In that instant, the world froze.
Not metaphorically, not in awe—but truly, utterly still.
The sky, once alive with thunder and lashing bolts of lightning, fell into unnatural silence. Jagged arcs of energy hovered mid-air, unmoving. The roars and shrieks of destruction ceased, like a harp string suddenly cut.
Gerald stood like a monument, frozen in the posture of fury. Not even his fur fluttered.
Asher lifted his head. The air felt thick, dense with something ancient—something divine. His golden eyes scanned Paradigm, and everywhere he looked, chaos had halted. People screaming with mouths agape, knights mid-sprint with weapons raised, entire buildings caught in the act of collapse—all suspended in a cruel, perfect stillness.
And then, a voice—deep, unhurried, undeniable.
“This is my world.”
Zenas.
“I am currently rewinding time for us alone. Were it not so, your body would have been rendered useless the moment I unleashed this domain.”
Asher turned to Gerald—the only one still moving. But even that was a stretch. The once-dreaded knight dragged his foot forward slower than a falling snowflake. An ant could’ve marched ten meters in the time it took him to breathe.
It would’ve been comical… if not for the weight of what was to come.
“I don’t have long,” Zenas muttered, eyes narrowing at the frozen knight. “Should I kill him…” his gaze drifted beyond, to the skybound ship, “or save her?”
A voice stirred within.
“I need her.”
Zenas chuckled—not out of joy, but recognition.
Within Asher’s mind, a familiar form stepped forward—his true self, the white-haired man standing alone in darkness, eyes gleaming with restrained grief. Zenas knew. If he let this continue, his successor might spiral—twist into something unworthy of the name of lord.
He had to act.
The earth cracked. Massive fissures ruptured beneath his feet—but even they were stilled mid-eruption. Dust froze in place. Shockwaves hung like halos. And Zenas soared, rising skyward like a streak of judgment. His white hair whipped violently, catching the starlight as he rose a hundred meters with ease.
Then—a thud—he landed atop the ship’s deck, white eyes surveying the battlefield. Fairies hovered mid-lunge. Wolves hung mid-snarl. Every enemy and ally was a statue in a moment lost to time.
“Sirius.”
Asher turned—no, he saw. Clearer than ever, his gaze pierced miles of debris and ruin. Deep in the shattered remains of the lord’s estate, Sirius lay in blood and stone. His loyal beast. Still breathing.
Barely.
With Zenas guiding his steps, Asher navigated the ship’s narrow lower decks. His stride held urgency, but his form remained calm—controlled. He found her—Sapphira—in a room sealed tight. She was unconscious, untouched. He didn’t wait.
With a blast of power, he tore through the ship’s hull and shot downward, streaking across the sky like a falling star.
And then—
Time resumed.
Sound returned like a crashing tide. Gerald surged forward with a roar, blade cleaving the space where Asher once stood.
Only to hit nothing.
He stumbled. Confused. Eyes wide with panic as he passed a transparent glass with blade-like edges.
Above him, the lord hovered—his golden gaze calm, ancient, almost mournful.
“You still wouldn’t survive Cyrenia.” Asher’s voice carried like prophecy. “So I took care of one burden for you.”
Before Gerald could process the words, his body split apart.
A perfect cut.
The Fifth Titled Knight—anointed by the Old Ones of Tenaria, breaker of lords, the nameless knight—was no more.
He fell in silence, a ghost of his former self. A relic of a fading age.
And even in death, his eyes remained open.
Still unable to comprehend that he had been defeated.
At the outskirts of the ruined estate, Nero remained unmoving, but not untouched.
His white cloak flared as the air shifted. His eyes—gray like tempered steel—locked onto Asher, who landed beside Gerald’s corpse, white eyes dimming as Zenas receded.
Nero didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.
He had known his lord was powerful.
But this? This was divine.
His hand drifted instinctively to the hilt at his side, not out of fear, but loyalty—to remind himself that he was still Asher’s blade, even if his lord now walked like a god.
A faint wind stirred his cloak as he stepped forward, gaze unwavering.
“My Lord,” he said quietly, more to the wind than anyone.
Asher collapsed to his knees, still cradling Sapphira in his arms as every shred of strength bled from his muscles, leaving only pain behind—raw and biting.
Yet… he smiled.
Despite the numbness creeping through his limbs, despite the weight pressing down on his bones like the hands of death itself—he smiled.
Her face was untouched.
Eyes closed in a serene slumber, unbothered by the carnage around them. In her, there was peace—something the world rarely gave him.
He couldn’t feel his legs. His arms were fading too. But his heart still beat, steady and slow, like a distant war drum in retreat.
The wind curled around the ship’s frame. Its sails stretched wide and caught the current above Paradigm, guiding them away from the shattered sky of battle.
No fairy dared attack again.
Not after what they’d seen.
Gerald—despite age, despite decline—had still been a mountain. And Asher had reduced him to memory.
Behind him, iron echoed.
Heavy steps. Measured. Armored.
He could not turn—his body refused him—but he did not need to. He waited, head tilted slightly, until the sound stopped… and presence filled the air before him.
Omar.
Ten feet of armored fury, commander of the Scarlet Templar Knights, now kneeling with one fist pressed to the ground.
“My Lord,” Omar intoned, his voice like distant thunder. “The fairies have fled. We captured twenty—veteran knights, all of them.”
Asher’s eyes met his. Cold. Commanding.
“Execute them on the spot,” he whispered, barely above breath. “Kill everything with pointy ears and wings behind these walls.”
BOOM!
A thunderous roar answered him—not from the sky, but the hundred axes of Templar Knights slamming against the ground in unison, iron to earth, a war chant of loyalty.
“As you wish, My Lord,” Omar rumbled, bowing deeper.
Around him, the polar wolves approached. Their thick fur rippled in the breeze, and their silver eyes bore into Asher’s with something neither fear nor pity could name. Loyalty. Kinship. Maybe love.
He looked at them, and for a moment, his harsh stare softened.
But then it hit him.
Like ice water down his spine.
He couldn’t feel the threads of mana knitting his wounds.
Couldn’t sense the slow hum of regeneration beneath his skin.
His gift was gone.
He couldn’t heal.
_____
Hmmm…. I’ve being seeing comments lately. What’s going on?
Anyways, this is the end of Volume 4: Duke Of Ashes!!
Congratulations!!!
THIS VOLUME HAS ENDED!