“Then, I shall not let you live.”
Gerald’s right eye gleamed like a star wrought in wrath. In the next breath, a towering pillar of lightning crashed behind him with a sound like the heavens splitting open. Thunder crackled, roared, and echoed like a divine war horn.
But it didn’t end there.
More pillars fell—blinding spears of judgment from the skies—each one a sentence pronounced by a merciless god. From across the horizon, hundreds watched in horror as the sky rained down judgment upon the Lord’s Manor. Pillars of white-blue lightning surged with wrathful intent, reducing the once-magnificent estate on the emerald hill to scorched rubble. The hill itself blackened, scorched and broken, as if struck by the hammer of the gods.
But the devastation didn’t stop at the manor.
Some of the pillars carved into the heart of Paradise itself. Screams erupted. Panic spread like wildfire. Every hundred meters, another thunderous judgment fell—and death followed not only from touch, but from proximity. The air shimmered with crackling energy so potent, it flayed flesh and shattered stone.
One of the pillars landed directly on Asher.
And yet, from within the storm, his golden eyes remained fixed on the chaos engulfing his city.
Paradise.
Torn apart by a single man’s inner world.
They said Awoken Ones were more than an army. They were calamities, myths given flesh—nightmares on the battlefield. And this… this was proof.
His skin was disintegrating in torrents of electric pain, yet regenerated as quickly as it vanished, caught in a loop of infinite suffering. But the pain in his chest eclipsed all. His heart screamed louder than his nerves. And in his glowing, pain-wracked eyes—reflected clearly—was the image of Alexander, landing atop a flying warship amidst the chaos.
“This is my world,” Gerald spoke, staring down the tempest he had conjured, devoid of remorse or guilt. “This is how I see it. A world where all must endure judgment—of lightning and thunder.”
He turned to walk away, blade sliding into its sheath with finality.
But a low, feral growl broke through the chaos.
Sirius.
The white wolf lunged into the hall, shoving Asher out of the way and placing itself within the pillar’s heart. Gerald paused, confused—expecting instant disintegration—but Sirius remained, body healing at the same speed it was being torn apart.
Then, it howled.
A cry so ancient and powerful it felt as though the twin moons above trembled in resonance. The walls vibrated. The heavens shuddered.
Gerald’s expression shifted. For the first time—uncertainty.
And then…
A spatial tear split open outside the city’s walls.
Wolves—polar wolves—rushed through. Massive white beasts, with limbs the size of bears, cascaded from the rift like a blizzard of fury. Some dropped into the flying ship, turning it into a war zone. Others thundered through the city, rescuing civilians, scattering the soldiers of Cyrenia like autumn leaves in a storm.
Gerald turned to Sirius, his pupils dilating.
“You… still exist?!”
Rage surged through him like magma.
He unsheathed his sword with a snarl—only to stop.
Asher stood again.
Tall. Calm.
His eyes burned white, yet within them—dangerous serenity. Rage leashed by sheer will. The lightning that still cracked around him now fueled his spirit instead of breaking it.
“I never thought I would come out now.”
The voice that emerged from Asher’s mouth was not his. It was deeper, older, laden with unspoken truths and primordial might.
Gerald froze.
He knew that voice. It wasn’t Asher—it was someone else.
“Possessing this body may cripple him,” the voice continued, “but it was his choice. I may not kill you here, but you will not leave untouched. Submit her now.”
There was no anger in the voice. Only certainty. The certainty of one who had fought more wars than most men had drawn breaths.
Even amidst the electrical storm, where the very air was a conduit for torment, this being endured without a flicker.
“Who are you?” Gerald demanded.
Asher didn’t answer. His grip tightened on Ithamar.
Seeing his resolve, Gerald lunged—his sword a streak of white steel in the storm—but Asher stepped forward and simply thrust.
It wasn’t just a strike. It was a release.
A pulse of light erupted from Ithamar like a sun screaming. Gerald flew a kilometer through the shattered ruins, crashing through walls and columns before finally grinding to a halt in a jagged gulley.
His armor clattered to the stone in pieces.
He touched his lips—blood.
Gerald’s eyes went wide. Shock overtook pride.
Up above, Alexander ripped his blade from a dead wolf and shoved the corpse over the railing of the ship. Gasping for breath, he turned—and saw them.
Asher and Gerald.
Leaping.
A black silhouette against the moons before Asher landed a kilometer away from where he’d stood just seconds ago.
“Start the ship! We’re leaving!” roared, panic flaring in his voice.
Gerald, meanwhile, rose slowly—his expression hard, his body tense.
His inner world contracted, and all the pillars that once ravaged the city now compressed inward, forming a single terrible domain.
Lightning. Thunder. Judgment.
So intense, neither man could see the other clearly.
‘Can you handle this?’ Zenas asked softly.
“Bring her to me.”
Asher’s voice wasn’t loud. But it didn’t waver.
Zenas let out a quiet chuckle that barely touched amusement. He’d heard this tone before. In dying men. In those who had already decided.
‘If I use my inner world, you might be crippled or even worse. Die on the spot.’
“I won’t die.”
Zenas didn’t answer at first. There was only a pause. A long, weighted pause. Then his voice came again, gentler this time, edged with something close to pride.
‘As you wish.’
Purple light burst out of his right eye, spilling like a flood, and in that instant, the air thickened around him.
Gerald squinted when he saw the brilliant purple light.
‘No!’
The earth caved inward under the explosive force of his feet as he leaped for Asher, his teeth clenched.
In that instant, Zenas inner world was projected into the real world in a stunning purple flash.