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The blade descended quickly, streaking through the air like an arrow loosed from a divine bow.
The white devil, standing rigid within the formation, tilted its head up instinctively. Though it had no eyes, it could sense the shift in mana around it. This movement of its neck was nothing more than a remnant habit.
Then, for the first time in the battle, its body shuddered. A sensation it no longer understood gripped its very being. Its instincts screamed, a single desperate command hammering through what remained of its consciousness—dodge.
It did not think. It did not reason. It only moved.
Cracks spread from the open wound on its left side that resembled jagged veins of ice. The frozen flesh resisted as it moved, grinding against itself as it attempted to run away.
High above, Yselda watched every movement closely. She could feel the divine sword's descent, the weight of its presence pressing down like an executioner's verdict. But she was not worried.
The properties of the spell were both absolute and precise—purification and severance of divine mana. Unless one was directly impaled, the spell would not indiscriminately annihilate everything in its path.
Unlike her previous, unfinished binding move, this divine spell would not explode nor spread uncontrollably. Its might was contained, directed. But the key was ensuring that the enemy could not escape.
With a sudden, ear-splitting crack, the ice encasing the white devil's wound shattered, the shards scattering like broken glass.
It was getting ready to escape.
The squadron that had been alternating with Vek during the earlier swordfight did not hesitate. As one, they surged forward to intercept.
Yet this was different.
Before, the white devil had fought like a master duelist, responding to their attacks with technique honed from a lifetime of battle-although repeated and limited. Now, it moved like a wounded beast, its only instinct to flee.
Its gray, humanoid body crouched low, tendons tightening like coiled steel. In a split-second decision, it chose an escape route—toward the forest behind it.
A desperate attempt.
"Stella!" a male voice yelled.
The shout cut through the air, and before the white devil could spring forward, a silver spear hurtled toward it.
The impact was instant.
The tip of the spear pierced its flesh. For the first time, its defenses had failed.
But this was no ordinary weapon. It was an artifact.
Stella, the warrior who had thrown the spear, reacted immediately. With a practiced motion, she jerked her arm back, as if pulling on a leash.
The moment she did, her entire body was yanked forward, propelled by a sudden burst of force.
The white devil barely reacted. It didn't care for the wound in its shoulder, nor did it glance at the spear still embedded in its flesh. It leaped forward, driven by a singular thought—escape.
Yet Stella was fast.
With a graceful mid-air spin, she unsheathed the blade at her hip. The steel gleamed under the sun for only a heartbeat before she plunged it into the earth, using it as an anchor.
In her left hand, she gripped a string of light mana that connected to the end of her spear—an unbreakable tether.
The moment the white devil reached the limit of the tether's range, it jerked violently backward.
A thunderous crack echoed as its muscular frame twisted mid-air, unable to continue its escape. The force nearly tore Stella's feet from the ground, her heels grinding into the dirt as she braced against the recoil.
She grit her teeth. "You're not going anywhere."
This was no longer a battle against a swordsman.
This was a hunt.
The rest of the squadron rushed forward, their movements sharp, precise. They had spent their lives guarding the Forest of Disasters. They were trained not to fight men, but to slay beasts.
As they closed in, the sword in the white devil's hands materialized once more.
It had dissipated earlier, but now, sensing immediate danger, the creature willed it back into existence.
Had it retained intelligence, it might have cut the mana string, severing the tether that bound it. It might have redirected its strength toward the weakest link in the formation to force an opening.
Instead, now that it was not under the immediate threat of the divine spell, it attacked blindly.
A horizontal sweep—sharp, precise, deadly. A wave of aura surged outward, slicing through the air toward the three warriors blocking its path in an arc.
They dodged effortlessly.
They had already memorized its attack patterns.
"Web formation!" their leader shouted.
Instantly, the three fighters shifted their positions, weaving around the monster like threads tightening in a web. Their blades flashed—fast, unrelenting. A fierce onslaught of attacks surrounded the monster.
The white devil was caught.
For the first time, it was not attacking. It was reacting.
It was struggling.
And a little futher back, the divine sword continued its descent.
Yselda took a deep breath. Her moment to act was approaching.
Unlike the others, she was not worried.
They trusted her.
And she trusted them.
The divine sword was not a rushed attack. It was a calculated execution.
The spear embedded in the white devil's back was already beginning to collapse, as it was crumbling from the inside out.
Yselda made her move.
Without a sound, she vanished.
In an instant, she reappeared directly in front of the white devil, her silver staff aimed mere centimeters from its chest.
If it had been any ordinary opponent, she could have used 'Spatial Displacement' to forcefully teleport it under the spell at the correct moment, sealing its fate.
But that was impossible.
The white devil was a lump of divine mana. Trying to teleport a being of that magnitude was beyond her limits.
Not to mention—her mana reserves were running low.
Her body ached, the pain dull yet unrelenting. The injuries she had sustained earlier were minor, but unlike aura users, magicians required absolute focus. Even the faintest disruption could mean disaster and result in a spell's failure.
And so, she chose the second-best option.
Wind magic.
It was not her specialty—not like ice, nor like spatial manipulation. But it was enough.
From the tip of her staff, a small blue sphere appeared.
A heartbeat later—impact.
A sickening crack split the air as the sphere struck the white devil's chest, its torso caving inward.
This crystal sphere was a safety measure, in case the propulsion was too strong or not strong enough-a way to act immediately if something went wrong.
Then the wind hit.
A massive whoosh filled the battlefield as the immense gust of air surged outward.
The white devil was blasted backward, thrown directly toward the descending blade.
The divine sword gleamed as it fell, its edge pulsing with absolute judgment.
There was no time to escape.
No time to dodge.
The white devil, flung backward, stared up at the sky.
If it could see, its vision would be filled with the massive sword descending from above, now only meters from striking the ground.
The battle was over, but-
Yselda's eyebrows furrowed as she felt her control over the crystal ball slip away.
There were a few possible reasons for this.
The most common was simple: the mana had dispersed due to a lapse in control.
Another, far more concerning possibility was that the mana had been forcefully seized by someone with overwhelmingly superior skill. For such an event to occur, the difference in control would have to be astronomical.
Lastly, the mana could have been torn apart under sheer, overwhelming pressure. And this time, that was the case.
A dense surge of mana spread across the battlefield, radiating from the white devil at its center.
("How annoying.")
Yselda could feel the divine mana surging outward, clashing against the sword above. The creature was throwing its power into the surroundings, desperately attempting to push back the descending spell.
Of course, it was futile. At this stage, the sword's acceleration could not be stopped.
However, the force of its resistance created an unintended effect—the counterforce knocked the white devil slightly off course, shifting it just outside the direct path of impact.
A tense silence settled over the battlefield. None dared to approach—neither the monstrous being nor the spell poised to end it.
Yselda raised her free hand, prepared to intervene. But just as she was about to act, she hesitated. A faint smirk touched her lips.
With swift, calculated precision, Stella appeared behind the devil.
In her grip was the very blade she had used earlier to halt its leap. Now, it shone with a brilliant golden glow.
"This is for my spear, shithead!" she shouted, her expression cocky.
Her foul language clashed with her refined, well-kept appearance, but no one in the Dawnblade family was surprised. Her demeanor was well known.
She didn't employ any elaborate technique. She simply swung her blade before swiftly retreating, moving beyond the range of the spell.
Time seemed to slow. The descending blade, gleaming with divine power, cut through the air—its edge just millimeters from where the devil's eyes would have been on its blank, featureless face.
A moment later, the massive sword descended.
What happened next was not visible to the human eye. There was no explosion of blood, no grotesque spectacle. The white devil vanished beneath the brilliance of the strike, its form erased in an instant.
Rather than crashing into the earth and kicking up dust, the colossal blade of light sank into the ground as if slicing through butter—without resistance, without impact.
This was expected. It was not a physical construct. It was made of light and divine mana.
Just like physical matter, mana followed its own rules of conservation.
Fire mana dissipated into heat. Light mana vanished when its illumination faded. Water mana turned into mist or humidity.
Had this spell been formed from earth mana which materialised physically, the ground would have shattered, leaving a massive crater.
But now, all that remained was silence.
The first sound to break the stillness was the quiet rasp of a blade being sheathed.
It was Stella. Rather than standing in awe of the divine spell, she was preoccupied with brushing the dirt from her tattered armor, grumbling as she smoothed out the fabric.
Her squad leader, Kyle, looked at her in disbelief before suddenly bursting into laughter.
A being of unrivaled power had fallen, yet she was more preoccupied with the dust on her armor. To her, a demigod was no more than a speck of dirt.
Laughter spread through the battlefield. Cheers followed.
The battle was finally over.
A demigod—an existence bordering on divinity—had been slain by their hands. And not a single one of them had fallen.
A short distance away, a team of specialized mages cast spells, ensuring the smooth descent of Vek, who had yet to land.
Two healers approached Yselda, having noticed the crimson hue of her sclera.
Even if she bore no visible injuries, no healer would dare hesitate to approach when it came to someone of her status.
Yselda, however, paid them little mind. Her gaze swept over the battlefield, passing over the warriors and mages reveling in their victory.
Then, she turned toward the city walls.
Finally, her eyes fell on Kael.
The sword had vanished without a trace, along with the white devil's body.
Across from her, Kael sat motionless on the ground. His eyes were closed, his expression eerily serene.
His wrist and hand, still held in a meditative posture, were covered in deep red cracks. The marks stretched up his lower face, stopping just below his nose.
Death mana was spreading through his body.
Yselda's breath hitched. His arm.
His arm, filled with death mana, had been severed at the beginning of the fight. If the residual mana had leaked into the ground, it would be disastrous.
Without another thought, she abandoned the healers mid-treatment, weaving through the celebrating crowd with careful, measured steps, trying to draw as little attention as possible.
Just as she neared her target, a hand clamped down on her shoulder.
"Lady Yselda, you were amazing as always!"
The voice was unmistakable. Only a select few would dare to touch her so casually.
She turned, already knowing who it was.
Kyle, leader of the second squadron—Vek's most trusted team.
Stella quickly followed. "Your performance was breathtaking. I'm in awe every time I see it."
The other squad members and surrounding mages chimed in with their own praises, layering on flattery before Yselda finally excused herself.
Her sharp gaze scanned the ground for the remnants of Kael's severed limb.
Nothing.
She exhaled sharply.
("It must have been cleansed—destroyed under the spell's effect.")
A deep, stoic voice sounded beside her.
"Gloomy as always. Why don't you smile for a change?"
Vek approached, limping ever so slightly on one side.
He had removed most of his heavy armor, clad now in light, form-fitting garments that accentuated his dense, battle-hardened muscles and scars.
Yselda barely spared him a glance before turning away. A slight twitch appeared on her brow.
"Gahaha, you never change." Vek laughed heartily. "Nevertheless, good work."
She left without a word, his laughter echoing behind her.
Two frantic healers rushed after him.
"Sir, please don't leave before treatment is finished!" the female healer complained as this had become a habit of his.
Their voices faded into the sounds of victory.
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