A vast surge of Arcane Power burst from Duke Dion’s body like an army obeying his command, making the real world bow beneath his will. That force, enough to make heaven and earth shudder, brushed the edge of the divine.

In this moment he looked nothing like a gray-haired elder, but a man in his prime at the peak of his power.

With human will, he shook heaven and earth.

Only a Demigod, yet he wielded such might. Not a brute monster leaning on raw strength—this was a true Demigod. An endless sea of Thunder carpeted the sky. Anyone standing outside Blackhold would have their eyes go wide.

Two auras smothered Blackhold. Vast black clouds roofed the city; countless bolts of Thunder churned in the ink-dark firmament like wrathful dragons lurking, waiting for storm and fate to align so they could pour fire on the enemy.

The other aura was a knot of twisted darkness, a band of black fog cinched tight around the town—a stench that prodded instinctive loathing, coiling like an Ouroboros that wouldn’t let go.

“Divine power… it’s close, so close!”

Behind the barrier, Zhe couldn’t hide his smile. He stared at that thunder-wreathed figure hanging in midair, pupils gleaming with feverish delight.

As the sea of Thunder spread, the storm grew savage, thicker and louder around Duke Dion. From within that blinding radiance, a silhouette was ready to be born.

Every cut of his amethyst blade drove harsher Thunder through the creature’s body. Bone plates that were just sprouting shattered before the deep-violet storm.

Then, lumps on the monster’s back burst, as if crushed by pressure. Tar-black slurry sprayed out in sheets.

“That’s not blood… that’s venom.”

A splash of black liquid hit the ground yards from Zhe, just beyond the barrier. He saw it, every nauseating detail.

The stuff ate stone like acid. In breaths, a man-deep pit melted into the pavement. Thick white smoke boiled up from the hole. Cold sweat beaded on Zhe’s brow; he stumbled back.

If that landed on flesh—considering this was Demigod blood—even a Titleholder would struggle against that corrosion.

Hovering in the air, Duke Dion noticed it too. He snorted, raised his amethyst blade, and called down spears of Thunder from the clouds.

“Majesty of Heaven, purge and smite the fiend!”

Light lanced from sky to earth. Thunder detonated in the ears of all. Zhe, closest to the strike, flinched shut his eyes; a long, buzzing ring ate his hearing. He lost balance and dropped hard.

At the instant Thunder fell, the monster, bowed by its weight, let out a shriek. Nine black bodies tore open its twisted spine, bracing under rain-bright Thunder as they launched a counterattack at the Duke in the air.

Nine elemental breaths broke through the Thunder’s lock and speared toward Duke Dion inside that storm. Each breath carried a Demigod’s threat. He didn’t yield. He showed no fear. Thunder burned brighter in his eyes. Facing those surging breaths, he did one simple thing—he cut.

Time froze. Nine colors met blazing Thunder, and their crossing made the whole world dim.

Women hugged their children, praying for miracles that never come. Men bowed their heads, shut their eyes, and stood in front of them. Even for a Demigod like Duke Dion, could anyone mortal know if he’d survive that onslaught? If the Duke died and doom fell, all they had left was prayer.

The clash in the sky finally erupted. A chaotic elemental storm broke first, like a world-ending tide sweeping the scarred land. After it came a light no eye could bear.

Boom!

Boom!

Boom!

Three deafening peals smashed through the air. People behind the barrier clapped hands to ears. As if tugged by a hidden current, they opened their eyes and looked up.

Someone else now stood within the sea of Thunder, not just Duke Dion. Behind him rose a shape condensed from lightning—male form at its most austere. Knotted muscle stacked like a small mountain, yet all coiled for motion. He gripped a massive bladed spear. Deep-violet arcs ran as eight-legged divine steeds, pacing at his side.

Zhe came back to himself and looked up. That grandeur dragged his gaze and broke his poise. A manic grin crawled across his face. He tried to smother it and failed, shouting anyway.

“O True God! Your mortal child begs for a miracle!”

Divine might can’t be forged. That pressure, so vast it calls forth surrender, is the purest sign.

Zhe yielded to that pressure. No one craves miracles more than those who chase divine strength. They don’t worship gods; they worship power distilled to its edge.

Of course, a Demigod like Duke Dion couldn’t call a True God. This was only an image spun from divine force. With vast Arcane Power, a fitting locus, and just enough divine awe, heaven and earth will answer with the god’s reflection.

Under that reflection’s gaze, the nine giant serpent heads recoiled. Their breaths thinned. The True God’s image swung onto the stallion; the flood of Thunder lined up behind him.

Banners woven of lightning snapped in the wind. Bolts shaped themselves into warriors—faces varied, weapons alien—yet one thing in all their eyes matched: a will that never breaks.

As the thunder host swelled, the rider raised his spear of Thunder and leveled it at the crouching beast. Duke Dion, who held all this together, had blood at his lips, but he was smiling. He knew he’d placed the right bet.

Not every call to a True God’s image works. Failure is common: the image spurns you, or fades on sight. Divine force is a mortal taboo. Those rats who tried to pilfer power from such an image were reduced to ash under divine wrath.

Duke Dion drew on the armies of memory and war, made them show wholly in Thunder, and earned the favor of the god who rules the storm. Against nine Demigod-level breaths joined into one strike, he had to gamble on the image.

It paid off, and in full. Before the Duke’s Arcane Power ran dry, the image hurled his thunder spear. The nine serpent heads, buckling, spat their breaths at the spear driving through.

That fierce resistance only triggered the near-solid spear to detonate. Divine power rolled out like a naked taboo spell, calling down a black storm of Thunder, starkly unlike Duke Dion’s violet.

The rider roared, drew the sword at his hip, and led the endless host in a charge.

With the True God’s image striking in person, the shadow-beast gave ground. Elemental breaths? The thunder warriors stole the nine heads’ focus. Whenever a breath swelled between them, a warrior would throw himself on it and explode, cutting it off.

So Duke Dion bought a breath. Even with the image breaking the nine-color breaths, the drain of Arcane Power tugged him thin—summoning takes its toll.

Hope filled the eyes of the people below. Only Duke Dion knew the truth: even with the image, he wasn’t sure he could erase this thing. Divine power hurt it, yes—but hurt is not annihilation. As the battle raged, the thunder warriors’ blows mattered less and less.

A monster even divine force can’t destroy—how do you kill it?

As that bleak thought formed, a soft chant brushed his ear.

“O snowy might lost between heaven and earth—by the name of the Goddess of Ice and Snow, I command the hosts. Let us be unstoppable…”

Behind him, a figure wrapped in frost tore open the void and stepped to his side.

“Duke Dion, let me lend you a hand.”

It was Lord Senro, who had visited Nero not long ago. She wore a mage’s robe; a deep-blue staff spun layers of cold in her grip. Behind her stood a form built of winter’s ice.