Nerion hurled himself at the statue, flames roaring around his limbs in eager coils.

  Fire roared from his palm, Mana and Qi flowing in perfect balance, and shattered.

  A blood-red barrier flared around the statue at the moment of impact, rebounding his attack with brutal force. Nerion was hurled backwards, crashing into broken stone, breath torn from his lungs.

  “Damn it!”

  He pushed himself upright, teeth clenched.

  No normal power would reach it now, not without consequence.

  Above, Dagon had abandoned subtlety.

  The false god continued his assault on the Raven and raised his free hand. The pressure that had already crushed the ruins intensified, forcing every living being—soldiers, nobles, mercenaries alike—into stillness. Bodies trembled. Meridians locked. Even Qi refused to circulate.

  Only two remained unbound. The Raven still moved. Nerion still could.

  Dagon’s voice rolled across the sky, no longer mocking, no longer theatrical—now commanding.

  “Obey my call, Philistia, land of my descendants.

  I command the Mana of the Abyss to become TIMBER

  Runes ignited in the heavens.

  Not sigils of balance. Not circles of harmony. But commands

  The air split.

  A vast, half-formed aperture manifested above the ruins, its edges warped as if reality itself resisted its existence. From beyond it surged abyssal water, pressing outward, restrained only by the narrowing seams of the spell.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  The sound echoed like a hammer striking a door from the other side. Each impact sent agony through the bodies of those below. Hearts stuttered. Minds frayed.

  Below, Nerion forced himself to move.

  He turned, just once, toward Evelin and Leo. Horror was etched across their faces as the sky collapsed inward. The children behind them were frozen, unable even to scream.

  This time… He would not hesitate.

  He readied his ultimate trump card, the one reserved for absolute peril. He could only pray it would be enough to break the statue.

  Then everything slowed.

  Time didn’t halt, not freeze. It simply… yielded

  The world moved as if submerged in thick resin. Flames hung in the air. Falling debris crept downward grain by grain. Even Dagon’s spell pulsed sluggishly.

  Only Nerion’s thoughts raced unimpeded.

  And then a voice spoke. Familiar, amused, infinitely calm.

  “Hehehe… lad, you’ve grown.”

  Nerion’s breath caught.

  Six years.

  Six years since he had last heard that voice.

  “You’ve made good use of what I left you,” the voice continued. “Qi and Mana, dancing together without devouring one another… I’ll admit, that was entertaining to watch.”

  Nerion felt his fear dissolve.

  “You even walked the first steps of a path the world insists is broken,” Ego Sum said lightly. “I hope you don't let these small achievements go to your head; you are still a gnat in the grand scope of the cosmos… Still, you’ve earned a reward.”

  Warmth—not Mana, not Qi—flooded Nerion’s being.

  “I will help you,” Ego Sum said, tone shifting, “just this once. Remember it well. I do not repeat myself.”

  Something vast descended—not into the world, but into Nerion. It didn't just inhabit him; it expanded within.

  He’d never felt so small. Nor so safe, like being in his parents’ embrace.

  Legendary warriors. Arch-Sages. False gods—none of them inspired this sensation. Compared to this, even Dagon’s might felt… noisy.

  Unfocused.

  “If I wished to erase you,” Ego Sum said mildly, “there would be no story to tell. But I prefer instruction.”

  The power settled. Concealed. Bound. Limited. There was no mistake, Nerion felt it clearly. This was Grandmaster-level power. Not more, nor less.

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  Time resumed.

  Dagon laughed—thin, cracked, triumphant. He finished his spell… Or he tried.

  “?λα μπροστ?: Κρ?κεν των Βυθ?ν”

  The door widened by a fraction.

  A massive tentacle, slick with abyssal might and ancient authority, forced its way through the opening, tearing the sky asunder. The Raven’s wings flared as he braced, barrier screaming under the strain.

  The ruins would not survive this. Siracusa would not survive this.

  But ‘Nerion’ did not look up.

  He extended a hand.

  The rusted sword embedded in the wall trembled—then tore free, flying into his grasp. Its blade was chipped, corroded, barely half its original length.

  ‘Nerion’ examined it with idle curiosity.

  “A replica,” he murmured. “And a poor one. Enkil, the Great Sword of Nimrod

  A soft chuckle.

  “But the core remains. The hilt remembers. It will suffice.”

  ‘Nerion’s’ eyes shifted, turning a blinding, whitish-gold. He turned the sword in a reverse grip, resting it behind his back, body angled forward.

  “For each rank you achieve, I’ll teach you what a true technique looks like. Ones that will grow with you. This is the first one”

  “Watch closely,” Ego Sum continued through him. “The third form of Io’s Lethal Sword.”

  Qi and Mana surged together, not violently, but precisely

  No one seemed to notice.

  Dagon did. He looked down, his yellow eyes widening in sudden, primal fear.

  “NOOOO!

  The false god’s scream tore through the sky.

  Too late.

  [Caelum Secare]- Cut the Heavens.

  The slash was silent.

  A fan-shaped wave—formless, near-invisible—raced forward, slicing through space itself. Fifteen meters. Then gone.

  The sanguine barrier around the statue ruptured like a soap bubble.

  The stone head slid—slowly—before cleaving free. The ruby crystal split cleanly in two, detonating in a shriek of crimson light.

  Ego Sum withdrew.

  Nerion collapsed to one knee, gasping, the sword clattering from his grasp.

  The Door of the Forsaken convulsed.

  Then it collapsed inward upon itself, folding shut with a thunderless implosion that tore the sound from the air.

  The kraken screamed.

  The severed tentacle spasmed once before crumbling into motes of abyssal energy, dissolving as it was reclaimed by Aeonia. The pressure vanished. The stars reignited, one by one, reclaiming their places in the firmament. The moon shed its crimson stain and shone pale once more.

  Order returned.

  The ruins did not.

  A tremor rippled through the ground—then another, stronger than the last. Dagon ceased his assault on the Raven and howled, no longer with divine contempt, but with raw, unrestrained madness.

  His once-austere visage twisted. The elegance bled away. Hair writhed into slick tendrils. Fangs split his mouth as blasphemies poured forth in a torrent of hate and denial.

  Raven felt it then.

  Relief washed through him, brief but profound.

  Below, the men who had accepted Dagon’s “blessing” convulsed.

  Milos, his mercenaries, his kin—Aran among them—clutched their torsos as something burned inside them. The borrowed power fled, ripped violently from flesh and marrow alike. Skin shrivelled. Bones jutted. Eyes dimmed, one after another.

  Rodolfo watched his son die.

  He did not cry out. He did not move. Only a faint tremor betrayed the grief that hollowed him from within.

  “No… this can't be,” Milos gasped, despair and regret flooding him. “I was supposed to rise…”

  The light left his eyes.

  Dagon drank deeply.

  The stolen power surged into him as he compressed himself into a ray of coagulated bloodlight, streaking toward the horizon, trailing rivers of blackened water.

  He would not fade quietly.

  Raven’s third eye throbbed.

  He almost opened it, ready to pursue and end it fully.

  Almost.

  Then he stopped. There was no need.

  The earth answered.

  The land around the ruins groaned—not in pain, but in obedience. Stone rose, layer upon layer, shaping itself without incantation, without force. A mountain lifted into the air as if it had always belonged there.

  From the mountain, a gigantic hand formed, fifty meters across, carved from living rock, veins of mineral glinting like divine script.

  The stone fingers clenched.

  Dagon’s scream became something else entirely—thin, unravelling, erased.

  When the hand opened again, there was nothing inside.

  The false god was gone.

  The mountain-hand started to dissolve into motes of earth, raining gently back to the ground.

  Silence fell.

  Those who still lived stared, breathless, at the floating mountain-hand, at the authority it embodied. This was not corruption. Not theft. Not blasphemy.

  This was the world itself, answering a call.

  Raven bowed deeply toward the fading hand's peak.

  Atop the stone hand stood a man of middle years, black hair and beard unbound, robes plain, presence immovable. His presence alone evoked endless mountain ranges—the unyielding might of earth.

  “Lord Titan,” Raven said with genuine respect. “Thank you for your opportune aid. Without you, that false god might have escaped. My master sends regards and deep gratitude for allowing us to experience Ansara.”

  The man, Rafael Son Boromin, the Titan, Second Dragon General, Ansara's mightiest Arch-Sage, smiled gently and nodded.

  “It is we who owe you gratitude, Lord Raven” he replied gently. “Had you not delayed him, the cost would have been catastrophic.” His gaze hardened briefly. “That such rituals still endure is… troubling.”

  He continued, “The King is most grateful and wishes to meet you, my Lord, and offer some gifts. We more than welcome the Beast Lords from Bahamut's Dark Forest.”

  Raven shook his head politely.

  “Thank you, Lord Titan. While I’d love to make the Lion King’s acquaintance, I’m afraid I must decline. I'm on escort duty. After this, I’m afraid I must report to Master. It's been ages since a false god descended in the Major Territories, after all, this is not Murmur. Unfortunately, the masked one escaped.”

  Raven was quite humble. After all, pride meant little before the Titan. Even among Legends, hierarchies existed, and Rafael was one who stood near the peak.

  “A shame,” Rafael chuckled, glancing down. “Is that the Young Maiden of the Forest? Rambunctious lass.”

  Evelin puffed up proudly.

  Rafael extended his hand. Stone peeled away, revealing a multifaceted crystal within, a remnant, still warm with residual divinity.

  “The remains of the avatar,” he said. “Use it well.”

  Raven accepted it with visible satisfaction.

  “At my level,” he admitted, “such gifts are rare.”

  “Then you have earned it. After you return, please extend my salute to the Tree Lord,” Rafael replied.

  The mountain completely dissolved back into the earth.

  The night exhaled.

  At last, it was over.

  Nerion knelt, exhausted but alive, flames flickering low. Evelin and the beasts surrounded him quickly—Leo nuzzling, Little Green coiling protectively.

  “Brother Nerion!” Evelin beamed. “That was awesome! I saw your moves—that fire-fist technique was incredible. Almost as good as mine. See? You followed my advice and clobbered him with Magic!”

  Smug, as if his victory were her doing.

  Nerion could only smile at her antics. The banter warmed him, reminding him of his siblings back in Radom.

  Not much time had passed, but he missed them dearly.

  For the first time since leaving Radom, despite the blood and the terror, he felt something close to peace.