Crystal petals sank deep into the obsidian shell, as if they’d rooted on that black husk. The twisted domain dispersed; the ruinous power guttered out like a snuffed torch. Six raised titan arms lost strength and drooped, like felled pines after a storm.
Shock hit Mia and the burly man like winter surf; words froze on their tongues. Mia showed it worse—she collapsed, tears pouring, body shaking, unable to force a full sentence.
The burly man clenched his jaw; his sharp eyes dimmed like embers under ash. He stared at the pure-white figure hanging in midair and felt retreat coil in his chest like a cold snake.
Yet he couldn’t withdraw; he had to take Angor’s body back. A False God’s corpse must not fall into other hands.
“We move! Take Angor back!” He roared and surged into the battlefield with his men like a black tide.
Aphelia let the silver-white threads fade from her fingertips like moonlight blown. She watched the black giant’s corpse tumble, smiled, and drifted toward the rubble like falling snow. Her pure-white Bracer Gauntlets bloomed again on her forearms.
She ignored the shriveled corpse beside her and the broken Rune faintly leaking divinity, like a cracked seal.
“What a hassle—buried under all that stone like a stubborn seed.”
Sensing the breath within the ruins, she confirmed the prince wasn’t crushed below. She thrust out both hands and heaved the boulders aside like lifting doors. Light streamed from her Bracer Gauntlets, weaving like silk to draw the rubble free.
As Aphelia cleared stones, someone sidled toward the withered corpse like a thief in fog. Seeing no reaction, he tried to snatch it on instinct.
Figures poured in from all directions like wolves. Bursts of Arcane Power slammed at the looter. The first to grab the corpse flashed to ash in a heartbeat, and the body lifted to a new master.
Oddly, no blast touched Aphelia’s side. If she moved even a little, the scramble froze like birds under a hawk. Every eye locked on Ophelius, afraid she’d raise a hand.
But if Aphelia kept her gaze away, they lunged first, beating each other bloody like dogs over bones.
“Your Highness, look—the one who came to save you is already a corpse.” Aphelia yanked the trembling prince from the ruins and pointed at the frenzy over Angor’s body like a teacher scolding children.
Facing Aphelia, the prince’s teeth chattered like hail. He tried to wrench free, found no strength, and could only look where she pointed.
“You… you… you killed Angor?”
“Yeah, I did. Any problem?”
Aphelia said it like weather talk, watched the brawl ebb, and let pure-white light bloom in her palm, sighting his chest like an archer.
Death loomed, and knees hit stone. The prince dropped, stammering for mercy: “P-please! Don’t kill me. I wasn’t the one commanding this…”
He didn’t finish. A razor-bright arrow tore the sky, its terror scattering the rabid mob like kicked dogs. Its aim was Aphelia at the prince’s side.
“Guess they don’t think much of me.” Pure-white light poured from Aphelia’s hand like a gentle stream and wrapped them both. The jeweled flower bloomed again in her grip. Soft Aether ripples cinched close, not a wisp leaking.
The arrow carried Thunder like a charging storm, streaking over the capital like a burning meteor. It hit her gentle shield dead-on; friction screamed where light met bolt.
Cold regret welled in the prince behind her. He knew that arrow; its ruin breaks a Demigod, and even Angor the False God couldn’t take it clean. Yet this woman caught it so easily?
Regret bit deeper—why had he heeded that one and struck her companion? Aphelia didn’t care. She laughed coldly and pushed the flower forward like a blade.
Silver-white radiance fell from the sky and erased the arrow midair, forcing Aphelia to still her hand. Merlin did it—the one who opened the barrier and aided her revenge.
At that pure-white glow, his pupils pinched like tightened seams. A small tremor ran through him, buried well enough that Aphelia didn’t see.
Beside Merlin stood a tall figure in black armor bristling with spikes like a thorned carapace. Dark-gold markings burned on his breastplate. Thorny etchings wrapped his blade like a scabbard woven on steel, binding its edge.
Aphelia didn’t know the emblem, but she knew True God power by scent. It seeped from those dark-gold marks like heat from iron. This one—could he be…
Before she could test it, the black figure raised his sword. A rasping, sovereign voice rolled across the capital like thunder over hills. “I am Slude, King of the Demon World!”
The pitch-dark night answered. Thunder burst with his call, and the thorn-etched pattern on the raised blade split like cracking ice. “Hear this decree: you are guilty!”
As Thunder roared, the fleeing rabble saw pale sparks hover above their heads like ghost fire. No trick or prayer could shake that thin corona.
The black-armored king leveled his blade. Deep-blue Runes lit along his armor like cold stars. His verdict fell like iron: “You shall die.”
Above the capital, the once-clear night packed with cloud like ink. Bolts knifed down in blinding lines, hammering every quarter. Thunderstorms gathered, washing filth and shame from the city like a flood. In a blink, night shone bright as day.
Screams drowned under the drum of countless strikes. Any who ran or resisted drew harsher bolts, like wolves culling stragglers. The king watched in silence, no matter who burned beneath the storm.
Merlin drifted down and landed by Aphelia, concern soft as rain. “Sorry I’m late. Do you need healing?”
“No. I want the name of the one behind all this.” Aphelia pointed at the collapsed prince, a cold smile like a knife on her lips. She threw him glances that pinned him still. He hadn’t planned to move anyway—his father, lord of the Demon World, was pouring wrath on “traitors.” With a storm covering the upper city, he had nowhere to run.
“Of course. But… could we hand him to the Demon King?” Merlin nodded after a pause and added the condition like a stitch.
“Why? With your strength, you can trace the true mastermind.” Aphelia shot back without a beat. He’s the Demon King’s son. Return him and it’s letting the tiger back to the mountain.
She didn’t want to face a nation wielding True God power again, plus misshapen False Gods, all aligned as one. A Demon World like that would be a juggernaut, rolling like thunder.
“I can do it. Give me the interrogation, and I’ll get the answers. But offend the Demon King, and you’ll be hamstrung in the Demon World. You’re in its capital now. With your power, winning his help later isn’t hard. So why not trade him a favor?” Merlin spoke patiently, eyes never leaving Aphelia, the prince beside them like air.
His words pushed Aphelia to weigh it like a scale. She could kill the prince now, rip his soul like tearing silk, and take the truth. Angor, who’d tried to bargain, claimed he guarded the so-called Giants. Even if the search failed, a “visit” to that clan would give answers.
Taken together, returning the prince to the Demon King above was better than wresting him away. It saved the king’s face before nobles like a mirror uncracked and banked favor for the war to reclaim the human realm.
As for Violet’s grudge, that wouldn’t end so easily. Who says torment must end in a kill?
“Fine. Have it your way. He’s yours.” Aphelia stepped back, let her white radiance fade like ebbing tide, and nodded to let Merlin take him.
Merlin exhaled in relief, and so did the limp prince. After a quiet thanks, silver-white light flowed from his staff like milk, bound the prince, and carried him toward the Demon King.
