Aaron's roar thundered across the plains, shaking the cracked earth beneath their feet. His massive frame heaved with every breath, each exhale a gust of abyssal heat that warped the air. The miracle's holy residue—still faintly shimmering across the battlefield—clung to his skin like poison.
For the first time since the siege began, the devil was visibly struggling.
And the entire battlefield felt it.
The soldiers behind Hiro and Mia stirred, hope flickering in their eyes like candles in a storm. Some rose shakily from where they had collapsed earlier. Others tightened their grips on broken spears or cracked shields, their wounds no longer screaming in pain thanks to the lingering sanctity of the Saintess's relic.
It wasn't a victory.
But it was no longer a funeral march either.
