"I would never dare!" Nara immediately lowered her head, clearly shaken by her own moment of insolence. Thankfully, Dusk didn't hold it against her.
A thought crossed his mind. "How much do you know about history? And tell me everything you know about the Cult of the Dawn and the Clinton Empire."
Know your enemy, and you'll never lose a war. Dusk had always had a fascination with history, though he hadn't had the luxury of diving deep into it lately. Still, hearing Nara's account would give him a working framework to start from.
Seeing that he wasn't offended, Nara let out a small sigh of relief.
She silently warned herself to never again take liberties in the presence of this being. Then she answered honestly, "The Cult of the Dawn has ancient roots—some say it existed even in the Age of Divinity.
"They worship the Dawn and its incarnation, Wengenis. The current pope is Slington Machi...
"The Clinton Empire was founded roughly ten thousand years ago, after the fall of the Holy Empire. They worship the God of War, Hulk. The first king was Rydiel. The current monarch is King August IV, and the queen is..."
Though the Cult of the End was considered heretical, Nara held the title of Holy Maiden, and her command of historical knowledge went far beyond that of ordinary folk.
As she spoke, facts and figures emerged in Dusk's mind like scattered fragments. Piece by piece, a broader picture began to take shape. And then, using his own memories and knowledge, he started filling in the gaps.
Soon, sweeping, grand images of history began to flicker through his mind like scenes from a film—epic landscapes, lifelike figures, ornate and resplendent robes. All of it was vivid, down to the finest detail.
It was one of Dusk's unique abilities. He called it the "History Projector." In truth, it was a combination of eidetic memory and contextual reconstruction, like a form of hyper-immersive photographic recall. But rather than leaving it abstract, he stylized it as a movie theater in his mind—a way to pass the time in boredom, and now, a tool for rapid assimilation of knowledge.
...
While Dusk leisurely absorbed the history of the Godforsaken Continent, elsewhere, Fursa and his squad had already caught sight of the approaching forces of the Clinton Empire and the Cult of the Dawn.
At the front of the enemy lines rode none other than Medici, the Clinton Empire's legion commander.
The moment the two sides laid eyes on each other, blood boiled—no words, no pretense. Medici, clad in gold armor, raised his spear and pointed it toward Fursa's contingent. His voice rang out coldly, "Attack! Leave no one alive!"
Behind him, tens of thousands of cavalry charged forth, thundering across the plains toward the Cult of the End.
"I'm leaving this to you," Fursa said to Bishop Quito before soaring into the sky. He sneered, "Medici! Come meet your end!"
In the blink of an eye, a sea of blood surged out from him, engulfing everything within a ten-mile radius. On the other side, the sky turned pitch black.
Boom!
Two monstrous auras slammed into each other. A shockwave of force tore through the sky, fissured the earth, and sent raw energy bursting outward in every direction.
This wasn't their first encounter—they were all too familiar with each other's strength. For now, neither held the upper hand. Meanwhile, tens of thousands of cavalry bore down on the thousand-strong cultist force like a tidal wave of iron and rage.
Although the Cult of the End had two Bishops on their side, the sheer difference in numbers left them with virtually no chance of turning the tide.
The noise of the clash was immense—Dusk could see it clearly from a distance.
"Let's wait a moment before heading over," he said calmly, instructing Castor and Derrick to stop the carriage.
Derrick hesitated, then asked, "Your Majesty, should we assist Lord Fursa?"
The legion commander, Medici, wasn't just any Super Level combatant. Even for someone like Fursa, dealing with him wouldn't be easy. Defeating him quickly was out of the question.
"Go ahead," Dusk replied offhandedly, making no move to act himself.
"At once." Castor and Derrick accepted the command without question, then shot off like bolts of lightning toward Medici's position.
With their sudden arrival, the tide of battle shifted in mere seconds. What had been a balanced fight now turned against Medici. He managed to parry Fursa's strike, his body ablaze with ghostly blue fire, but was immediately kicked across the battlefield by the hulking Quito, his body crashing into the ground like a meteor.
Before Medici could rise, Castor came plunging down from above, spear in hand—its blade forged from solidified blood essence.
BOOM!
A deafening crash echoed across the skies, the resulting shockwave rippling through the grasslands. Blood-red energy surged upward like a geyser.
And yet, despite taking a direct hit, Medici wasn't seriously injured. His status as a top-tier Super Level fighter was unmistakable.
"Get the hell out of my way!" he roared. His aura, already terrifying, erupted in full. The gold of his armor bled into crimson, blazing with raw power.
Castor, caught in the backlash, was the first to be flung away, coughing blood as he crashed into the distance. Fursa, Quito, and Derrick were forced to pull back under the surge of energy—they couldn't push in, not yet.
Even while surrounded by four Extraordinary Beings, Medici held his ground. The gap in strength between levels had never been clearer.
Dusk observed the scene from afar, unhurried and still. He understood the enemy's real intent was likely not to wipe them out in one strike—it was a probe, a test of strength.
If they truly wanted to eliminate the Cult of the End in one blow, they wouldn't have sent just one man.
So now Dusk was weighing whether or not to reveal his hand early—to kill Medici and send a message to the Cult of the Dawn and the Clinton Empire.
But just then, the battlefield shifted again.
From the far edge of the plains, a thick haze of dust began to rise. Waves of soldiers surged forward like a tide, and high above them, three radiant silhouettes hovered in the sky like blazing suns.
Richard, the Third Prince, burst into arrogant laughter. "Fursa, today marks the end of your Cult of the End! I suggest you surrender while you still have the chance!"
The reinforcements were none other than the three remaining Super Level powerhouses from the Cult of the Dawn and the Clinton Empire.
Medici had merely been bait—a diversion to draw the cultists into the open. The true ambush had been lying in wait all along, ready to strike the moment war broke out.
To guard against any unexpected variables, they had deliberately sent Richard ahead by ten minutes—just enough to catch the attention of the Cult of the End's scouts and create the illusion that this was merely a probing maneuver.
And judging by the current situation, their plan had worked perfectly. These idiotic pigs had walked right into the trap.
"Those goddamn bastards!" Fursa cursed through gritted teeth, frustrated at how easily they'd been duped.
He should've sent a vanguard to scout ahead first.
But hindsight was useless now.
Dusk hadn't expected them to have this extra trick up their sleeve either. His eyes narrowed slightly, a flicker of surprise passing through them.
Still, it hadn't gone beyond what he'd accounted for—this confrontation had just been moved forward a little, nothing more.
He turned toward Nara and said calmly, "Come with me."
The anxiety on her face vanished the moment she heard him speak. She nodded obediently and followed Dusk as he stepped down from the carriage.
His carriage had been positioned at the heart of the formation, making it the most visible point on the battlefield. The moment he emerged, all eyes snapped to him.
"Your Majesty!" Fursa and the others lit up the moment they saw him approach. The gloom in their expressions vanished, replaced by raw, visceral excitement.
The reverence in their gazes came from deep within—it was unmistakable. And it made the Cult of the Dawn's forces grow visibly tense.
"Is that… him?" Bishop Wells narrowed his eyes. A faint golden light flickered in his pupils, but he couldn't sense any aura from the man—the bronze mask completely concealed it.
"Matches the description we got from the messenger," said Prince Richard, his eyes fixed on Dusk like a predator sizing up its prey. But no matter how hard he looked, he found nothing.
Witt, on the other hand, was anything but calm. He could feel something strange—an eerily familiar energy radiating from this man.
He'd only ever felt that kind of presence from high-tier Tiered Sealing Relics belonging to the Cult of the End… and yet, the aura coming from this man was far stronger. Denser. More ancient.
Could it be… could he really be the Lord of Destruction?
The thought made his heart nearly stop. And for the first time, Witt felt a deep pang of regret.
He shouldn't have defected so early. He should've waited until the ritual had been completed.
Then, Bishop Wells finally spoke, his voice calm but edged with steel. "Who exactly are you, sir? And why did you slay the leadership of our Church?"
Still surrounded by Fursa and the others, Medici growled, "Why waste time talking? I don't care if he's some so-called Malevolent Deity—just kill him."
Dusk didn't answer their questions. The crowd instinctively parted before him as he strode forward with Nara beside him.
He stopped at the front, lifted his gaze to meet those hovering high above—Wells, Richard, and the others—and spoke coldly:
"Get the hell down here."
The instant the words left his mouth, a suffocating wave of destruction surged skyward from his body. The heavens themselves twisted and darkened, bleeding into a deep, apocalyptic crimson—thick with the scent of ruin and dread.
"The Scepter of the End?!" Wells' expression darkened.
"Fucking lunatic," someone hissed under their breath. "He just activated a Tier-3 Tiered Sealing Relic without a single word."
They all knew what the Scepter of the End was capable of. There was no time to think—everyone immediately surged with power, unleashing their full strength in preparation to withstand the coming strike.
But then—nothing happened.
The attack they were bracing for never came.
Confused, they exchanged glances, barely a second passing before the sky suddenly split open above them. A colossal bronze hand tore through the heavens and came crashing down—aimed directly at Medici, who stood slightly apart from the others.
At the same time, a terrifying, dark red meteor screamed across the sky and plummeted toward him with unstoppable force.
Medici froze.
Of all the things he'd expected, this wasn't one of them. Why him? Why now?
By the time he reacted, it was already too late.
He could only watch as the bronze hand and the crimson meteor came hurtling toward him like the judgment of a vengeful god.
BOOM!!
The earth flipped.
The ground roared and buckled beneath the force, trembling as though struck by a divine catastrophe. In the blink of an eye, flames the color of blood consumed Medici entirely.
When the dust finally cleared, all that remained was a massive crater—no trace of Medici left.
The battlefield was instantly drowned in silence.
Wells and the others stood frozen, eyes locked on the gaping hole in the ground and the towering bronze Divine Idol now looming above it.
No one said a word.
In a single instant, they'd lost a quarter of their top-tier fighting strength.
Dusk stared at them, expression cold and unreadable.
"Next," he said quietly. "Which one of you is it?"