The shadow struck the chamber like a verdict.

  Stone exploded outward as a figure descended from above, arresting his fall without effort. He hovered effortlessly, robes unmoving, as if gravity itself had reconsidered its claim.

  He was young—too young. Handsome in a way that felt deliberate. Long purple hair cascaded down his shoulders, feathers tracing his jawline and throat like ceremonial markings rather than ornament. His skin was pale, unmarred. His eyes—gold threaded with violet—were calm to the point of arrogance.

  A third eye rested vertically on his forehead.

  Closed.

  He regarded Dagon’s manifestation as one might regard a rotting relic displayed in a museum.

  “Hmph,” the man said softly. “A false god’s descent.”

  His voice was not loud. It did not need to be. It carried weight by existing.

  “I find it… admirable,” he continued, tilting his head slightly, “that you dared manifest in the Primary Material World after AEON’s envoys erased your cult and stripped your name from the record of worship.”

  A faint smile curved his lips.

  “Desperation does strange things to forgotten things.”

  The air itself seemed to lighten, as if his mere presence diluted Dagon’s drowning weight.

  Oliverio’s breath caught. A Legend. A Rank 9 Beast Lord to be exact.

  Not doubt. Not speculation. The certainty of it slammed into every trained instinct he possessed.

  Dagon’s presence shifted, coiling tighter, darker.

  “Hahahaha…” the false god laughed, sound reverberating through bone and blood alike. “How quaint. A little three-eyed birdling thinks himself my executioner.”

  The pressure intensified. Several soldiers collapsed outright.

  “I will mark my return with your blood.”

  Raven did not move.

  “Perhaps,” he said mildly, “when Ashdod still stood. When your altars were whole. When you fed on cities instead of scraps.”

  His gaze sharpened.

  “Now? You are less than half-formed. Anchored by blood stolen in secret. Bound to a broken statue and a dying memory.”

  He looked genuinely bored.

  “If I had not come,” he added, “others would have. You were never leaving this place. But, since I’m around, why not catch a fish and some merit on the way?”

  His tone remained conversational, as if discussing the weather, yet every word landed like a hammer on glass, shattering Dagon’s oppressive aura inch by inch.

  Then…

  “SENIOR BROTHER RAVEN!

  The chamber froze.

  Evelin stood with arms crossed, cheeks puffed in open indignation.

  “So you following me,” she snapped. “I nearly got stabbed twice, froze once, and had to heal Leo , and you didn’t help even once!”

  She turned her head sharply.

  “Hmph. You’re dead to me.”

  The silence that followed was… profound.

  The raven-feathered Legend’s majestic poise cracked. One golden-purple eye twitched. The corner of his mouth spasmed in a helpless half-smile.

  Just once.

  Nerion bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. he thought. A flicker of sympathy stirred for the floating Legend. If this was how she acted on adventures, life back at whatever mysterious sect they came from must be… exhausting.

  Raven exhaled.

  “Ahem.”

  His gaze swept the chamber—not lingering, not explaining.

  “Listen carefully,” he said, and the words settled into bone. “This manifestation will collapse in minutes. Sooner, if the anchor breaks.”

  His eyes flicked to Nerion. “Boy. Destroy the statue. Whatever it costs.”

  Then Evelin. “Junior Sister. Guard the children. If they die, this thing stabilises.”

  Finally, the rest. “Survive. Do not empower it with blood.”

  That was all.

  Dagon’s laughter deepened.

  “Insolent chick. Very well. I will occupy myself with you. My temporary apostles… receive my blessing. Slaughter every soul in this hall not bound to me. Spill their blood. Feed me. Disappoint me… and pray the depths are merciful.”

  A hemispherical barrier of black murky water snapped into existence, sealing a one-kilometre radius. No escape. No reinforcement—yet.

  Power flooded outward, tendrils of abyssal water lancing Aran, Milos and their followers.

  Milos screamed—not in pain, but ecstasy—as foreign, corrosive authority forced itself through his meridians. Aran staggered, spine arching, veins blackening as his cultivation spiked violently upward.

  Both became Emperor-level.

  This power was not earned. Borrowed. Unstable. Dangerous.

  Every instinct screamed that this power would demand payment

  Their followers fared worse. Bodies convulsed. Bones cracked and reset. Some shattered outright; survivors rose howling—new Praetorians, Centurions, even temporary Legates—eyes wild with borrowed madness.

  Many had worshipped AEON their entire lives. Now cold, alien power crawled under their skin, whispering promises of damnation if they failed. Their only path was forward—into the same abyss they had helped open, dragging their enemies with them.

  Chaos erupted.

  Blades clashed. Qi detonated.

  Rose petals erupted in swirling tempests as Oliverio intercepted Milos’s opening strike—a reckless palm that cratered marble and sent shockwaves rolling. The Rose Emperor contained the destruction within blooming barriers, petals slicing through insidious shadow tendrils.

  Rodolfo met Aran blade-to-spear in a strangely restrained dance—each blow precise, almost ceremonial, father and son circling, waiting for a signal only they understood.

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  Serena’s soldiers formed shield walls against the frenzied mercenaries, steel ringing, Qi flaring in desperate bursts.

  Evelin retreated toward the dungeon passage. Leo swelled to full majestic size under her glowing blessing, a living bulwark of fang and fury. Little Green vanished into the shadows, vines lashing from unexpected angles. Together, they held the choke point, repelling waves of empowered mercenaries desperate for children’s blood. Leo took wounds—gashes from neo-Praetorian blades—but Evelin’s gentle light knit flesh between breaths.

  Above it all, the true spectacle unfolded.

  Raven raised a hand.

  Hundreds of metallic purple feathers detached from his robe and hair, lengthening into razor swords that hung in the air like a storm of blades.

  They rained upon Dagon. Water barriers rose and shattered.

  The Raven blurred forward. Legs shifted mid-motion into enormous talons wreathed in dark purple Natural Energy. He struck in a flurry too swift for mortal eyes—a thousand talon-strikes in the span of a single heartbeat.

  Each impact birthed shockwaves that slammed against the Legend’s own containment barrier, sparing the ground battle below. Even muffled, the concussions thrummed in chests, rattled teeth, and reminded every fighter how vast the gulf was between Legend and the rest of creation.

  Dagon roared, coiling shadows lashing back.

  To those watching, it was not a fight.

  It was hierarchy being enforced

  Intermezzo - The Parish of Siracusa

  The bells did not ring. That alone was wrong.

  At the Parish of AEON in Siracusa, sound was a constant—chants, prayers, resonant hymns woven into the architecture itself. Tonight, silence pressed down like damp wool.

  Bishop Loretto felt it before the others.

  The glow of the sanctum’s runes dimmed—not extinguished, but , as if light itself hesitated to obey. Several sigils along the vaulted ceiling flared sharply, lines distorting for the span of a breath before settling again. A ripple passed through the mana lattice beneath the marble floor.

  Ugly. That was the only word that fit.

  Not violent. Not vast.

  Ugly in the way rot was ugly—out of place in a balanced world.

  Loretto rose slowly from his chair, fingers tightening around his rosary staff. The relic responded with a faint hum, confirming what his senses already screamed.

  Something had intruded.

  Not a Beast Lord. Not a Legend’s outburst.

  Something… older. Wrongly aligned.

  Around him, priests and acolytes froze, eyes darting upward as the sacred lamps flickered. A few whispered prayers without realising they had begun.

  The Inquisitor stepped forward.

  He wore no ornament beyond the black-and-silver sigil of his office, etched into his chestplate. His presence was sharp, disciplined—TAO Emperor pressure barely restrained, as a blade sheathed in silk.

  “Your Grace,” he said, voice low but urgent. “This disturbance coincides with the kidnappings.”

  Loretto did not turn.

  “The pattern matches,” the Inquisitor continued, pressing on. “Children. Blood. Concealment. These are not the methods of opportunists. They are .”

  That earned Loretto’s attention.

  The Bishop finally looked at him, eyes deep and unreadable.

  “Philistia,” the Inquisitor said quietly. “The old heresy. The cults that fed false gods in secret while preaching prosperity. If this is connected—”

  “It is,” Loretto said. The certainty in his voice halted the room.

  Acolytes stiffened. One dropped a censer; it clanged softly against stone.

  The Inquisitor’s jaw tightened. “Then we must move. Siracusa is compromised. With your leave, we could take a detachment and—”

  “No.”

  The word was absolute.

  Loretto turned fully now, his mana unfurling—not aggressively, but . The Parish responded, wards thickening, doors sealing with deep, resonant thuds. External glyphs flared into full defensive arrays.

  “We do not leave the Parish,” the Bishop said. “We close it.”

  The Inquisitor stared. “Your Grace… if a false god’s descent is underway—”

  “Then this place becomes a bastion,” Loretto interrupted. “Not a spear.”

  He stepped toward the altar, laying a palm upon AEON’s sigil. The tremor in the world eased—slightly—contained by the Parish’s presence.

  “There are two Legends in Ansara,” Loretto continued. “One in the Capital. One on the Barbarian frontier. The nearer will feel this and act.”

  “And until then?” the Inquisitor demanded.

  “Until then,” Loretto said calmly, “we ensure AEON’s foothold here does not fall.”

  His gaze hardened.

  “If this Parish is lost, Siracusa becomes irrelevant.”

  The Inquisitor clenched his fists.

  , he thought. .

  But he bowed.

  “By your will,” he said.

  As he stepped back into the shadows, his eyes lingered on the trembling lights, on the faint distortion crawling across the sigils.

  Loretto did not answer—even to himself.

  The ripple spread, but in the ruins, blood already flowed.

  The Frontier had not known peace for the last six years. But tonight, even war paused.

  However, for Ansara, things had gotten a little better since Elisabetta De Varona, the Iron Maiden, had conquered Pellam.

  Since Ansara had the five Frontier Cities in its grasp it had the advantage in whether to advance or retreat, which forced Rhodar to send several regiments of their two main armies to keep the pressure on Ansara.

  Mount David’s Fortress was the true overlord of the Frontier, where the center of command for Ansaran’s army overlooked the whole war situation.

  Although it had been attacked several times during the last six years, Sebastian De Renato’s epithet as the Iron Wall was not an empty one.

  As soon as Dagon’s avatar appeared near the city of Siracusa, there was a change in the air.

  Sebastian, in his office as usual, looking at the reports of the recent battles, felt it. He turned his head towards Siracusa.

  He was not alone.

  Saulo, his second in command, was also with him. His talent had allowed him not only to achieve several tactical victories in the war, but to also retreat safely, even when in losing skirmishes, his losses were minimal.

  This not only increased his experience but also allowed him to jump the metaphorical Dragon’s Gate and become a newly minted TAO Emperor.

  As a new Commander in the army, he decided to stay in the Frontier, becoming another wall in the fight against Rhodar. He also felt the fluctuations coming from Siracusa.

  “Lord Sebastian, this… This is not a normal energy spike. This… this isn’t a clean signature. It feels like a Rank 9 event—but warped. Incomplete. Should we send notice to Ansem or send reinforcements?”

  Sebastian, calm as usual, approached the window in his office, looking eastward. A small stone carved like a humanoid figure with strong arms, yet headless, seemed to grow from the windowsill out of nowhere.

  “That won’t be necessary, Saulo. Our Commander in Chief felt it even sooner than us.”

  Sebastian picked the stone figure. “He has already gone towards the place with the Energy Signature. If anyone can reach it in time, it will be him. After all, earth can’t bind that man. That being said, we need to be prepared. Don’t let Rhodar take this opportunity to attack us.”

  Saulo bowed, reassured, “Commander, yes, Sir.”

  “You don’t need to bow anymore, you know. We’re the same rank,” said Sebastian.

  “You’re still my mentor, Sir,” answered Saulo.

  The night deepened. In the ruins, the first screams echoed.

  The black water barrier sealed with a dull, tomb-like thud. The air thickened—briny, rotten, like the breath of drowned depths. In the ruins, time shrank to heartbeats.

  Nerion paid no mind to the frenzy around him—blades ringing, Qi exploding, screams cut short. He walked toward Dagon's statue with deliberate calm, eyes locked on the ruby crystal pulsing in its empty socket.

  Sombra waited just as calmly, masked head tilted in mocking invitation. As if this were a friendly spar, not a slaughterhouse.

  “A fake god,” Nerion said quietly, gaze lifting briefly toward Dagon’s writhing projection. “Impressive. And this is only a fragment. A shadow of a shadow.”

  His tone was thoughtful. Almost distant.

  Sombra’s jaw tightened.

  “You speak like someone who doesn’t understand how close he is to being erased,” he said coldly. “Ignorance really is a blessing. Otherwise, you’d never have involved yourself in something like this.”

  He took a step closer.

  “It’s too late now. You’re in it. And you’re going to die… Painfully. Just my personal preference.”

  It was not bravado.

  Things had gone catastrophically wrong. The Army. The boy. The Raven. None of this had been calculated. And yet—running now would mean failure.

  Killing Nerion would be… release.

  Sombra studied him, eyes sharp behind the mask.

  “There’s something I can’t reconcile,” he continued. “Your cultivation is sloppy. Your Qi is thin. Your Mana control is crude. And yet—”

  His gaze hardened.

  “You’re standing here.”

  A sneer twisted his voice. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those idiots who think juggling Qi and Mana makes them special.”

  Nerion finally looked at him.

  “If I were you,” he said calmly, “I’d worry less about how I fight—and more about why I’m still standing.”

  The air folded.

  They vanished simultaneously.

  CLASH!

  Their collision detonated at the chamber’s edge, bodies blurring as fists and kicks tore through space. Sombra struck to kill from the first exchange—throat, spine, heart—angles honed for assassination rather than sport.

  Nerion absorbed it.

  Not by brute force, but by flow.

  His movements were natural, almost lazy in appearance, redirecting impact through his frame, bleeding momentum into stone and air. Counterstrikes followed without intent to chase, each one landing where Sombra , not where he was.

  The dagger flashed. Steel met palm—Qi-coated skin deflecting blade with a sound like tearing silk.

  Sombra retreated half a step, eyes flickering.

  Each exchange drained his Qi, like moving through mud. Nerion’s presence disrupted the rhythm, distorted timing, and eroded the advantage.

  Sombra disengaged. The shadows twisted.

  He blinked—once, twice—reappearing at oblique angles, needles whispering through the air, attacks coming from blind spots no orthodox fighter could guard.

  Nerion shifted to full defence, his focus absolute.

  He flipped backwards in a tight somersault as a needle buried itself where his head had been, venom gleaming with deadly promise.

  Nerion exhaled.

  This man would use anything.

  Good.

  That meant Nerion could not afford a single mistake.

  And Sombra, for the first time in years, realized something he hated. This was not a boy he could dispatch at convenience.

  This was a problem.