Chapter 7.5. The War (6)

  Apollyn told them that it was time to end this.

  The otherworlders agreed.

  They poured every remaining ounce of magical energy into their swords, holy light screaming as it reached its limit. In response, Apollyn increased the output of the purple flames. The fire roared higher, its intensity surging, and his flaming sword burned brighter as his original blade became engulfed in violet fire.

  They charged.

  All four moved at full speed.

  At the instant they collided, a blinding white light erupted. The ground was torn apart as a massive explosion thundered outward, lightning flashing violently within the rising dust cloud.

  When the dust finally settled, Apollyn and the otherworlders stood with their backs to one another, swords still in hand.

  Then—

  The otherworlders’ blades shattered into fragments.

  One by one, their heads slid from their shoulders.

  Their bodies dropped to their knees before collapsing, lifeless and decapitated, blood pooling beneath them.

  On Apollyn’s side, deep cut marks lined his face, arms, torso, and legs. His flame sword vanished, its power spent.

  His strength gave out.

  He stabbed his original sword into the ground, using it as a support, but even that wasn’t enough. Apollyn fell to his knees, panting heavily, purple embers fading as silence reclaimed the battlefield.

  Only now did Apollyn truly understand the cost.

  The purple flames did not consume his magic power—but they fed relentlessly on stamina. Worse still, by continuously increasing their output, he had pushed his body beyond its natural limits. His strength had grown rapidly, yes, but so had the risk. If the battle had dragged on any longer, he might have died by his own hand.

  Yet, despite that realization, gratitude filled him.

  He silently thanked the Demon King for granting him the power to exact his revenge, to wash away the shame of his past defeat at the hands of those humans. Slowly, he forced himself back onto his feet and bowed deeply, hoping—believing—that the Demon King could feel the sincerity of his respect, even from afar.

  Dragging his longsword along the shattered ground, Apollyn walked toward the fallen otherworlders. When he reached them, he stacked their lifeless bodies atop one another with deliberate care. He raised his longsword high, then drove it straight through all three corpses, pinning them together.

  “In tribute to our great Demon King,” he declared.

  Purple fire erupted along the blade, and in moments the bodies were reduced to ash and blackened remains. The scent of burnt human flesh filled the air, and Apollyn inhaled deeply.

  Relief washed over his demonic heart.

  With his vengeance complete and his resolve reaffirmed, Apollyn activated his teleportation magic and vanished—returning to the ruined town to continue the Demon King’s will.

  When Apollyn returned to the town, he found that the demonic army had already ransacked it with ease. Nothing remained—no resistance, no survivors worth noting. A faint irritation stirred within him as he realized his hunger would have to wait until the next town.

  He ordered his army to advance.

  As he rose into the air to depart, something caught his eye. From a shattered wall below, a lone human crawled out from a hidden opening, desperately gasping for air. Apollyn’s lips curled into a grin.

  In an instant, he descended.

  He landed before her and drove his hand straight through her chest, ending her struggle in a single motion. As life faded from her eyes, he leaned closer.

  “It’s a shame I had to kill such a pretty face,” Apollyn said calmly.

  He devoured her without hesitation, savouring the moment before discarding what remained. With his hunger only barely appeased, he took to the air once more and re-joined his army as they advanced toward the next town.

  Elsewhere, Demon Lords Astarte and Ammit had just shattered the barrier protecting their target and immediately ordered their army to attack. As the frontline poured into the town, a sudden explosion tore through the ranks, hurling demons backward in a violent blast.

  The two Demon Lords strode calmly through their disrupted forces and reached the frontline themselves. There, standing at the town’s entrance, were three humans clad in robes.

  It was their first time seeing them—but they knew instantly.

  Otherworlders.

  Without hesitation, Astarte and Ammit ordered their armies to advance once more, stepping forward themselves as they prepared to engage the otherworlders directly.

  As Astarte and Ammit charged, swords formed in their hands. They swung the moment they reached the otherworlders, but a barrier snapped into existence, blocking the attacks.

  Seeing this, the Demon Lords leapt back into the demonic horde. Miasma poured into the town like a living fog, spreading rapidly through the streets. When it reached the otherworlders, cracks began forming across their shield.

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  The Demon Lords noticed immediately.

  They charged again and drove their swords straight into the barrier. It shattered into fragments, dissolving under the combined pressure of steel and miasma.

  The instant the shield fell, the otherworlders jumped back. They understood at once—they could not fight within the miasma. Choosing survival, they turned and fled.

  Just as expected, the Demon Lords pursued.

  While retreating, the otherworlders unleashed a volley of fireballs. Astarte and Ammit dodged most of them, while the rest were deflected into nearby buildings, igniting the town as the chase continued.

  Seeing this, the otherworlders abandoned all thoughts of counterattacking and focused solely on escape—they had no desire to further destroy their own town. As they fled, they conjured a thick mist to obscure the Demon Lords’ vision.

  It was useless.

  Astarte and Ammit tore through the mist with their blades, dispersing it instantly as they continued the chase.

  Mid-pursuit, Ammit noticed something off—one of the otherworlders had vanished. Her eyes narrowed. A possibility crossed her mind: perhaps the missing one had doubled back to attack the demonic army while the others served as a distraction. Still, she dismissed it as unlikely. Within the miasma, such a move would be suicide. Holy magic would be drained with every passing second.

  With that thought, Ammit vanished from sight.

  Astarte continued the pursuit alone.

  They reached the far outskirts of the town, where ruined streets gave way to a vast open field. The otherworlders finally stopped running. Astarte slowed as well, coming to a halt several metres away.

  The two turned to face her and lowered their hoods, revealing that they were women. Both were striking—one with light blue hair, the other with deep reddish tones framing her face.

  Noticing that Astarte was alone, one of them spoke, asking where the other Demon Lord had gone.

  Astarte’s lips curled into a faint smile.

  “To the same place your companion went,” she replied.

  The otherworlders were clearly annoyed by the Demon Lord’s answer. Worry flickered across their faces at the thought of their sister, but they quickly pushed it aside. She wouldn’t fall so easily—not to anyone.

  With that belief, they refocused on the fight before them.

  The moment Astarte noticed their attention sharpen, she charged at full speed.

  As she closed the distance, an ice shard erupted from the ground, shooting straight toward her face. She twisted aside, narrowly evading it—but the moment her foot touched the shard’s edge, another spike burst upward, aimed for her once more.

  This time, Astarte blocked it with her sword.

  She used the impact to propel herself backward, landing smoothly a short distance away.

  When she looked up, the otherworlders were smiling.

  So that’s what they’re doing, she thought. Provocation.

  Unfortunate for them—Astarte had never been one to take the bait.

  The ice shards sank back into the ground. A brief silence followed.

  Then fireballs streaked toward her in rapid succession.

  Astarte deflected each one effortlessly. Just as she assumed it was over, a massive fireball roared toward her. She sliced straight through it, dispersing the flames without slowing.

  Now she understood.

  Opposing elements. Precise timing. Excellent coordination.

  Astarte’s expression sharpened as she adjusted her stance, fully acknowledging them as worthy opponents.

  Astarte charged at them once more.

  The moment she closed in, ice shards burst from the ground beneath her feet. She twisted aside, landing only for another shard to erupt where she would have stood. She evaded again.

  Then she changed tactics.

  Astarte began running in wide circles around them.

  Every step she took triggered another ice shard, forcing her to keep moving. Standing still was no longer an option. After a few moments, fireballs joined the assault, streaking toward her from the red-haired otherworlder.

  She deflected them as she ran.

  The barrage didn’t stop.

  Astarte continued encircling them, weaving between erupting ice and deflecting flames mid-stride. Still, she couldn’t close the distance. Whenever she tried, ice shards rose to block her path, while the red-haired otherworlder flooded the space with relentless fireballs.

  She redirected several fireballs back at them.

  They were intercepted—and hurled right back at her.

  Clicking her tongue in annoyance, Astarte surged forward again. Ice erupted beneath her feet once more. She blocked the shard, using the impact to launch herself backward and out of the red-haired otherworlders firing range.

  She landed lightly, eyes narrowed.

  Annoying, she thought—but not impossible.

  Astarte sighed and decided it was time to use her spirit magic.

  She called upon the spirit of fire, Urivulcan, which manifested as a massive tiger, and the spirit of ice, Isbertalba, which took the form of a towering polar bear. The sudden appearance of such enormous creatures caught the otherworlders off guard, but they quickly steeled themselves for battle.

  Astarte gave the order to attack.

  The two spirit beasts lunged forward ferociously. The otherworlders unleashed a barrage of attacks, trying to stop them from closing the distance, but it was useless. The spirit beasts tore straight through the assaults with brute force alone.

  Since the beasts never touched the ground, the ice-shard traps failed to activate.

  When the spirit beasts reached them, the otherworlders were forced to split up, each engaging a beast one-on-one. The clashes dragged on, brutal and relentless. The beasts smashed through every attack thrown at them and occasionally retaliated with fireballs and iceballs of their own.

  Astarte watched closely as the otherworlders struggled to evade the relentless assaults.

  Yet she knew the downside.

  The longer the fight continued, the more magical power the spirit beasts consumed. Spirit magic was her greatest weapon, but it drained her reserves steadily the longer she maintained it.

  A massive explosion echoed from within the town, drawing the attention of both Astarte and the otherworlders.

  In that brief moment of distraction, the spirit beasts struck. Their attacks landed cleanly, launching the otherworlders nearly fifty metres away.

  As the otherworlders struggled back to their feet, an overwhelming bloodlust pressed down on them, making their bodies tense. When they turned around, the spirit beasts were already standing before them.

  “Frost Prison,” said the ice-magic wielder.

  “Flame Prison,” said the red-haired otherworlder.

  The polar bear was sealed inside a massive sphere of ice, while the flaming tiger was trapped within a raging ball of fire.

  Inside the ice prison, countless shards formed and shot outward, piercing the polar bear’s body. Within the flame prison, a violent firestorm erupted, raging relentlessly inside.

  Moments passed.

  Then cracks began to spread across both prisons.

  The otherworlders stared in shock as the fractures widened and deepened. With a thunderous roar, both prisons shattered violently.

  From the smoke and debris came the furious roar of a polar bear—and the enraged howl of a flaming tiger.

  Out of the icy mist, the polar bear stepped forward. From the ashes, the flaming tiger emerged.

  Their eyes locked onto the otherworlders, and in that gaze, death seemed inevitable. The otherworlders could feel their own souls trembling with fear.

  The beasts roared ferociously, the sound vibrating deep in their chests. Just as panic gripped them, the beasts began to shimmer. Their forms turned transparent, then slowly vanished.

  The otherworlders felt a wave of relief wash over them. When they turned to face Astarte, they saw the exhaustion etched across her face. Her magical power was running dangerously low.

  Seeing an opportunity, the otherworlders readied themselves for an attack.

  Suddenly, a surge of bloodlust slammed into them from behind.

  “It took you long enough,” Astarte said.

  The otherworlders spun around, only to feel an overwhelming presence descending from the sky.

  A figure with black feathered wings was flying downwards. Her body was perfectly sculpted, curves accentuated by tight-fitting clothing. Every detail—from her defined form to her poised stance—exuded both power and a seductive allure that made even the most disciplined onlookers pause.