The mountain detonated outward in a shower of blackened stone and screaming shadows.
Oberon barely raised Excalibur in time—a slab of bedrock the size of a carriage hurtled toward them.
He stepped in front of Ganevére, his sword enveloped in holy light. The impact cracked the earth behind him, but the sword's divine edge held strong.
From the smoke in the mountains, it emerged.
Vorthax.
Its form was not one of this world.
It loomed like a mountain of putrid, black, petrified corpses, all writhing in eternal agony, their mouths open in silent screams as they clawed for freedom.
Twenty meters tall—and still growing, its silhouette twisting and collapsing into itself as more of the cursed mass oozed free from the shattered seal.
Oberon's gaze locked with the creature's.
Instantly, a terror unlike any he'd known surged through his soul.
The air thickened. His knees buckled. His breath caught.
But Excalibur pulsed faintly—a light that cut through the fear.
'So that's a General?' Oberon thought grimly.
The Cursed Energy pouring from it...
Even from kilometers away, it was more suffocating than when he was trapped in Voldemort's Domain Expansion.
And he used everything he had to survive that.
His body tensed. He had nothing more to give—No tricks. No backup. No guarantees.
"My Lord!" Ganevére shouted, voice steady despite the chaos. "Even though it may seem undefeatable, it has just been released from its seal. Its true power should be no more than that of a strong Special Grade Curse."
"As long as we repair the Ley Lines," she continued, "we may stand a chance."
Oberon inhaled deeply, gaze flicking to her.
"Tell me what to do."
Without hesitation, Ganevére raised her staff and signaled the nearby Druids to move. They scattered, forming a protective perimeter around the edge of the village.
"To restore the Ley Lines," she said, "I need to channel Cernunnos into the land. It will be a taxing ritual. I need you to buy me time distracting him."
Oberon swallowed hard.
"I'll do what I can. Please… be fast. I don't know how long I can hold it back."
Ganevére placed a hand over her heart and bowed slightly.
"Thank you, my Lord."
Oberon started running as fast as he could and joined the Druid forces.
Although they wouldn't need to face Lysander's subjects as they fled, Vorthax's presence was already causing low-grade Cursed Spirits to appear.
"What are your orders, my Lord?" the commander of the Druids asked.
"You must face the emerging Cursed Spirits. I will face it." Oberon said, pointing his sword toward Vorthax.
The Druids obeyed and moved toward the Cursed Spirits.
Oberon looked at Vorthax. It was still breaking free from its seal, uncaring of anything around it.
Given the circumstances, he had no choice but to use every resource at his disposal.
He took out the Ashes of Nostradamus and the Philosopher's Stone. Crushing the Philosopher's Stone, a potent elixir exuding strong Magical Energy dripped onto the ashes.
Then, Oberon transferred most of his Magical Energy into the relic. Using his Innate Technique, Chronicle of Arcane Destiny, as a catalyst, he injected the power into the enhanced relic.
The Ashes of Nostradamus floated in the air, spinning at full speed around Oberon's head, revealing countless possible outcomes.
He hoped that in at least one of them, they would survive.
The ash settled and stored itself in its pouch.
Oberon smiled—softly.
Of course, they wouldn't all live.
But it was enough to protect Ganevére and most of the druids.
Without glancing back, he surged forward.
To the eye, it looked absurd—this lone figure charging at Vorthax was like a flea hurling itself at an elephant.
But Oberon had a plan.
He didn't know how to kill it.
But he knew how to delay it.
He needed to destroy most of its new body to gain time before it restored most of its strength.
He downed a few drops of the Philosopher's Stone Elixir, flooding his veins with restored mana.
He activated his Innate Technique, Avalon's Blessing. Magic pulsed outward as he channeled it into Excalibur.
The blade shimmered with sacred light, and the very air bent around him—thick, reverent, heavy.
With a cry, Oberon launched himself into the sky like a comet.
Vorthax turned to meet him. Its gaze passive. Dismissive.
A giant looking down at a speck of dust.
It swung its arm against him. Oberon twisted midair, narrowly evading, and brought Excalibur crashing into its limb.
But the cursed flesh held. Even Holy Energy could not carve cleanly through it.
Vorthax roared, the second arm already in motion.
Oberon ducked low—too late. The blow connected.
The world blurred. He struck the ground like a meteor.
Coughing blood, Oberon forced himself up. His ribs protested. His vision blurred. But he was alive.
Barely.
Had that hit landed straight on, he wouldn't be standing.
He raised the Elixir again—this time, not a few drops, but a full draught. Nearly a bucket's worth. His magic flared wild and unstable. The Philosopher's Stone vanished into his robes as he clenched his jaw, trying to contain it.
Too much.
His soul's vessel screamed. Cracks formed.
He was burning from the inside out. He couldn't waste more time.
"Maximum: Eternal Sword of Avalon."
He went to unsheathe Excalibur, but this time, the tattoo started glowing and Holy Energy exploded upward.
This time, the giant version of Excalibur above his head wasn't just very big, it was almost as big as Vorthax itself. He raised his arm.
And swung.
It drained him instantly. But through the pain, he felt Ganevére He could sense Ganevére energy radiating from the forest, he just needed to continue.
The blade struck.
Vorthax screamed.
"AAAAAGGHHHHHH!"
It was no ordinary cry.
It struck not just the ears, but the soul.
The druids cried out, collapsing, clutching their chests as though their spirits themselves were bleeding.
Oberon staggered. The elixir overdose was catching up. His body barely held together. His vision frayed at the edges.
But he stood.
Vorthax's guttural voice split the air like a curse.
"Scoundrel wizard," it spat, words soaked in malice. "A mere rat… dares defy me? A General of Their Profane Eminences?"
Its form twisted.
Four arms erupted from its mountainous frame, fingers unfurling with purpose. Together, they formed a strange and eerie symbol.
The sky dimmed.
"Cursed Technique: Whisper Burial"
A wave of Cursed Energy surged forth from Vorthax—cold, corrosive, and suffocating.
Oberon felt it invade his mind, probing deep, erasing memories like ink fading from parchment.
"No…"
His connection to everything—friends, family, past, present, future—his very existence began to unravel.
"NO!"
He refused to succumb.
He would not allow it.
"AVALON'S BLESSING!"
A radiant light enveloped him, a shield of pure Holy Energy.
The dark wave shattered against it—halted.
"How?!" Vorthax's voice trembled with disbelief.
"I am the heir of the mightiest king—Arthur Pendragon—and son of the greatest Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald. I will never forget my name… nor who I am."
"Tch! Descendant of that damned knight," Vorthax sneered.
"My Lord!"
A shout pierced the battlefield. Ganevére's attendant, breathless.
"Retreat, my Lord!"
Oberon stepped back, creating distance from the monstrous General.
Sadness weighed heavy—most druids struck by the cursed technique had lost everything. Their minds erased, leaving empty husks.
"I'm sorry, my Lord," the attendant whispered.
"Don't worry. I'm fine. How is the ritual?"
"Almost complete. Matriarch Ganevére needs your help with the last step." She explained urgently.
"She needs you to channel your Holy Energy into the Magic Circle at the ritual site. Go! We'll hold them off."
Oberon nodded sharply.
"Don't die."
"Of course, my Lord."
He turned and ran.
Like a man possessed.
He knew Vorthax's strength.
No matter how powerful he was, the General was stronger.
His only hope was the Ley Line Ritual.
When he arrived, Ganevére stood at the center of the Magic Circle—calm, resolute.
"Are you alright, my Lord?"
"I'm fine," he lied. She saw through it.
"We're ready, my Lord."
"Very well. I will begin channeling Holy Energy into the circle."
Ganevére nodded.
The air thrummed with power.
Holy Energy swirled, drawn to the ritual site.
Ganevére's hands moved in intricate seals, and the circle pulsed with raw magic.
Oberon focused, steadying himself to sustain the flow.
The Magic Circle glowed, and so did Ganevére.
She was using Oberon's Holy Energy to bless the druids' magic—restoring the Ley Lines.
It was working.
The Cursed Spirits faded—so too the dark energy suffusing the land.
But it was not enough.
Vorthax remained, relentless, tearing through the powerless druids.
Oberon felt the energy within him wane—the strain unbearable.
Magic roared wild inside his chest.
"Ganevére," he gasped.
"Make the Magic Circle bigger. Vorthax is still here—the Spirits aren't gone yet."
The circle expanded, swelling with power.
But it was too much for a mortal vessel.
He dropped to his knees, breath ragged, heart pounding like thunder.
Blood welled in his eyes.
With a final cascade of gestures, Ganevére's Magic Circle engulfed the entire mountain range.
Then, with a sudden, crushing compression, it shrank to invisibility.
Vorthax's furious roar echoed through the valley.
Oberon teetered on the edge of collapse.
When consciousness slipped away, the Ley Lines' energy rebounded—flaring through Excalibur.
"What…?!" he shouted as the energy flooded his body.
"AAAARRRGHHH!!!"
A crack snaked down Excalibur's blade as it vanished back into the tattoo on his hand.
Oberon's body began to levitate.
Light spilled from him—magical energy and Ley Line power clashing within.
Holy Energy and Fate itself fought against the druidic currents coursing through his veins.
As his body strained under the conflict, something strange awakened within his soul.
---
Inside another realm…
"Where am I?" Oberon's voice echoed back—alone, in infinite white space.
As he stopped walking, the void fractured.
Before him, the familiar yet uncanny landscape of his Domain Expansion unfolded.
He stood at the edge of the crystal lake.
But the always calm waters trembled.
From its depths rose the silhouette of a giant woman, formed entirely of water.
Oberon was left speechless.
"W-Who are you?" Oberon stammered.
"I, my child, am the one who granted you this gift—or, you might say, this blessing."
"Are you Lady Vivianne?"
"Yes, my child. But I fear there is a more pressing matter, don't you agree?"
"What is it?"
"You see, the torrent of energy from the Ley Lines bounced back at you once fully restored. But because it was pure magic, mingled with the druids' power, it damaged both Excalibur and you. You can see it yourself—your vessel is cracking."
Oberon glanced around, noticing the edges of this space were fractured by cracks.
"What can I do? Vorthax still lingers," Oberon pleaded.
"This time, my child, I will aid you—but you must be cautious. I will not be able to manifest again."
From the watery hand of Lady Vivianne, a single drop fell onto Oberon's forehead.
The wild energies within him stilled, converging into harmony once more.
"I have one last question, my Lady."
"What is it?" Lady Vivianne replied with serene benevolence.
"What's that?" Oberon asked, gesturing toward a section of his inner domain shrouded in ethereal fog.
"That, my child, is something you must discover yourself—when you are ready. Farewell."
Oberon felt himself pushed out of reality as consciousness returned.
---
"My Lord!" Ganevére exclaimed, tears betraying the calm dignity of the Matriarch.
"How much time has passed?" Oberon asked, concern shadowing his voice.
"Not long, my Lord. It's only been a few seconds," Ganevére replied.
"Good. Where is Vorthax?"
"It stopped moving when the ritual concluded."
"We must kill it."
Oberon, Ganevére, and the elite druids guarding the Matriarch advanced toward the still form of the Cursed General of Isolation.
"YOU WRETCHED FOOLS! YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR ACTS!" Vorthax bellowed, its voice laced with primal fury.
Then, something strange occurred.
With a single motion of its hand, the mountain-like body that had once housed Vorthax began to harden—turning to stone and crumbling apart.
"What?!" Oberon stared, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing.
"Look!" a druid shouted, pointing.
From the collapsing ruin of rock and cursed flesh, a figure emerged.
It was small—humanoid—but what stepped forth was no man. It was not born of life, nor bound entirely to death. It was a mockery of both.
A skeletal wraith, sculpted from the stillness of forgotten graves, moved with an unnatural grace. Skin like brittle parchment clung tightly to jutting bones, gray and lifeless, barely containing the spasms of sinew beneath. The flesh—if such a term even applied—was etched with the faintest, most tragic hints of something once human.
Its limbs stretched too long, bent at angles that defied anatomy. Fingers ended in wicked hooks—talons that never ceased their slow, grasping motion, as though clawing at the air for some memory of existence lost long ago.
But the face—or rather, the void where a face should have been—was the true horror.
No mouth. No nose. No eyes. Just emptiness.
Two deep, hollow pits marred its surface—no light within them, only an absence. They consumed not just vision, but warmth, meaning, identity. To meet that gaze was to feel not ignored, but erased—as if you had never been.
This… this was Vorthax's true form.
The General of Isolation raised a single clawed hand, and the very air began to rot.
The grass beneath its feet blackened and crumbled to ash.
The druids behind Oberon staggered, gasping—not for lack of air, but because they could no longer remember how to breathe.
Ganevére's staff lit with a fierce glow, her voice ringing out with strain and defiance. A wave of energy burst from her—a final act of resistance.
"Tch. Weak," Vorthax hissed, clicking its tongue.
"AAAAAGHHH!!"
A chorus of anguish erupted from the druids as they clutched their skulls, agony lancing through their minds.
"You will pay for your insolence."
Vorthax closed its hand into a fist.
"Die."
"Cursed Technique: Whisper Burial – Sin of the Forgotten Act."
The atmosphere quivered. Reality buckled.
The world around them began to unravel, like frayed threads pulled from a dying tapestry.
The scent of damp soil and decaying time flooded the air—centuries of untended, forgotten graves pressed in from every side.
Then came the whispers.
A thousand hushed voices, each fainter than the last, drifted into the ears of the druids—coiling, burrowing.
"You were never here."
"No one will say your name."
"You are already gone."
The effect was immediate.
Druids dropped mid-step, their minds buckling under the weight of forgetfulness. One druid screamed as his hands passed through his body, his hand holding onto his bleeding hand.
Another sat silently, eyes hollow, lips mouthing a name that no longer lived inside her.
Ganevére gasped. Her staff shook violently as the whispers crept into her soul. Her memories peeled away like dead bark.
Her mother's face.
The sound of her first incantation.
The vow she had made to protect the land.
Gone—slipping into the void.
Oberon fell to his knees. The holy glow of Excalibur dimmed in his grasp as the curse sank its fangs into his spirit.
A single thought wrapped around him like a noose:
Who am I?
For one terrible heartbeat, he did not know.
Then—a spark.
A voice pierced the void. Not his own.
"Oberon."
The name hit him like thunder through fog.
Ganevére.
She knelt beside him, bleeding from her nose, her staff cracked but still alight. Her lips moved again, forming the word—his word—with trembling resolve.
"Remember."
And he did.