of Brillda.
This clash felt as though gods were dueling for the fate of the mortal world.
Under the staggering shockwave, both Hyacinthus and Rasheal were thrown back several paces.
Blood seeped from their wounds.
Yet Rasheal recovered almost instantly, while Hyacinthus coughed up a mouthful of blood, his aura dimming further.
The two charged each other once more, crashing together in midair.
Claws slammed into steel, unleashing earth-shattering booms and destructive shockwaves.
They fought atop the palace ruins, darting between crumbling masonry at speeds far beyond the naked eye, leaving only blurred afterimages and expanding shockwaves.
"Look at you, Hyacinthus! That mortal body of yours is utterly useless, whereas I possess eternal life!"
Rasheal taunted Hyacinthus ceaselessly between strikes, trying to erode his resolve.
Yet Hyacinthus merely smiled. Even as blood ran down between his brows, his smile remained resolute.
"Rasheal, you will never understand the honor of a War God,"
he said, his voice faint yet brimming with conviction.
"Even if I perish here, as long as I can protect the empire and its people, my life has purpose."
Gripping his sword, the ancient divine radiance gleamed upon its edge. With a downward sweep, it carved countless dazzling trails of light.
The sword light was swift as lightning and all-conquering, blasting Rasheal backward.
Hyacinthus's sword aura was nearly tangible, cleaving through Rasheal's dark barrier and carving deep, bone-exposing gashes across the Progenitor's body.
Blood gushed from Rasheal's chest, only to be swallowed by dark energy, thickening into a dense red mist.
"Fool."
Rasheal's attacks showed no mercy. His blood aura transformed into pitch-black lances aimed straight at Emperor Saint Bardo, sheltered behind Hyacinthus within the sword formation.
Hyacinthus was forced to intercept with everything he had, turning his own flesh into a shield to protect the Emperor behind him.
This defense worsened Hyacinthus's wounds, blood pouring from him like a fountain.
Gravely injured and distracted by the need to shield Saint Bardo, Hyacinthus grew visibly slower, his technique opening up more and more flaws under Rasheal's assault.
"Still barking on the verge of death? If you abandoned that deadweight emperor, you might have danced with me a little longer."
Rasheal was enveloped in a vortex of dark crimson energy. Each rhythmic pulse of mental magic left citizens within miles suffocating and emotionally shattered.
The duel between Hyacinthus and Rasheal shook the whole of Brillda.
The other War Gods battling in the distance were repeatedly buffeted by the shockwaves, forced to retreat further to avoid being caught in this clash of titans.
Rasheal was, after all, a Tier 9 powerhouse.
What was worse, Hyacinthus had to divide his focus to protect Saint Bardo, inevitably exposing openings.
"It ends now."
Seizing the opening, Rasheal unleashed his dark red blood aura like a tidal wave toward Hyacinthus and the Emperor behind him, intent on swallowing them whole.
And Saint Bardo, once the high-and-mighty ruler of an empire, laid bare his cowardly nature at the threshold of death.
Cowering behind Hyacinthus, he trembled violently, eyes wide with terror.
He clung to Hyacinthus as his final lifeline, utterly oblivious to how much of a burden he had become.
Watching this, Rasheal sneered in contempt.
Those watching from afar were gripped by Hyacinthus's plight.
They cheered their hearts out for the heroic War God, while feeling profound fury and disappointment toward Saint Bardo's pathetic display.
That once-great sovereign had been reduced to a sniveling coward!
"Haha."
At this moment, Hyacinthus glanced back and smiled with a look of serene release.
It appeared to be an unshakeable resolve to protect Emperor Saint Bardo to the bitter end.
Yet for reasons Saint Bardo could not fathom, looking into Hyacinthus's eyes sent a chill running through his marrow—for that gaze was identical to the one the Blood Clan Progenitor had cast upon him earlier.
Before long, Hyacinthus's aura weakened noticeably. Sword light and blood aura clashed in the sky; the earth shuddered beneath their power, and the air burned with friction.
Before the horrified eyes of all...
Hyacinthus's blade was shattered by Rasheal's dark energy.
He crashed heavily to his knees, blood pouring from his lips and staining his chin.
His body trembled, his breathing grew shallow, and his vitality ebbed away rapidly.
Hyacinthus had fallen, just as expected.
Rasheal was heavily wounded as well, his body covered in sword lacerations, dark energy leaking from the gashes and swirling in the air.
Yet he was the victor, and an immortal higher lifeform of the night.
"See that, Emperor Saint Bardo? Your most loyal knight has been brought low by my hand once more. What else does your empire have to bar my way?"
Rasheal walked leisurely toward the collapsed emperor, a smile on his face.
"No... no... Hyacinthus, get up!"
Saint Bardo's eyes bulged. He wanted to flee, but his legs felt heavy as lead.
He could only watch Rasheal draw near, watch death approach step by step.
His pleas and begging yielded only Rasheal's cold mockery.
"Your Majesty, do you recall the Holbein family? They had an eldest son who was nine years old twenty years ago. He was meant to die alongside his kin during that turmoil you orchestrated..."
Rasheal spoke in a murmur audible only to Saint Bardo.
At that moment, his tone matched Hyacinthus's habitual manner of speech to perfection.
"You—!"
Inside Saint Bardo's sluggish mind, a horrifying realization dawned, sending a paralyzing chill through his limbs.
The next instant, Rasheal's hand punched clean through Saint Bardo's chest.
His fingers clamped like a vise, crushing the Emperor's heart to pieces.
Blood erupted outward. Saint Bardo let out a shrill scream, then slowly, permanently fell silent.
His eyes remained wide, frozen forever in an expression of dread that transcended death.
Terrified shrieks tore from the throats of all who witnessed the spectacle.
Even their strongest, First War God Hyacinthus, had been defeated once more by the Progenitor, and their emperor had been slaughtered before their very eyes.
With so many War Gods still under the Progenitor's control, all hope for the empire was extinguished.
Despair swept over the nation like a flood.
People sank to their knees, weeping bitterly, terrified of the horrific fate awaiting them.
"Hyacinthus..."
"Hyacinthus, please get up!"
They could only call out his name in unison.
Perhaps Hyacinthus, clinging to his last breath, was their only remaining hope.
They prayed he could rise once more and fight this peerless fiend.
Right then, the dying Hyacinthus slowly opened his vacant eyes.
Sprawled upon the ground, his fingertips twitched.
As though answering a mysterious summons, he scrambled awkwardly to his feet, lunging toward the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword embedded in the rubble in a desperate final bid.
The entire meaning of his existence seemed pinned upon that single blade.
Everyone was stunned, including Rasheal.
"A foolish move, Hyacinthus."
Rasheal did not fear; instead, he laughed.
Not only the people of Creti, but he too knew that only those of the royal bloodline could earn the recognition of the founding spirits of Syros and wield the sacred blade's power.
Anyone else who attempted to force their will upon the blade would only invite their own destruction.
For Hyacinthus, in his battered state, to touch the sword was no different from committing suicide out of desperation.
Blood aura condensed once more in Rasheal's hand, forming a pitch-black spear.
Aiming at Hyacinthus's back, he threw the lethal projectile, intending to end Hyacinthus's life then and there.
The citizens of Brillda could not bear to watch.
They knew what the outcome would be.
Reaching blindly for the sacred sword would only burn him to death.
Even if ethereal phantoms had appeared earlier, seeming to summon Hyacinthus as though imagining he might wield the blade through sheer virtue, that was nothing more than a fairy-tale hope.
Such unrealistic dreams would soon shatter.
And yet...
The next moment, a miracle unfolded.
The instant Hyacinthus's hand clasped the hilt of the Syros Heroic Spirit Sword, a blazing light flooded the palace ruins, illuminating the night sky of Brillda.
The radiance was sacred and dazzling, as if a scorching sun had risen anew in the dark of night.
Every citizen of Brillda, and every person across the Creti Empire thousands of miles away, could scarcely believe their eyes.
The Syros Heroic Spirit Sword had recognized Hyacinthus—a guardian devoid of royal blood.
In this hour of desperate peril, the spirits of Syros had granted Hyacinthus the right to wield this sacred power to save the realm.
Behind Hyacinthus, countless phantoms of heroic spirits materialized.
They clustered around him, pouring their strength into this valiant warrior.
Vitality surged back into Hyacinthus's dying body. As the citizens witnessed his recognition by the sacred sword, an epic was forged, and the power of faith from the entire empire rushed toward him like a tempest!
Realization dawned upon the masses. Cheers swept through Brillda and across the Creti Empire like an unstoppable wave.
"Hyacinthus! Guardian God of the Creti Empire!"
"You are the true chosen emperor!"
"Even the spirits of Syros have broken precedent to recognize you!"
The cries of the people coalesced into faith, wrapping Hyacinthus in a cocoon of light until he underwent a complete metamorphosis.
For the first time, terror crept onto Rasheal's face.
He watched in disbelief as his dark spear shattered the instant it touched Hyacinthus.
This First War God, who had been on the verge of death moments ago, now radiated an aura far superior to his own.
It was not merely that Hyacinthus possessed the sacred sword—he was on the brink of breaking through to Tier 9!
Countless strands of faith surged into Hyacinthus, elevating his power to unprecedented heights.
His body shone with a brilliant azure luster, every inch of his skin exuding the aura of the divine domain. The sacred blade blazed with blinding brilliance, piercing the eternal night like a noon sun.
That light sought to incinerate every shred of darkness in the world.
"This is impossible! This makes no sense! Goddess of Fate, this is unjust!"
Rasheal's voice trembled, his face twisting with rage.
Crimson mana coiled around him, yet before Hyacinthus's sword aura, it seemed utterly insignificant.
Hyacinthus slowly rose to his feet.
"Rasheal, don't go blaming the gods for everything."
Hyacinthus's voice resonated like a great bronze bell, suppressing the faint smirk at the corner of his lips.
He raised the sacred blade, pointing the tip directly at Rasheal's heart.
The runes upon the blade blazed with dazzling light—ancient Syrosian script singing an epic of heroes.
"With my blood, I forge the shield of the empire; with my soul, I unlock the gates of dawn. Spirits of the past, fight by my side!"
As Hyacinthus recited the incantations inscribed in ancient Syrosian, he swung the blade gently, unleashing an unprecedented surge of light.
The might of the empire's spirits, riding the silver brilliance of the divine age, roared toward Rasheal.
Rasheal scrambled to erect a dark barrier to withstand the lethal strike.
Yet beneath Hyacinthus's swing, the barrier crumbled like paper, instantly reduced to dust.
The sword aura tore through Rasheal's body, carving deep, bone-exposing gashes.
The spraying blood of the Progenitor vaporized within the sword aura.
Rasheal let out a shrill scream, as though caught in a meat grinder, sliced, torn, and incinerated by the storm of energy.
"No! Stop!"
Rasheal's voice warped with agony.
Even as an immortal vampire, he could not regenerate fast enough beneath Hyacinthus's monstrous onslaught!
Helpless to resist, Rasheal struggled with all his might, his blood aura shaping into blades and claws that lashed out frantically at Hyacinthus.
Yet none of it could touch Hyacinthus in the slightest.
Hyacinthus's momentum had reached its zenith, showing signs of briefly transcending even Tier 9.
He was enveloped in currents of silver divine-age energy.
Beneath this overwhelming pressure, Rasheal could endure no longer. His mana shields were utterly pulverized; no matter how desperately he fought, he could not leave a single scratch upon Hyacinthus.
A tempest of pure sword aura erupted around Rasheal, erasing his flesh. He gave one final, bloodcurdling shriek as his body unraveled within the light.
Even the other War Gods dared not draw near Hyacinthus's sword aura.
They could only watch from afar, swallowing hard.
At the critical juncture, Hyacinthus had achieved a breakthrough, ascending to the Tier 9 domain.
They had witnessed the birth of a powerhouse of the divine realm.
Already the strongest of Tier 8, now wielding the sacred blade and standing at Tier 9, they could scarcely fathom just how formidable Hyacinthus had become.
The sword aura pulled Rasheal in, swallowing him whole.
Rasheal let out a dying screech laden with despair and indignity.
Yet soon, the voice vanished, leaving behind only a pool of writhing, bloody sludge.
Hyacinthus stood tall atop the ruins, the sacred blade gleaming in his grip.
Behind him, the phantoms of the heroic spirits gradually faded, yet their power and will seemed to have merged into his very being.
At this moment, Rasheal's Tier 9 mana dissipated.
Peace returned to heaven and earth; the dark haze dispersed.
The shockwaves of the clash rippled outward, washing over the controlled War Gods.
They snapped awake within the gale, clutching their foreheads in pain, their faces filled with shock and bewilderment.
The lucid War Gods halted their attacks immediately, putting distance between themselves and their recently berserk comrades.
After a long silence...
"What happened to me?" Jasper muttered, rubbing her temple, only fragmented memories lingering in her mind.
"We were likely controlled. Hyacinthus saved us."
Lugayed shook his head vigorously, swiftly administering an injection into his arm, regaining his composure first.
Recalling what had transpired, he pieced together the chain of events.
"It was Hyacinthus... who defeated the Blood Clan Progenitor."
"We encountered that Progenitor earlier, and... he planted the seeds of mental control in us, causing this catastrophe. We are terribly sorry!"
"We owe it all to Hyacinthus. He defeated the vampire and saved the Creti Empire."
Once the other compromised War Gods regained their senses and surveyed the center of the square, they understood everything.
"Simonro, help me seal the vampire!"
Guyatt was the first to react, calling upon Simonro to seal Rasheal's remains.
They did not know whether Hyacinthus had any strength left to fight; he looked gravely injured. The Progenitor, though reduced to a pool of bloody sludge, was not dead—given time, he would regenerate. Now was the ideal moment to seal him away.
"Understood."
Simonro moved in sync, stepping across from the pool of blood. A magic circle unfolded beneath his and Guyatt's feet, its light drawing Rasheal's remains into midair.
As Guyatt chanted his incantations, translucent liquid sardonyx manifested in the center of the array, twisting and interlocking until Rasheal's remains were sealed within.
"Thank goodness. We've finally subdued him."
Guyatt exhaled a long breath, wiping sweat from his brow.
The other War Gods breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Yet at that very moment, having seen the deed done, Hyacinthus could no longer maintain his footing. The sharpness in his eyes softened back to his usual casualness, and he collapsed heavily to the ground.
Hearing the dull thud of his fall, the War Gods rushed forward, carefully lifting him up as Lugayed went to work treating the unconscious warrior.
"Now that Hyacinthus has reached Tier 9, he regenerates rapidly. His life is in no danger," Lugayed informed the others.
"...Then the question now is, we have lost Emperor Saint Bardo and are still at war with the Kingdom Alliance. What do we do?"
Saron was quiet for a moment before directly voicing their greatest dilemma.
"We do need a leader," Jasper said, closing her eyes in thought.
In the mess left behind, Emperor Saint Bardo had been slain, leaving the empire without a ruler. And after tonight's events, the public's disgust with Saint Bardo's cowardice and incompetence had surely reached its limit.
In a time of war, the Creti Empire could not afford to lack a spiritual figurehead.
Who should lead the empire next had become an urgent problem.
And the ten War Gods present held the supreme concentration of authority and martial might within the realm. For a new emperor to ascend in this turbulent hour, their voices would carry immense weight.
What was more, their leader had now become the sole human Tier 9 powerhouse on the Southern Continent.
"However..."
Jasper glanced at Hyacinthus, who was still receiving treatment. He had completely lost consciousness, yet the sacred blade beside him continued to glow in his presence.
"Is it truly appropriate for Hyacinthus to become emperor? By tradition, one of Saint Bardo's scions should inherit the throne..."
As a cleric, Simonro was conservative by nature, and he understood Jasper's implication.
Yet the sacred blade had chosen Hyacinthus; in a sense, that made him an orthodox choice as well.
"Even without our support or the people's, he is already the undisputed strongest. Furthermore, public sentiment will undoubtedly demand Hyacinthus take the throne. We'll see what he thinks when he wakes up," Guyatt said to them.
"True enough. I can't imagine anyone who could be his match now. He can do whatever he pleases—why should we worry?"
Philip shook his head with a wry smile, watching Hyacinthus. He had a keen sense for strength.
Even if Hyacinthus chose to conquer the empire by force, Philip doubted anyone could stand against a Tier 9 Hyacinthus.
At least, no one among the living. As for the dead... well, probably not either.
The smoke of battle dissipated, leaving Creti Memorial Square wrapped in desolate silence.
The crimson moonlight had not vanished, taking on a purplish cast as the night deepened—a murky hue that illuminated the mason's inscriptions upon the walls of Saint Astri Palace.
The once-magnificent palace lay in shattered ruins. Above the broken throne, only the wind whistled a mournful tune.
The ten War Gods stood before the rubble with conflicted hearts and lost gazes. Behind them, cracks had formed across the faces of the statues honoring the first generation of War Gods.
They were meant to be the mightiest protectors of the Creti Empire, the pillars supporting the realm.
Yet in tonight's turmoil, they had become its greatest hazard—failing to detect the vampire's presence, and even falling under his sway. Had it not been for Hyacinthus, they might have become the chief culprits behind the empire's downfall.
Regardless, the War Gods standing among the ruins knew that once the sun rose tomorrow, the Creti Empire would be utterly transformed.
Chapter 845