The sword descended from the heavens.
Roland remained still, but the sword energy unleashed from his raised blade had already surged skyward, piercing a thousand meters into the sky. When it came crashing down, the air shattered with a deafening roar, like a thunderclap that tore the very sky apart. The ruptured air was dragged along, forming countless tornadoes of varying sizes around the sword energy, as if the heavens themselves had been split by that single strike.
These tornados swirled around the sword energy, and the entire blow, carrying the shattered sky along with it, gathered all of Roland's strength and spirit into a furious, piercing storm that slashed downward like a bolt of unrelenting thunder.
Meanwhile, Lancelote had already vanished from sight—what remained visible was an enormous, radiant, and overwhelmingly powerful Holy Light Cross Sword that tore through the earth. The moment the sword coalesced, the yellow sand and undead remnants in its path were sent flying like waves parting before a tidal force. The sword of light shot out as a streak of white brilliance, and everything beneath its trajectory split apart. A massive, seemingly bottomless fissure extended in a straight line all the way to the horizon, as though the very earth itself had been cleaved in two by that single blow
Both swords struck at same time.
The massive ice pillar behind Asa shattered, and the countless shards and fragments that had yet to fall from the sky were crushed further into powder midair. The swirling sand on the ground and the tornadoes in the sky had just begun to mingle and collide when they, too, were instantly ground to dust. The force, energy, and intent of the two swords overlapped and compounded, shredding, slicing, and grinding everything within that space—over and over, again and again, until there was nothing left that could be broken.
The only thing that remained intact… was Asa.
Even the ground beneath his feet had been disintegrated into particles too fine to be called dust, yet he continued stepping forward through the void—no longer merely walking. He had begun to strike back.
With his right hand, he drew a perfect circle in front of him with his blade, then slashed horizontally in a seemingly empty arc.
The strike appeared to hit nothing—yet in that instant, the raging storm of sword energy surrounding him came to a sudden, eerie halt.
Only Roland and Lancelote could feel it—that slash had severed the combined strike between the two of them.
There was no force in that blade, only a void, hollow emptiness. And that emptiness had appeared at the exact point where their powers had fused with the greatest intensity and precision. It was like a tangle of threads, densely knotted at one crucial point—once that point was undone, the entire structure unraveled.
The Holy Light Cross Sword faltered for a moment, its brilliance dimmed slightly, but still it thrust forward toward Asa. The radiant sword, formed from the fusion of intense battle aura and sword energy, might have lost its sharpest edge—but it was still powerful enough to pierce any enemy.
Just then, Asa's second strike came.
Another weightless, effortless slash—this time falling softly onto the tip of the glowing sword.
Crack.
That colossal light sword, which had been powerful enough to rend the earth itself, was utterly shattered by that seemingly effortless, weightless slash.
Compared to the sound of the sword breaking apart, the shattering of Lancelote's armor—and parts of his limbs along with it—seemed insignificant. All one could see was a sudden spray of blood erupting from his entire body as he was sent flying backward like a stone struck by an invisible hammer.
But Roland's sword had struck true. Even as Asa repelled Lancelote, Roland's sword energy—though partially disrupted—still came down like a divine thunderbolt, ferocious and unrelenting.
A deafening explosion followed, no less intense than the sound of that massive ice pillar crashing into the earth. The ground and even the very air that had just begun to stabilize were torn apart and shattered under that blow.
The blow had indeed struck Asa. Though he slightly turned his body to avoid a direct hit to the head, the sword still slashed into his shoulder. With a tearing sound, the armor transformed from the Ghost King's Robe split open — a long, narrow gash appeared. The robe, said to be the most impenetrable of defenses and worn by the King of the Undead himself, was finally breached.
But that was all. The entire effect of that mighty sword strike amounted only to that single crack in the armor — a few inches long. Beneath it seemed to be a bottomless black void; no matter how fierce, wild, or violent the sword energy was, it simply disappeared into the emptiness, as if falling into an abyss, without any response or resistance.
The surrounding ground split and rose into the air, the air itself exploded outward — the aftermath of that one sword made the entire area feel as if the heavens were collapsing. Yet in the very center, Asa remained unmoved. Still. Hollow. As if the destruction unfolding around him belonged to another world entirely. Apart from that small wound on his shoulder, there was no indication that he was even connected to this shattering world around him.
At that moment, the blade with which he had just hit Lancelote was withdrawn, and then, once again, he delivered another light, effortless slash — this time straight into the heart of the lingering sword energy.
Emptiness.
That was all Roland could feel, even from several hundred meters away. Not only did he feel it when his strike hit Asa — now, he felt his own sword energy becoming empty.
The moment Asa's effortless stab pierced the heart of the sword energy, the center of the once-solid force suddenly turned hollow. It wasn't absorbed, nor shattered — it simply vanished into nothing. Instantly, the entire structure of the sword energy began to collapse. The power once evenly distributed throughout was now being pulled violently toward the void at the center, clashing, spiraling out of control, and then detonating.
This void did not only affect the sword energy — within moments, it reached Roland's arm. He felt his own flesh, bone, and the energy imbued within suddenly spiral into chaos, just like his sword strike.
The moment he sensed something wrong, Roland tried to abandon his sword — but it was already too late. The void had bound his hand to the sword, fusing them as one. He roared, raising his other hand — fingers shaped like a blade — and gathered what was left of his internal sword energy, slashing it down at his own right shoulder.
A spray of blood erupted. Staggering, Roland tumbled backward. His sword hand — along with the weapon — had been crushed into dust by the out-of-control feedback of his own energy.
From beginning to end, Asa had only used the knife in his right hand to shatter the combined strike of the continent's two greatest swordsmen. The true weapon he held in his left — the Black Star — hadn't even moved.
His power was not terrifying in the conventional sense. There were no earth-shaking displays, no overwhelming surges of force — in fact, one could say there was no power at all. What he wielded was void, emptiness. And yet, any world-shaking force became fragile, utterly meaningless before him. Under that gaze — that hollow, all-seeing gaze that seemed to pierce through everything and perceive the laws behind all things — all power was reduced to dust.
Lancelote had been struck in the same manner, and his injury was undoubtedly more severe than Roland's, for he had not benefited from the buffer of several hundred meters of sword energy. Fortunately, his glory armor had absorbed part of the force, and in the instant the armor shattered, his countless life-or-death experiences allowed him to shift ever so slightly. That slight movement meant the runaway sword energy and force didn't pulverize him on the spot — it merely blew him away.
His right arm, along with the Glory Armor, had been completely shattered. Nearly half the bones in his body were broken, and much of his muscle tissue had ruptured — the blood spraying from his wounds in midair was nearly half of all he had in his body. If it weren't for the spells Moriel had cast on him that greatly enhanced his constitution and vitality, he would have already been dead.
Such was the sheer power of the sword energy's collapse — Lancelote had been blown away like a cannonball, flying past the very spot where he had just been standing and landing far to the rear, at what had once been the allied forces' position. There, he crashed heavily into the sand, and the impact drove every shattered bone deeper into his muscle, causing pain so intense that he nearly passed out.
The allied army had long since retreated. Now, like the rest of the battlefield, this place was nothing more than a vast, empty expanse of skeletal remains and sand.
And yet, two figures still stood here — alone.
These two were both drenched in blood, covered in countless wounds, and holding weapons that had long since been hacked into ruinous shapes. They were among those brave warriors who had fought tooth and nail, stepping over the remains of countless undead to reach this place. One could imagine how, moments ago, they had stood side by side with sword-wielding knights and orcs, shouting battle cries and fighting to the death in a storm of blood and steel.
The fact that they hadn't left with the retreating forces — nor had they been forcibly taken away — could only mean one thing: they had chosen to stay behind.
The strange thing was, both warriors were women. Though their hair was disheveled and their bodies soaked in both their own blood and that of fallen comrades, though their wounds were as numerous and brutal as any on the battlefield, and the skin between their thumbs and index fingers had split open from swinging their swords too many times — none of it could hide the beauty in their features.
They were warriors — but they were also women.
The two women weren't standing together. Judging from their positions, they hadn't even encountered each other during the battle within the allied forces — it was only after the army retreated that the two, who had made the same choice to stay behind, became noticeable. But they didn't even glance at each other. It was possible they hadn't even noticed one another's presence. They simply stared blankly ahead — at the place where the King of the Undead had appeared, at the hero who was once supposed to save the world now transformed into the demon who might destroy it, at the people who were once tasked with protecting him now throwing their lives away trying to kill him.
It wasn't until Lancelote came crashing down that the two finally reacted. The taller woman immediately ran over and caught the blood-soaked Lancelote in her arms, casting healing white magic as she shouted in panic, "Master! Master!"
With the support of white magic, Lancelote finally regained consciousness. To his surprise, the spell Moriel had cast on him began resonating with the white magic, accelerating the healing of his wounds. But Lancelote paid no attention to the recovery — his eyes were fixed on the girl in front of him as he asked in shock, "Why are you here?"
"He didn't want me to come — I snuck into the magic academy and blended in with the swordsmen on my own," Talice replied, her expression blank, sorrowful. "Master… What happened?"
Lancelote looked at the other woman approaching and shook his head with a sigh. "Prime Minister Murak… You sneaked in as well?"
Elaine gave a slight nod. Her expression was much like Talice's, though more hollow, more numb. Their eyes met — and only now did they truly notice each other. No words were needed; their matching gazes and expressions already told them everything they needed to know.
Her wounds were especially severe — she was practically covered in blood, with even her face marred by a deep gash that revealed bone. The torn flesh made her otherwise gentle features appear grotesque. Truthfully, her strength wasn't enough to fight her way here. She had made it purely by force of will. But now, even that will had been exhausted. The belief that had once supported her hadn't collapsed — it had instead been transformed into something unbelievable, something incomprehensible, filling her mind to the brim. That mind, once so sharp and brilliant, was now completely blank.
The sounds and vibrations echoed, not loud, yet deep enough to reach into every soul. Even the two women, whose hearts had been completely numbed and frozen, could feel their spirits stir and roar in unison with the sound. Along with Lancelote, they raised their eyes.
At this moment, Asa had finally come to a stop. He raised his left hand, gripping the pitch-black star, for he was preparing to face the oncoming sun.
The white sun, the moving sun, the rushing sun, the sun of life, the very real sun, the sun that no emptiness could consume — the sun named Grutt.
There was no sprinting, no flying. He simply moved forward, one step at a time, toward Asa.
Boom. Boom. Boom. These were the sounds of his footsteps.
Without the overwhelming power of Roland's strike that could shatter the heavens, without the speed of Lancelote's sword that could cleave the earth, he advanced steadily, step by step. Each step was firm, unshakable, and reverberated through all living beings. Whether beneath his feet was sand, remnants, bones, or cracks in the earth, even when stepping on the very void between the fissures — these were the steps of life.
He didn't take action while Asa was dealing with Lancelote and Roland. He waited, watching, until Roland and Lancelote were defeated and sent flying, and Asa resumed walking forward as he had at the start. Then, and only then, did he make his move.
He wasn't coming to fight; he was coming to shatter this emptiness with his life. His life was so strong, so direct, so blazing, so radiant — it was life like that of the sun.
Boom…
Boom…
Boom…
With the final step, he leapt into the air, clenched his fist, turned his body, and raised his fist.
Every part of his body was fully stretched, tightened to its utmost limit, like a bow— the most perfect bow. No object, not even the Phantom Devine Bow, could compare to this flawless expression of power, beauty, and life.
All the light had gathered in his fist, that was his arrow, the culmination of all his strength and life. It was blinding, the sun of life itself. He threw his punch.
Asa remained unmoved, still holding the hilt of the black star sword high, like a statue. A statue of emptiness, holding the most void-like of points, motionless as it faced the oncoming, blinding, overflowing life that radiated like the sun.
Everything froze. In the world, only the approach of two points—one solid, one void—remained, drawing closer, closer, closer... and then, it too stood still.
The two points did not actually touch. His fist and the hilt of the pitch-black star sword were still separated by mere inches. Grutt, mid-air, had completely frozen, maintaining the posture of throwing his punch, as if he too had become a statue. He and Asa's statues were mirrored, unmoving. Even the light on his fist seemed to have solidified, no longer flickering with brilliance.