The Supreme Divinity’s Sword paused for a moment in its holy light as Anton’s body began to heat up.
Abandoning regeneration, he channeled all the mana destined for resurrection into an explosive detonation.
Unfolding was an explosion of maximum power.
Roarrrrrr!
Together with the ominous heat rising from the epicenter, the condensed air heated and expanded. The phenomenon gave rise to an immense storm and colossal force. Before the Supreme Divinity’s Sword could erase its look of bewilderment,
KWAH GAGAGAGAGAGAGA AGAGAGAGAAAANG!
There was a powerful explosion that could be heard even in the farthest distance.
Not size but density. Focused on a single point with the intent to incinerate the Supreme Divinity’s Sword, this was the strike unleashed by the veteran of magic.
An inferno arose, fierce enough to burn away souls, dispersing clouds as it surged upwards.
“What the hell…!”
Beyond Tiamat’s startled voice, several soldiers stared entranced at the flames.
Though the soaring flames seemed as if they would last forever, they soon subsided.
GURRRR…
Even the process of dissipating was not gentle. The heated and expanded air swirled in all directions, creating a violent storm that scattered the finely strewn corpses on the ground.
Amidst the flying flesh and bone, the Supreme Divinity’s Sword appeared less crimson than black.
One arm was completely gone, presumably burned off, and its body was in no better condition.
One eye, likely blinded, now only emitted streams of pitch-black ash.
The distorted insect-like face revealed hatred, pain, and fury— the expression of a mindless beast enraged by the fact that a mere human had harmed it.
The beast roared.
“――!”
It was a roar of immense anger, so loud that nearby soldiers fainted en masse.
Among the soldiers collapsing with a thud, the Supreme Divinity’s Sword lifted a massive sword with its remaining arm.
“―!”
And charged forward.
In order to eliminate as many followers of the Ancient Gods as possible before its own demise.
The massacre began again, starting with the fallen soldiers, painting the scorched black earth red once more.
Witnessing this scene, Frida, instead of her broken axe, seized a dead warrior’s axe and shouted,
“Hold them off! Buy us some time!”
As Frida cried out, Bahot charged forward, Anna recited prayers with a sorrowful expression, and Tiamat drew back the bowstring.
Aslan barely regained consciousness.
*
—Roaaar.
A heavy sound reverberated through his mind. Coughing up blood that gurgled from his mouth, Aslan clutched his chest and groaned in agony.
The pain was almost unbearable, as if every sense of touch had been obliterated. It was painful just to breathe, likely due to multiple fractured ribs.
Labored breathing. With great effort, Aslan rose and instinctively checked his body.
His left arm was gone. It had been violently torn off—or rather, exploded.
Both legs were compound fractures. Without the equalization magic of this world, it wouldn’t have been surprising to hear that he would never walk again.
Bone fragments jutted out, piercing through his pants, mixing with blood, leaving Aslan bewildered as to their origin.
Roarrrr…
The distant roaring sound brought back related memories. Recalling faintly, Aslan finally realized the trial before him.
There stood the martial monk.
Blackened and covered in blood, a sickly crimson color that evoked thoughts of war and knowledge.
The victory in his hand seemed to confirm that this figure was indeed the Supreme Divinity’s Sword.
‘Certainly… I must have defeated it.’
In his hazy memory, Aslan was sure he had felled the Supreme Divinity’s Sword.
Since creating a high priest isn’t easy, it wasn’t plausible that a new high priest had been hastily created and sent to attack.
While it wasn’t impossible that this was an illusion, Aslan believed it was far more likely that the Supreme Divinity’s Sword hadn’t truly died.
People were being torn apart and scattered like rain.
At the sensation of human flesh hitting his head, Aslan shuddered and looked up.
The transformed Supreme Divinity’s Sword was still fighting.
Though one arm was missing, the warriors opposing it were in worse condition.
Soldiers who couldn’t withstand the raining death became rain themselves, while the commanders struggled desperately against the tide.
Their intentions were painfully obvious.
With no grandmaster present on the battlefield, they were buying time.
They were sacrificing their lives to protect the grandmasters and bring hope to this battlefield.
Trembling with fear yet still moving, soldiers who wet themselves out of sheer terror nonetheless gripped their spears tightly and charged forward, only to be shredded into six pieces.
All the time they lived and the meaning they held disappeared, scattering into the wind.
Turning his head, Aslan saw comrades scattered across various parts of the battlefield.
Ereta, whose head was barely held together; Phey, pinned to the ground; Lumel, unconscious; Richard, slumped over having lost both arms yet still trying to rise; Angie, who had lost both arms but somehow managed to stand.
Those supporting them, healing them, or stabilizing them—the wizards.
What had happened didn’t need guessing.
It was clear that Aslan himself had experienced the same fate.
It was also evident what kind of destiny those trying to protect Aslan had met.
Only then did Aslan recognize the fragment lying at his feet.
A soldier, with only part of his upper body remaining.
A soldier whose helmet had shattered upon impact with the ground, revealing his face.
A human, lying lifelessly at Aslan’s feet with dulling eyes.
Aslan recognized the soldier.
Her name was Karl.
Karl, who had feared whether she’d ever return home.
Karl, who had disguised herself as a man for reasons anyone could imagine, becoming a soldier.
Karl, who tried hard to suppress her fear and act composed while working.
Aslan remembered her.
He could recall this now-dull expression, the moments when she pretended to be calm but was overtaken by fear.
Karl, the woman who tried to remain polite despite her efforts to hide her fear.
Aslan’s face contorted. He felt like vomiting.
Was it because of the gruesome sight?
No, it was because someone he knew had died.
Because of the horror of it all.
Aslan covered his mouth and closed his eyes.
Upon reflection, it was inevitable.
Geladridion had always been such a land.
A place of inequality, absurdity, where no good intention could flourish.
A place where any corruption was tolerated.
A land where, no matter how much willpower one possessed, escape from inevitable despair and oppression was impossible.
A place where any goodness was erased before a handful of shadows.
Aslan came to this realization anew.
“…Shit.”
Rarely uttering profanities, Aslan was filled with rage.
He loathed himself for making empty promises to Karl about fighting together and letting her die.
He despised himself for failing to do what he should have done and losing consciousness.
He was disgusted by the injustice and filth he couldn’t prevent.
Thus, he was furious.
Those being trampled and scattered now were no less valuable or inferior to Aslan.
They were all people like Aslan—thinking, living, loving, burning alongside life.
Surely, they all cherished their own lives. None of them liked sacrifices.
Yet, they were giving their lives so that more might live.
The fact that their noble sacrifice went unrewarded made Aslan’s stomach churn with anger.
The disheveled face of death, the screams trying to mask fear, even those sounds being torn apart and scattered—Aslan took it all in and slowly rose.
Pain shot up his spine like ice.
Blood spewed from his mouth, splashing onto the floor. The pain was unbearable.
His body was in tatters.
His lifespan was running short.
The impending death was palpable, as was the emptiness from the missing left hand.
Indiscriminate equalization only hastened death. If dying, one should die protecting others.
Fighting just a little longer, focusing on what was needed to kill the Supreme Divinity’s Sword.
Aslan recalled this as he pulled out the Dragon King’s arm.
A black-scaled arm, nearly indestructible unless cut by something pure, moving like a fortress.
Aslan thought.
Just a hypothesis, but perhaps this arm could be used.
Of course, there was no guarantee that the predator’s body moved purely by mana.
But considering the core made of soul that maintained life and acted as a power source, simultaneously serving as a weakness…
Thinking that the soul might be a form of mana…
The predator’s body could likely move by mana.
Steamfalos’ wings activated their original functions when infused with mana, and other predator equipment worked similarly.
Perhaps the Dragon King’s arm would too.
Aslan flowed mana into the Dragon King’s arm.
The twitching arm, the flinching muscles within. Dense metal softly whirred like a turbine.
Approaching the severed wound of his left arm, Aslan brought the arm closer.
Cold sweat trickled down his spine.
If he attached this arm, there would be no going back.
This would be considered part of his body.
Any restoration magic or equalization would fail to heal it—it was certain.
This arm would become Aslan’s arm.
Forever.
His soul would be damaged, and he might even die during the attachment process.
Even if he survived, forcibly channeling mana into the arm would cause excruciating pain that even his deadened body could feel.
Aslan wasn’t sure if he could endure the pain of forcibly connecting his soul.
But that was merely Aslan’s concern.
Contrary to risk assessments, his body moved on its own.
For this reason, Aslan couldn’t hesitate.
The moment he placed the Dragon King’s arm against his severed limb, Aslan collapsed.
An involuntary scream escaped his lips.
A proper pain long forgotten. Not physical, but spiritual anguish.
As if his innards were being flipped inside out, nausea and pain wracked his body.
It felt like his soul was being completely overturned.
Groans of pain involuntarily escaped his lips, cold sweat streaming down his body.
Still, Aslan continued to infuse mana into the Dragon King’s arm with his right hand.
Using mana to create pathways within the Dragon King’s arm.
Once this passed, he would never feel anything with this left hand again.
Permanent loss. There might even come a time when the pain itself would crush his soul.
This pain would follow Aslan until the day he died.
It might significantly affect his lifespan.
It certainly would.
But there was no regret.
If he didn’t do this now, if he didn’t fight,
Aslan would regret it even in death.
Between groans of pain, Aslan thought.
‘I am Aslan.’
It was an answer meant only for himself.
‘And this is something only I can do.’
Lee Hyun-woo muttered these words to himself as if brainwashing himself.
Clutching his newly reattached left hand, he emitted light from his mana tattoos.
“Equalization, activate.”
Except for his left hand, the mana flowing through his body restored him.
Legs, which had suffered compound fractures so severe he couldn’t even stand, recovered. Damaged internal organs that had ceased functioning restarted, spreading their effects throughout his body.
His heart raced, afterimages danced in his vision, and blood gushed from his mouth, but Aslan managed to rise.
Staggering to his feet, Aslan clenched his left fist in anger at the scattered deaths around him.
Click, the metallic sound of steel scraping echoed.
Woooom…
As if echoing Aslan’s rage, a low, deep turbine sound spread.
[!– Slider main container –]
