Nerion didn't hesitate. He surged forward, body blurring as he activated his movement technique.
His target was clear: the statue. Shatter the anchor, end the summoning. Simple in theory.
Sombra was already there.
The assassin emerged from the gloom beside the altar, a ripple in the darkness.
In the same breath, he flung a fan of needles—dozens of them, thin and venom-tipped, whistling through the air in a deadly arc straight at Nerion.
There was no time to push through. Nerion leapt backwards and upward, soaring several meters into the air.
He raised his hand, calling on the Natural Energy of the world around him. Heat gathered at his fingertips, flames igniting one by one.
“Χ?ρι φωτι?? — Chéri fotiás!”
Five fireballs erupted from his palm, hurtling toward Sombra and the statue like blazing arrows.
Sombra didn't even blink. His dagger swept in a powerful slash, three bone-white Qi serpents coiling around the blade. They left a trailing stele of condensed energy that slammed into the fireballs head-on.
The impact dispersed the spell in a shower of sparks, harmless embers drifting to the floor.
“How weak,” Sombra said, his voice laced with mockery. “You split your focus between Qi and Mana, and both suffer for it. I can sense it—your energies barely crest level ten. Has no one ever told you to commit to one path?”
The words stung because they held a grain of truth.
Nerion's Qi and Mana were each around level 10, edging toward 11. Just using them on their own placed him between Master and Grandmaster, closer to the latter.
But…
He had opened two Core Meridians and two Heavenly Gates. And thanks to Arbak's blessing, ten acupoints—far beyond the standard four per rank.
Separate, the energies limited him.
Together, channelled through his Free Flowing Fist, they multiplied his strength, letting him dominate Grandmasters and hold his own against stronger foes.
Yet pure techniques and spells exposed the flaw. Against talented opponents like Sombra, that weakness showed.
From high above, Dagon's voice boomed with disdain, his perception piercing the chaos below.
“Usage of both Qi and Mana?” Dagon’s voice boomed from the sky, a thunderous rumble that vibrated the very stones. “I thought the boy might be special, but he is merely a buffoon trying to bite more than he can chew.”
Raven, locked in his furious exchange with the avatar, frowned briefly but said nothing.
He had observed Nerion since the boy crossed paths with Evelin. The ingenuity, the raw combat sense, the quick thinking—it impressed him.
Uncovering the kidnappers had been Nerion's work.
This fight was a forge. Real growth came from fire and pressure, not seclusion.
Raven's talon-like leg lashed out.
“Коготь возносит небеса (Kogot' voznosit nebesa: Talon Rends the Heavens!)”
A massive claw, over a hundred meters wide, materialised and slashed down. Dagon roared, forced to commit his full defence, water coiling from the atmosphere in a massive deluge against the bird’s talon.
KROOOM!
The shockwave shook the chamber, even muffled by Raven's barrier.
Down below, glances flicked toward Nerion.
Oliverio, Serena, Rodolfo—all tied in their own desperate struggles against outmatched foes. They couldn't easily intervene, but they trusted the boy Raven had tasked. He had saved the children earlier, held Sombra at bay. If anyone could reach the statue, it was him.
Oliverio pieced it together first: this unknown youth had likely been the hidden source feeding Serena intelligence, orchestrating the raid. Respect grew in the Rose Emperor's eyes.
Milos and Aran, meanwhile, burned with resentment. Nerion was clearly the wildcard who had unravelled everything.
Sombra pressed his advantage relentlessly, blinking through shadows to strike from unpredictable angles.
He even slipped needles into the broader melee, wounding a soldier and letting his opponent finish the kill. Blood flowed to the ruby; the crystal swelled, Dagon's presence growing more sinister.
Nerion cursed inwardly and shifted pressure, transitioning to the Third Form of his martial art.
Quicker, more aggressive.
Nimble strikes designed to force the enemy's defence and chip away at their strength.
But real battle exposed Nerion’s inexperience. Sombra exploited the openings, leaping from shadows behind with a flurry of Qi-charged kicks.
Nerion reverted hastily to the Second Form for defence, but the switch wasn't seamless.
BAM!
A kick landed solidly on his chest, launching him backwards. He twisted mid-air to bleed off the force, avoiding grave injury. Nevertheless, contusions bloomed hot and painful across his ribs.
Sombra wasted no time, dagger thrusting for the decapitating blow.
Nerion locked eyes through the mask.
“Μεγ?λο Καλειδοσκ?πιο — Megálo Kaleidoskópio!”
Illusory patterns exploded into Sombra's mind, fracturing perception for a critical second.
The assassin reacted on instinct—eyes snapping shut, hands forming a sign.
Four identical shadows split, darting in opposite directions.
Nerion lost the real one in the blur.
The nearest clone attacked.
He parried—but it was a feint. The true Sombra erupted from Nerion's own shadow, hand thrusting low in a crippling strike.
Nerion twisted desperately, foot slamming down on the wrist, then somersaulting away.
The distance widened once more. The statue remained untouched, and worse, Sombra used the retreat to harass the broader fights.
This time, Oliverio diverted petals to intercept fresh needles, preventing more deaths, but Milos pressed harder, growing accustomed to his borrowed power.
“You shouldn’t get distracted, Oliverio,” Milos taunted.
His Will had evolved—the raccoon now twin-tailed, eyes malicious crimson.
“My Will scavenges the living —
SCREEEEECH!
The amplified scream tore through the hall.
Oliverio poured everything into containment.
“My Will blooms under fire —
A hurricane of petals swallowed the sound, but two Praetorians were still reached and faltered. Their enemies seized the moment, blades piercing flesh.
Blood fed the ruby once more.
“Nerion, what the heck are you doing?” Evelin's voice cut through the chaos. “Can't you take care of that sorry clown already? Just clobber him with Magic!”
She danced nimbly behind Leo and Little Green, spells flowing to empower the lion amid the press of attackers.
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Several acupoints flared in her hands as runes entered the ground.
“Αμπελοπαγ?δα (Ampelopagída — Vine Trap)”
Small vines crept out of the ground and trapped several of their attackers.
“Δ?ναμη — Dynami!”
Natural Energy haloed Leo in red, surging his strength. He managed to maul two of the enemy troops.
Nerion glanced—just a heartbeat—and saw her seamless Mana command fueling the beast.
Something clicked through Evelin’s unfocused rant.
Not the Warrior's path. Not the Adept's.
Both as one.
In his Meridians, Qi flowed within, Mana enveloped without. Never fully merging, yet amplifying each other in his fist's flow. The opposite happened in his Heavenly Gates.
Why separate them in techniques?
Coat martial strikes in Mana-fueled elements. Infuse spells with Qi's precision.
Balance them externally, as within.
The realization flashed like lightning.
Sombra sensed the brief distraction and lunged for the kill.
Three bone-white Qi serpents coiled. Dark purple energy extended the dagger a meter, its edge ravenous, able to pierce steel like butter.
Sombra could already picture Nerion’s bisected figure.
Yet the strike failed.
Nerion had vanished. Not with Flash Walk.
Fire swallowed his outline.
He reappeared beside Sombra, flames coiling around his limbs, his palm already descending.
The impact thundered.
Boom!
Sombra was hurled backward, boots carving trenches through stone.
He barely stabilized, eyes wide.
Gasps rose from the onlookers.
The First Form of the Free Flowing Fist unfolded—but now every strike was wrapped in living flame, Natural Energy feeding the fire without draining his Mana.
Fireballs orbited him, collapsing into each blow.
Each impact struck harder than before.
Faster.
Cleaner.
To the watching soldiers, it looked like a fire spirit had taken human form, executing a martial dance amid ruin and blood.
“Elemental Qi?” Sombra hissed. “No… this is wrong. Even Monarchs—”
He blocked, but burns scorched his arms, his cloak smoldering.
Nerion exhaled slowly.
Mid-tier Warriors could use elemental Qi, but it paled in comparison to the might shown by Adepts' inexhaustible Natural Energy.
Nerion had fused them: close-range devastation with spell-scale might.
Not addition.
A new realm.
After six gruelling years, Nerion stepped fully into his dream.
The first true Magic Warrior in recorded history walked Aeonia's soil.
He grinned, flames haloing him bright.
“Time for round two, masked creep.”
For the first time, Sombra had taken a step back.
And as the struggle around the statue raged on, the other skirmishes reached a fever pitch.
Serena’s voice cut through the chaos, sharp and unyielding, as she directed Majors and Captains into tight, disciplined formations. Shield walls advanced and rotated with brutal efficiency, hemming in the rabid, empowered heretics who hurled themselves forward without regard for injury or death.
One possessed Legate broke free, his borrowed power tearing gouges through stone as he lashed out indiscriminately.
The formation bent—but did not break.
Serena moved.
Flowered ivy, thick with cruel thorns, coiled around her arm and flowed through her blade, extending far beyond the steel into a living whip.
“My Will is the thorn of justice —
The strike flashed faster than the eye could follow.
The Legate’s head parted cleanly from his body.
For a heartbeat, there was relief.
Then the blood rose.
Thin crimson streams peeled from the corpse and flowed toward the statue’s eye. The ruby drank, pulsing once—heavier, darker. The strengthening was weaker than before, but unmistakable.
Serena’s jaw tightened.
Nearby, beautiful and unsettling flames wrapped around Nerion’s fists and palms as he drove Sombra back again and again.
Nerion’s movements followed a natural rhythm, fluid and unbroken, each step and strike feeding into the next. Little by little, the flow closed around Sombra like a whirlpool, until the assassin found himself forced into pure defense.
Sombra thought grimly, deflecting another blazing palm.
At last, a slight hitch appeared in Nerion’s assault.
Sombra seized it.
He vanished and reappeared several meters away, chest heaving. His arms and legs were streaked with burns, flesh blackened where flame had slipped past his defenses.
“Hmph.” Nerion exhaled softly. “It’s hard to maintain the balance. Even a small mismatch in Qi or Mana throws me out of the state.”
Then he smiled, brighter than before.
“But I’ve confirmed it. This path is feasible. Truly… something new.”
Across the ruins, several eyes lingered on the duel.
Aran spoke quietly, his spear paused mid-guard as he continued his restrained bout with Rodolfo.
“That fire… that wasn’t a Warrior’s elemental technique. And not even Centurion-level elemental conversion causes that kind of damage.” His eyes narrowed. “It’s like countless low-grade mana spells striking with every punch and kick. Few Praetorians could withstand it. Any other would already be defeated.”
As a Legate, Aran knew Sombra’s calibre well. The assassin was not built for prolonged duels, but his strength was real. That he was being driven back by a boy so much younger was… unsettling.
Even above, amidst the clash of impossible powers, attention flickered.
Sombra straightened, blood dripping faintly from behind his mask.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked coldly. “And why are you meddling in this?”
Nerion’s stance shifted—sideways, grounded, flame breathing softly around his limbs.
“Do I need a reason to interfere with kidnappers hiding in the dark?” he replied calmly. “Worse—ones who summoned a blood-seeking abomination.” His gaze hardened. “You’re the very definition of fiends.”
A pause.
“As for my name… You may call me Nerion. I doubt you’ll return the courtesy.”
He gathered himself fully, Qi and Mana flowing in careful harmony.
“It’s time to end this. New variables appear too easily.” A faint smile appeared on his face. “Swift and merciless, my brother says. I’ll admit I struggle with the second part—but for people like you, it comes easier.”
Sombra said nothing.
He could not retreat further.
The broken statue loomed behind him. One more step back and Nerion would have direct access to the anchor—and the ritual would fail.
Exposure was already inevitable. The presence of a Legend ensured that what happened here would be known.
But chaos still had value.
If Dagon gained the upper hand, if noble blood continued to flow, Ansara would be seeded with instability. That, too, was a victory.
So Sombra chose to gamble everything.
Nerion opened his palm.
Fire gathered at his fingertips, fed by the Natural Energy of Heaven and Earth until his entire hand was wrapped in a living, shifting flame. Mana flowed around his meridians while Qi circulated within. Core Meridians and Heavenly Gates worked in tandem, keeping the balance precise.
He watched the fire dance.
And remembered the burning bush.
Fire that judged, yet did not consume. Fire that was holy, terrifying—and near.
Fire was not only destruction. It could warm. It could shelter.
It could purify.
Nerion realized.
The name came unbidden, as if whispered by Aeonia itself.
[Choro Sancti Ignis] -
The world answered.
The flames deepened, growing heavier, brighter—recognized. Their power surged, strengthened by the act of naming.
Ten Acupoints flared like stars, two in each extremity and his two eyes.
Nerion moved.
Fire flowed freely around his body, gathering where needed without delay. When it wrapped his feet, his speed surged close to Flash Walk, yet his movement remained unrestrained and fluid.
Sombra answered in kind.
Qi flooded his dagger—and his body. The serpents darkened from bone-white to purplish-black as corruption bled through his meridians.
Muscles bulged. Black veins stood out starkly against the skin. His power doubled, forcing his cultivation briefly into Centurion territory. The cost would be severe—but irrelevant. Three Acupoints, as black holes appeared in each extremity.
They collided.
At first, Sombra pressed the advantage.
But Nerion’s defence held, and the fire wrapped around his strikes ate away at the baleful Qi, burning flesh with every exchange.
Nerion slipped past the Oblivion Blade with impossible agility.
Palms struck.
Fists followed.
Sombra retched, blood splattering inside his mask.
“AAAAAAAAH!” he screamed, desperation boiling over as he tried to overwhelm Nerion.
It failed.
Sombra retreated—once more—toward the statue.
That was the opening Nerion had been waiting for.
He stomped into the ground, forcing Qi and Mana into the stone. As Sombra emerged from shadow, flames erupted, engulfing him and forcing him to leap back, arms raised in reflexive defense.
Nerion was already there.
All the fire gathered around his arm, forming a half-meter gauntlet of living flame.
He struck.
CRACK.
Sombra was hurled backwards tens of meters. His mask shattered. Fire scorched his face, leaving it hideously burned.
For an instant, Nerion saw him clearly.
Young. Black-haired. Black-eyed. Handsome—twisted now by hatred and pain.
Sombra bit his tongue hard, fighting the pull of unconsciousness. Using the recoil, he dissolved into shadow and fled the ruins, pushing his abilities to their limit.
Nerion took a step to follow—
“QUICK. DESTROY THE STATUE!”
The shout from above cut through everything.
Dagon’s attacks stopped for a second when he saw that Sombra was about to be defeated. For the first time since his descent, his attention shifted away from the Raven.
The false god’s eyes dulled, turning the colour of a dead river—yellowed, stagnant, foul. His coiling form slowed, not in weakness, but in decision.
“If my descent is denied,” Dagon intoned, voice deepening into something ancient and resentful, “then let me leave you, little bird, and AEON, a reminder of my existence.”
The Raven’s expression changed instantly.
Not alarm. Recognition.
The Natural Energy within the sealed space convulsed.
The black-water barrier unraveled, not collapsing, but . The accumulated mass of abyssal water peeled away from the perimeter and surged upward, drawn by an unseen command. Gravity itself seemed to hesitate.
Dagon extended one hand downward.
“Κατακλυσμ??
A Rank 8 spell, one that would demand a full incantation from any mortal, was invoked instantly under Dagon’s authority.
The waters answered.
They did not fall like rain. They descended like the crushing weight of the deep ocean, each droplet a condensed hammer of pressure, capable of pulverizing stone, bone, and will alike.
The battlefield froze.
Soldiers, nobles, mercenaries, every fighter felt it instantly.
If the deluge reached them, there would be no survival. No defense. No distinction between friend and foe.
The Raven moved. He dropped like a falling star, interposing himself between the descending waters and the battlefield below. From his back unfurled two immense wings—each spanning more than fifty meters—feathers black-purple, edged with radiant authority.
“Щит Крыльев
The impact shook the ruins.
Water smashed against the barrier of feathers and condensed air, detonating into titanic shockwaves that rattled the earth. Even contained, the force made bones ache and teeth chatter.
“Mad fish,” the Raven hissed under his breath. “You’d doom the anchor just to buy seconds. Normally, I wouldn’t care—but Evelin is down there. If I answer in kind, the shockwave alone would wipe them out.”
Dagon’s smile widened, even as his figure grew fainter.
As the Deluge raged, his lips began to move again—quietly this time.
The night darkened.
Stars dimmed, one by one, as if snuffed by an unseen hand. The moon flushed red, its light bleeding across the clouds. The ancient stones of the ruins groaned, hairline fractures spider-webbing across walls that had stood for millennia.
The world itself recoiled.
An Arch-Sage-level spell
Power vast enough to erase not only the ruins—but Siracusa itself, scoured so thoroughly that nothing living would ever reclaim it.
Below, Nerion launched himself toward the statue, flames coiling tight around his limbs.
The moment he closed in, he felt it.
The statue had changed.
The stone glowed faintly, translucent now, vibrating at a frequency that set his teeth on edge. The ruby crystal in its eye was no longer merely pulsing—it burned like a miniature sun of blood, radiating heat that even struggled to match.
The anchor had become a conduit.
This was no longer simple destruction.
Above him, the Deluge continued to crash against the Raven’s wings, buying Dagon time.
Too little time.
But enough.