I’ve said it before: the Amelia of old fell only because over forty Epic-level Archmages, plus several Legendary mages—all specialists in soul-based attacks—combined their spells against her. Ordinary mages could never have achieved such a feat.
But now? A handful of barely-Epic mages think they can suppress me? Suppress this Divine General? How utterly delusional.
I didn’t even bother weaving counter-spells with my own magic. Instead, I simply channeled the Primordial Force within me—and unleashed it in an instant.
The violent surge didn’t just blast the three nearby Legendary mages away. It shattered every ongoing spell around me, then slammed into the fragile bodies of every mage present. Magic backlash and Primordial Force collided—nearly all of them dropped dead on the spot.
That’s the helplessness of facing a Divine General: merely four Legendary and a few dozen Epic mages. Any one of these men, back in their world, would make a marquis bow and address them as "My Lord."
Yet now, these once-arrogant masters lay cold, blood streaming from eyes, nose, and mouth. Mighty warriors flew backward before even grazing me, shattered by my Primordial Force.
Such is the terror of a Divine General!
"Die."
My voice was calm. I moved. My greatsword danced like a rapier in my grip.
A mere touch of its tip against a warrior’s chest—his Primordial Force instantly spiraled into chaos. I triggered a slight internal explosion with my own energy. His veins burst. He collapsed, a crimson ruin.
A heavy sword needs no edge; true mastery needs no flourish. With absolute power, I could slaughter them bare-handed. Yet I refused to let their blood stain Noble Night’s blade.
Noble Night. That was its name.
Forged by a Demigod in ancient times, it was one of the Twelve Divine Artifacts. Purple veins traced its dark blade—purple for nobility, darkness for the night. No ornamentation. Only unbreakable steel.
For a weapon of slaughter, no "justice" whitewashes murder. Only darkness honors death.
As a Demigod’s creation, it stood above all blades—a noble among weapons. Hence the purple veins. Hence the name: Noble.
This was my Noble Night.
And it deserved better than the filthy blood of these insects. Only true nobles. Only worthy warriors. Their blood alone could grace its steel.
