The echo of the deafening ¡RETUM! still vibrated in the broken stones of the Sylvan Bastion, a shockwave of pure light that had momentarily pushed back the icy fog as if the sky itself had split open in abrupt judgment. The air, once heavy with the metallic stench of blood and scorched flesh, now crackled with residual static, a metallic taste on the tongue and a heat that grazed the skin like the breath of a newborn sun. In the blood-soaked courtyard, the surviving kobolds shrieked, dropping their rusted weapons and seeking refuge in vain, while the disoriented elf archers fired emerald arrows that sparked and dissolved uselessly in the lingering radiance.
Renn, steadfast atop the mound of rubble, felt the banner of faith pulse strongly in his hand, resonating with the distant explosion. He turned, his gray eyes narrowed against the fading brilliance, a taut smile tugging at his lips. "That…" he growled, his raspy voice barely audible over the waning chaos, "…that's ours." Beside him, Lilith unfurled her black wings with a snap, her laughter a manic trill that cut through the tension. "Oh, my lord! What a spectacle! Big sister has lit her beacon!" Nyra, appearing silently from the newly cleared glade, nodded once, the dried blood on her fingers like dark jewels, her amethyst eyes fixed on the distant ridge where the light had been born. "She doesn't play at war," she murmured. "She is war."
But while the Sacred Order felt the surge of power ripple through their ranks, from the shadows of a side corridor carved into the living rock of the Bastion, a different fury stirred. The champion of the forest, witness to the massacre of his people, could not stand idle. Justice, for him, wore another face, one tinged with emerald green and ancient roots.
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Dawn over the Sylvan Bastion was a torn canvas of gray and black, where the smoke from shattered towers mingled with the icy fog in a funereal dance. Below, the courtyard was a hellscape of crimson mud, a grotesque blend of blood, sap, broken metal, and mangled bodies. The thick air, remnant of the divine blast, stung the throat, overlaying the persistent stench of slaughter. The Templars—Astrid, Vera, Sigrid, Thalia, Selene, and Lirien—formed a core of steel and fury amid the chaos, their weapons dripping ichor as they repelled the final, desperate assaults of demoralized elves and kobolds. Renn's banner, planted like a sun anchored to the earth, continued pulsing waves of golden power that healed their own and burned nearby enemies.
A kilometer away, the metallic roar of the colossus echoed, punctuated by the thunder of Valka's battle, a titanic duel that shook the very foundations of the Bastion. But here, in the heart of the courtyard, a new storm was about to unleash, a collision not of armies, but of divine and earthly wills.
From an arched corridor, carved with the withered symbols of the forest, Darion Veltharis burst forth like a gust of contained fury. His black plate armor, etched with emerald runes that glowed with an internal, sickly light, clanged against the soaked ground. His curved sword, Sylvangr, hummed in his hand, leaving trails of pale green energy in the dense air. His ash-gray hair whipped wildly, and his eyes, two shards of intense jade, burned with the pain and rage of seeing his home defiled, his people slaughtered. I won't allow it, his silent oath echoed in his mind. For the Bastion! His target was clear: the winged figure of Lilith, whose organized chaos was dismantling Ardyn's final defenses. If he could neutralize her…
He took a determined step toward the center of the fray, ignoring stray arrows and agonized screams, his sword raised, ready to unleash the forest's wrath. But before he could take a second step, a presence stopped him cold. It wasn't a sound, but a pressure, a density in the air that made the hairs on his neck stand on end, as if the sky itself were descending. A white light, pure and intense as the heart of a star, bloomed before him—not like the earlier explosion, but contained, focused, infinitely more dangerous.
And then, the voice. Clear, cold, resonating not in his ears, but directly in his soul.
"Judicium Caelestis!"
FWOOOM-CRACK!
It wasn't a sword, nor a fist. It was a column of sacred light, white and golden, that struck him full in the chest. It didn't cut—it impacted. The force was absolute, like being rammed by a mountain. The air around him incinerated instantly, leaving behind the sharp scent of burned air and something else… something holy and terrible. Darion felt his runic armor creak and buckle like tin under a pneumatic hammer. He was hurled backward, a dark projectile against the dawn's gloom, crashing through a shattered barricade of wood and metal before slamming brutally into a half-ruined stone pillar.
CRUNCH!
The pillar cracked visibly under the impact. Fragments of rock and metal rained around him. He collapsed to the ground in a heap, the air violently expelled from his lungs. A metallic, hot taste filled his mouth: blood. His vision swam with white and golden spots, and a sharp, burning pain bloomed in his chest—a pain that wasn't just physical, but seemed to corrode something deeper. What… what the hell… was that?
Slowly, painfully, he raised his head. And he saw her.
Emerging from the fog as if parting it with her mere presence was Seraphina, the Luminara Redemptrix. Immaculate. Her white robe, adorned with polished silver plates that reflected the light of Renn's banner, remained pristine amid the muck and blood. An ethereal cape, woven of moonlight and stardust, floated behind her, barely visible but unmistakable. Her silver hair, tied in an intricate, severe bun, caught and refracted the scant dawn light in a blinding halo. She wore no helm, and her face was one of stern, almost inhuman beauty, dominated by molten golden eyes, cold and unforgiving as the final judgment. In her right hand, materializing from nothing, appeared a long, slender lance, its blade seeming made of solidified sunlight.
She stopped a few meters from him, her golden gaze pinning Darion with the intensity of an inquisitor. The chaos of the courtyard—the screams of the dying, the whistle of arrows, the clash of nearby steel, Lilith's maniacal laughter—seemed to fade around her, as if she existed on a different plane, immune to earthly horror.
"You," said Seraphina, and her voice, though not shouted, cut through the din like sharpened crystal. "The champion anointed by this… withered Bastion." She paused, a flicker of something like disdain crossing her perfect features. "I expected more discernment from a seasoned champion."
The insult, coupled with the searing pain, ignited a volcanic fury in Darion. Leaning on his sword Sylvangr, whose green runes flickered weakly, he stood with a growl. Blood dripped from his lips. The broken armor creaked with every movement.
"You…!" he spat, wiping the blood with the back of his gauntlet. The metal scraped against his skin. "You dare come here, slaughter my people, defile our ancestral home… and speak of discernment?" Rage made his voice tremble. "This isn't justice—it's an invasion!"
"Ignorance mistakes judgment for aggression," Seraphina replied, her voice unmoved, icy. She took a step toward him, the tip of her luminous lance hovering millimeters above the muddy ground. "I serve not invasion. I serve Order. I am the sword and shield of my Lord, He who brings true light. Your loyalty is misplaced, champion. You serve corruption."
"Silence!" roared Darion, pain and anger fusing into power. He raised Sylvangr, the runes now blazing with desperate intensity. He poured his essence into the blade. "You know nothing of the forest's will! You'll feel its wrath! Silva Irae!"
FWOOOOOOSH!
A wild torrent of emerald green energy, mixed with the raw force of the earth itself—shards of rock, twisting roots, slicing wind—erupted from the sword, a concentrated hurricane aimed straight at Seraphina. The air howled, smelling of fresh pine, damp earth, and the crackling charge of unleashed magic.
Seraphina stood motionless, almost dismissive. She raised her free hand, palm open toward the oncoming storm.
"Claustra Immaculata."
CLANG! VRRRMMMM!
A translucent dome of pure golden light sprang up before her, solid as diamond, thrumming with power. The Silva Irae crashed against it with the force of a battering ram. Golden and green sparks exploded in a blinding shower. The ground beneath her feet trembled violently. Rock fragments bounced harmlessly. The wind howled as it was deflected. The barrier held, vibrating but intact.
Darion watched, panting from the effort, his eyes wide with disbelief. The ease with which she'd contained his attack… it was insulting. He gritted his teeth, pouring more power. The green light intensified, pressing, seeking a crack.
"Futile," Seraphina murmured, her voice barely a whisper over the roar of contained energy. And then, she began her litany, her voice taking on a deep, ancient resonance that seemed to vibrate the air itself, a litany dedicated not to an abstract god, but to her Order and her Lord.
"Whoever shelters in the Light of my Lord…"
As she spoke, the golden light of the barrier pulsed stronger. Darion felt a crushing pressure, not just against his magic, but against his very will. No! he thought. I won't yield! He focused all his fury, all his pain, into a single point on the barrier.
CRACK!
A fine, web-like line appeared on the shield's surface. A tense, triumphant smile crossed Darion's bloodied face. I can break it!
Seraphina tilted her head, her golden eyes fixed on him, showing no surprise, no fear. Only… judgment.
"…His Holy Order shall be their impregnable fortress."
FWOOM!
Instead of reinforcing the barrier, she dispelled it instantly. For a microsecond, Darion felt a surge of triumph, thinking he'd overcome her. A fatal mistake.
The moment the barrier vanished, Seraphina moved. She didn't run—she flowed. She was a blur of white and gold, faster than the human eye could track. Before Darion could even register the shift, she was upon him.
She didn't use her lance yet. She dodged the instinctive slash he swung with Sylvangr with an almost insultingly simple tilt. Her open palm struck the sword's pommel, sending a jolt of sacred energy through the metal that made him scream and nearly drop it. Simultaneously, her other hand, now a closed fist wrapped in crackling golden light, slammed directly into his abdomen, just below the ribs, where the armor was already weakened.
BOOM!
The sound was dull, brutal. Darion felt as if a lightning bolt had pierced him. The air was forced from his lungs in an agonized gasp. His feet left the ground. He flew backward again, this time with no strength to control his fall, crashing painfully into the blood-soaked mud and debris. His sword slipped from his fingers, landing with a dull thud a couple of meters away.
He coughed violently, spitting more blood. The pain was blinding. He tried to move, but his muscles wouldn't respond, paralyzed by the impact and the residual energy burning from within. He could feel it—her light—corroding his connection to the forest's power, like a divine acid.
Seraphina advanced with the same deliberate calm, her lance of light now aimed at his throat. She stopped over him, a towering figure of white and golden judgment against the leaden gray sky.
"Your strength stems from a pact with the corrupt," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Ardyn, your lord, chose power over purity. And you follow him blindly."
"You… know… nothing!" Darion gasped, trying to summon roots from the ground, but only a faint tremor answered his call. His power was abandoning him.
"I will say to my Lord: My Faith, My Banner…" Seraphina continued, her voice resonating with terrifying conviction. The pressure of her aura intensified, crushing. It was hard to breathe around her. The air smelled of cold sanctity and superheated stone. "…My Sacred Order, in whom my soul trusts."
Darion felt his will begin to crack under that unshakable faith. He looked into Seraphina's golden eyes and saw no hatred, no anger. He saw absolute certainty. He saw the reflection of a power so vast and so sure of itself that his own cause—the defense of his home—suddenly seemed… small, misguided. Corrupt? Ardyn? Doubt, like poison, began to spread through his mind.
But doubt also fueled one last spark of desperation. Survival instinct, the wounded pride of the champion, the love for his dying home. He refused to fall like this. With a roar that erupted from the depths of his being, ignoring the searing pain, he pushed himself up with his hands, dragging himself toward his sword.
"I… won't… let you… destroy… the Bastion!" he cried, his fingers brushing Sylvangr's hilt.
Seraphina watched, her expression impassive, almost curious. She raised her luminous lance, preparing to end him.
"He will pluck you from the nets of Shadow…" she began, her voice rising again, ready for the final blow.
But Darion was faster. He seized the sword. The moment his fingers closed around the hilt, he poured into it not just his remaining power, but his very life force, his connection to the Bastion's dying earth, every ounce of rage, pain, and loyalty. The emerald runes on the blade didn't glow—they erupted in a green light so intense it burned the eyes, cracking the sword's metal itself.
"IF I FALL, I'LL TAKE EVERYTHING WITH ME!" he bellowed, raising the sword overhead with both trembling hands. The ground beneath him shattered violently. The air compressed, sucking dust and debris toward the overloaded blade. "HEART OF THE BROKEN BASTION!"
KRA-KOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!
The world turned green and white.
An explosion of pure, wild emerald energy detonated from Darion's sword, expanding outward at inconceivable speed. It wasn't a directed beam—it was a wave of annihilation. The ground within a kilometer radius simply… ceased to exist, pulverized instantly. Pillars, walls, ancient trees, the bodies of the fallen and fighters alike—all were consumed by the devouring green light. The shockwave struck with the force of a thousand thunders, raising a cloud of dust and debris that climbed kilometers into the wounded sky. The Sylvan Bastion itself groaned like a dying beast under the assault.
Seraphina, caught in the epicenter, was swallowed by the emerald maelstrom before she could finish her sentence.
The silence that followed was deafening. Where the battlefield courtyard had been, there was now only an immense, smoking crater, a kilometer wide, its bottom still glowing with veins of residual green energy. The air was thick with choking dust.
Darion lay at the crater's edge, barely conscious, his body shattered by his own attack's recoil. His armor was in tatters, his skin burned and bleeding. The sword Sylvangr had disintegrated in his hand, leaving only the broken hilt. But a faint smile tugged at his bloodied lips. He'd done it. The pain was unbearable, he was dying, but he'd taken the monstrous Luminara with him. Nothing… absolutely nothing could have survived that. The Bastion… Ardyn… maybe now they had a chance…
Hope was a fragile, flickering flame.
Then, in the center of the smoking crater, amid the dust and dying energy, something moved.
A figure rose slowly from the ravaged ground, floating weightlessly a few inches above the cracked rocks. It was Seraphina.
Her white robe was tattered at the edges, revealing glimpses of the silver armor beneath, now scratched and dulled by the impact. Her intricate bun had come completely undone, and her long silver hair cascaded around her shoulders and back, rippling softly as if alive. There was a thin cut on her cheek, from which a single, thick drop of… blood? No, it was golden. A shimmering ichor like molten gold.
She touched her gloved hand to her cheek, examined the golden ichor on her finger with a look of mild annoyance, then wiped it away with an indifferent gesture. She looked up, her golden eyes finding Darion at the crater's edge. There was no pain in them. No anger. Only the same cold, calculating calm. She was, for all intents and purposes, unscathed.
Darion's smile froze, then crumbled into a mask of absolute despair and horror. No… impossible… Impossible! All his sacrifice… for nothing.
Seraphina began walking toward him, her white boots not even stirring the dust from the scorched ground. Each step was deliberate, resonating in the broken silence. The lance of light materialized again in her hand, glowing with renewed intensity.
She stopped before the broken champion, looking down at him.
"From the plague that consumes," she finished the line of her interrupted litany, her voice soft but ringing with finality. "With His Banner He will cover you, and under the Judgment of the Order…" She tilted her head, an expression almost of twisted compassion on her perfect face. "…you will find purification."
She crouched slightly, her face close to Darion's. Her breath carried no warmth.
"Fear not, last warrior of this withered forest," she whispered, her voice like the brush of ice across the soul. "My Lord is the embodiment of infinite kindness. His mercy is vast." A pause, her golden eyes gleaming with fanatical, terrifying light. "And because He is so kind, He has sent me to your home. To offer you His greatest gift: the purification of your corruption."
She raised the lance of light.
"Die pure," she decreed, her voice stripped of all human emotion.
And with a swift, precise, utterly final motion, she drove the lance of solidified sunlight into Darion Veltharis's heart. There was a blinding flash of golden and green light that struggled for an instant, then… nothing. The champion's body convulsed once and fell still, his open eyes fixed on the gray sky, empty of all life and hope. The residual green energy around him snuffed out completely.
Seraphina withdrew her lance, now pristine again. She stood, observing the corpse for a moment with the same distant expression. Then she turned, her silver hair flowing, and looked toward where Renn and the others must be regrouping beyond the crater's edge. The judgment had been delivered. The purification, administered.