Boom!
A cataclysmic tremor ripped through the very foundations of Orario.
The earth, typically stoic and enduring, seemed to cry out in protest, groaning under the sudden, violent jolt that seized the city in its grip.
Buildings swayed precariously, stones groaned, and the ground bucked like a wild beast beneath the feet of its inhabitants.
Dust billowed upwards in choking clouds, momentarily obscuring the already dark night sky.
In the heart of a fierce conflict, where blades clashed and magic flared, the combatants froze. Ryuu, Kaguya, and Shakti, locked in a desperate struggle, found their battle abruptly halted. Their bodies automatically tensed, assessing the unprecedented disturbance.
"An earthquake?" Ryana cried out, losing her balance as the ground lurched violently beneath her, sending her sprawling onto the hard-packed earth.
The shock evident in her voice mirrored the fear on many faces across the city.
Beside her, Lyra questioned the assessment, her gaze sharp and analytical despite the chaos.
"No, this isn't just an earthquake," she stated, her voice strained but firm. "It feels... different."
Shakti, recovering her footing with ease, pointed a steady hand towards the sky, her previous intensity now mixed with alarm.
"It seems to be an attack," she declared, her voice resonating with the gravity of the realization. "A ridiculously powerful one."
Following the direction of her pointing finger, every pair of eyes in the vicinity, and indeed across vast swathes of Orario, snapped upwards.
A collective gasp swept through the stunned onlookers, a wave of shock and dawning fear.
Towards the distant point from which the earth-shattering sound had originated, a horrifying sight unfolded.
The dense shroud of smoke that blanketed Orario's night sky, had been violently torn apart.
It wasn't merely disturbed; it had been cleaved.
A vast, impossible void had been carved into the smoky canopy, the edges of the rupture appearing impossibly clean, as if the very air and smoke had been physically severed by an overwhelming force.
It was a wound in the sky itself, a gaping maw, proof of the sheer, unadulterated power unleashed below.
All across the sprawling city, people paused their lives, their gazes fixed on this terrifying phenomenon.
Whether they were adventurers, merchants, common citizens, or even the evilus, every single person found themselves united in silent, fearful observation.
Every skirmish ceased, every argument halted.
The entire city held its breath, every eye straining towards the silent, terrifying tear in the heavens, the visible source of the impossible sound and tremor.
High above the city, perched atop the towering structure of Babel, Freya, the Goddess of Beauty, stood motionless.
From her elevated vantage point, she possessed an unparalleled view of the unfolding scene.
Her silver eyes were fixed on the distant section of the city where the sky had been wounded. Her usual serene, almost detached expression was replaced by one of intense concentration, edged with a flicker of apprehension.
She gazed intently, waiting, her breath held tight in her chest, for the drawn-out, rumbling echoes of the impact to finally dissipate into the unnerving silence that followed.
A single name escaped her lips, barely audible, a whisper lost in the still air.
"Ottar..." Worry, a rare emotion for the calculating Goddess, laced the sound.
Nearby, observing the same scene with a far different demeanour, sat Falazure.
His form, shimmering with nauseating draconic energy, hummed with dark amusement.
"Hohohohoho," he chuckled, the sound like dry leaves rattling in the wind.
"These kids are really going all out. You certain you don't want to join the fun, Bahamut? Taste the thrill of battle again, like the old times?" His voice was laced with a taunting, morbid joviality.
Sitting opposite him, radiating immense draconic power, Bahamut bristled.
Her blood red eyes, usually calm and wise, blazed with sudden, furious anger.
"Shut it, you necrotic piece of shit," she retorted, her voice a low growl, the sound vibrating with contained fury.
Falazure simply laughed, a chilling, dry sound that scraped against the ears.
"Ahahaha, feisty as always," he replied, unperturbed by the insult.
His gaze, which had momentarily shifted to Bahamut, returned to the distant, violated sky, his expression one of eager anticipation, like a predator watching a promising hunt unfold.
Bahamut, however, was far from amused.
A cold knot of panic was beginning to tighten in her chest.
She hadn't anticipated this.
She hadn't expected the evilus forces, already a significant threat, to possess someone capable of unleashing such an overwhelming attack.
The sheer, raw power contained within that single strike was staggering.
From the instantaneous impact, the impossible cleaving of the sky, and the way it had shaken the entire city to its core, she could already make a terrifyingly accurate estimation of the person who had unleashed it.
And she could say with absolute certainty, based on her vast experience and keen senses, that no mortal champion currently fighting on the adventurers' side possessed the strength to stand against such an individual.
Not even her most cherished child, at least not through normal means.
To compound her dread, her senses, sharpened by ages of experience, detected not one, but two other presences among the evilus ranks, positioned strategically, bearing similar, terrifying levels of power.
One pulsed with immense magical potential, a vast reservoir of destructive energy waiting to be unleashed.
The other... the other bore a disturbingly familiar scent, one that echoed the same dark, sinister power that emanated from Falazure himself.
Three beings of ridiculous power, arrayed against the defenders of Orario.
A cold calculation formed in Bahamut's mind, battling against the rising tide of fear.
She needed to act.
She needed to find a way to quickly neutralize Falazure, the most immediate threat she could directly confront.
While occupied with him, her children, spread across the chaotic battlefield, were in immense danger.
Draco is smart, she thought desperately, clinging to that hope.
He's intelligent and cautious.
He shouldn't get tangled up with those people... at least not willingly.
But... the 'but' hung heavy in her mind.
The sheer scale of the power she sensed, the chaotic nature of the battle, the unpredictable variables – all conspired to fuel her deepest anxieties.
Even the smartest and most cautious child could be caught in the crossfire of such overwhelming forces.
Her red eyes flickered in an eerie glow, her senses scanning the city, trying to pinpoint the locations of her scattered children.
'Hehehe!, how long can you resist the urge to battle' Falazure thought, sensing Bahamut's restlessness.
Back at the source of the devastation, where the sky had been ripped open, the thick pall of smoke finally began to drift and dissipate, revealing the immediate aftermath of the catastrophic blow.
Amidst the ruin and destruction, a figure stood largely unharmed, clad in dark, menacing armor. He was clearly the victor.
A low, guttural sound, somewhere between a groan and a gasp, escaped the lips of the defeated. "Grrgh..."
Ottar, the strongest Boaz, the pride of the Freya Familia, lay broken amidst the rubble.
He had been blasted through building after building, the force of the impact propelling his massive, powerful body through stone, wood, and steel like a rag doll.
The journey had been brutal, a horrifying blur of crushing impacts and tearing pain.
He had long since lost count of how many bones had shattered or fractured along the excruciating path of his flight.
Sprawled out in a crater of debris that had once been a building, his vision was a swirling, darkening mess of pain and fading consciousness.
Every breath was agony, every movement sent searing waves through his ruined frame.
Yet, even on the brink of collapse, the instinct of a warrior, honed over time, persisted.
With a monumental effort that cost him dearly, draining the last vestiges of his strength, Ottar managed to muster enough power to turn his head.
His blurred, dying gaze fixed in one direction: towards where he knew Zald would likely be.
At that very moment, lying broken and defeated, Ottar was a maelstrom of conflicting emotions: pain, shock, the bitter taste of failure.
But as his fading consciousness focused on the distant figure of Zald, and he saw, or perhaps merely perceived through the haze of his own defeat, the deep, disappointment etched onto Zald's face, one emotion rose above all others, crushing him with its weight: regret.
Regret for failing, regret for being weak, regret for letting his goddess down.
.........….
A short distance away, Allen, froze mid-stride.
"Ottar..." The name was a choked whisper, a sound of utter disbelief.
He had heard the colossal impact nearby, but the reality of it was sickeningly immediate.
Ottar's trajectory had ended just moments ago, sending the shattered remains of the Boaz into the very building behind Allen's current position.
Turning, Allen could see it clearly – the horrific panorama of destruction, and in the center of it all, Ottar's form lying broken, pitifully still amidst the wreckage.
The sight was like a punch to the gut.
"Get up, you asshole! This isn't the place to be taking a nap!" Allen yelled, his voice cracking with a desperate, angry energy.
He couldn't process it. Ottar, the Ottar, the unyielding bastion of strength, defeated? And defeated in a single, devastating attack? It was impossible.
And now, as another figure began to approach his fallen body from the tangled ruins, the full horror of the situation slammed into Allen: Ottar wasn't just defeated; he was about to be killed.
Smack!!
A sudden, blinding flash of pain exploded across Allen's face.
He cried out, a strangled gasp ripped from his lungs, "Gah!" The force of the blow was tremendous, disproportionate to what it felt like – a casual backhand, like swatting a fly.
Several of Allen's teeth, suddenly loose and jagged, were sent flying through the air, tiny white projectiles vanishing into the smoky night.
Mors, his opponent, had barely moved.
With a seemingly effortless, almost dismissive gesture, he had delivered the devastating blow to Allen's face with the back of his heavy gauntlet.
It wasn't a strike meant to kill, but one meant to hurt, to humiliate, to establish dominance with brutal ease.
"How bold," Mors stated, his voice calm and utterly devoid of emotion, yet carrying an chilling weight of contempt.
He raised the back of his gauntlet and, with a deliberate, slow motion, pulled a small piece of dark cloth from his belt.
He proceeded to meticulously wipe the surface of the gauntlet, as if the mere act of touching Allen had sullied his armor.
"You have the gall to worry about another while facing me."
"Ptui!" Allen spat, the sound wet and ragged.
Shards of broken teeth mixed with blood cascaded from his mouth, staining the ground near his feet.
He glared up at Mors, his face a mask of throbbing pain and incandescent rage.
The sheer indignity of it – swatted aside like an insect, treated with such utter disdain, while his strongest comrade lay dying just yards away.
His opponent was clearly, deliberately toying with him.
Mors hadn't attacked with killing intent; he had attacked with mockery.
Allen knew, with the cold clarity born of pain and fear, that he needed to focus entirely on the monster standing before him.
Survival demanded it.
Yet, the sight of Ottar, broken and vulnerable, the knowledge that another enemy was even now approaching to deliver the finishing blow, couldn't be ignored.
It tore at his focus, screamed at his instincts.
Something had to be done. He couldn't just stand here, bleeding and humiliated, while Ottar was executed.
But what? He was caught in an impossible bind.
Two monsters were before him, one effortlessly powerful and utterly disdainful in his direct path, the other approaching from the tangled ruins behind him, moving to kill his rival, his captain, his Goliath.
This wasn't just a difficult fight; this was a trap, a nightmare scenario Allen never once conceived could ever happen.
He was cornered, outmatched, and faced with a choice that tore at his very being – fight the insurmountable foe in front of him, or somehow intervene to save the one he had spent his career trying to surpass, only for both of them to be killed, either way, it felt like a checkmate.
This was the worst situation Allen Fromel had faced in his entire, battle-hardened life.
And for the first time, the legendary 'Vana Freya' didn't know what to do.
The weight of his helplessness settled upon him, heavy and suffocating…..