Elna reached the church after sprinting through the narrow streets, heart pounding in her chest. She had been here before—she knew the way. Pushing past the crowded main hall, packed with frightened civilians clinging to prayers and hope, she slammed open the side door.
The loud crack of the door startled the paladins inside. All heads turned toward her.
"Elna, what happened?" one of them asked sharply.
Elna was gasping for air, her face pale. "Bishop Bethune... Oryu is here."
Silence fell like a blade. The one who had spoken was the commander, a B-plus warrior and paladin. The moment those words left her lips, he was already barking orders.
"Alert the other churches—use telepathy! If it doesn't work, send runners. Gather every B-rank we have. We move now." His voice wavered for only a moment. "If Bethune falls…"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't have to. He bolted through the doors, a handful of others right behind him.
They had barely reached the church's front steps when something slammed into the ground ahead, kicking up a heavy wave of dust and debris. They shielded their eyes—and when the dust cleared, they froze.
Bishop Bethune lay in the dirt, bloodied and trembling, trying—and failing—to stand.
Floating down with calm cruelty, Oryu descended like a vulture.
His voice dripped with mockery. "Bethune, I truly thought you were smarter than this. Trying to stop me? After all these years?"
Bethune coughed, spitting blood onto the cracked stones.
"Get ready!" the head paladin yelled, drawing his weapon.
But Oryu merely lifted his staff and lazily tapped the air. A crushing wave of invisible pressure hit them all like a mountain. In an instant, every single warrior dropped to their knees, their bodies pinned to the earth like rag dolls under the weight of some unseen giant.
Even though they were B-ranks, they still couldn't move. They weren't in a fight. They were in a massacre.
Oryu's feet never touched the ground as he drifted above them, serene as a saint, heartless as a monster. He looked down and found Elna in the center of the frozen paladins.
His grin widened. "There you are. I never liked unfinished work."
Elna's limbs trembled as she struggled to conjure even a flicker of shadow magic—but nothing responded. The pressure was smothering, choking, relentless.
She could only watch. Oryu's lips curled into something between a smirk and a sneer. Without a word, he raised one foot—and kicked her square in the stomach.
It wasn't a panicked attack, or a messy blow—it was deliberate, measured, the kind of strike a man delivers when he's done it before, when he knows exactly how to break someone without killing them too quickly.
There was a sickening crack. Elna's body flew backward, weightless in the air like a ragged piece of cloth caught in a violent wind. She slammed into the stone floor with a hard, echoing thud, bouncing once before sliding to a stop, curled and motionless.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came. Every breath was fire.
Oryu floated above her again, his expression bored. "Still breathing?" he muttered.
He landed beside her with a quiet tap of his feet, crouched down, and grabbed her by the hair, lifting her face slightly to look into her eyes. "You're stubborn, like your little boyfriend. I should have killed you back then."
Without waiting for a response, he slammed her head into the floor.
The sound echoed across the street—stone against skull. Her vision went completely white for a second. Blood started to trail down her forehead, mixing with the dust of the broken tiles beneath her.
Then he stood up again and raised his staff over her limp form.
"Goodbye, little girl," he whispered.
He started to bring the staff down. But then—his body froze. Something flickered in his senses—danger. Oryu snapped his staff upward just in time to intercept a blade, wrapped in a spiraling red aura, that crashed down on him with rage.
The force was powerful—but he managed to block it, his arms straining as the impact sent a tremor down his staff. Gritting his teeth, Oryu leapt back two steps, skidding across the cracked floor. His eyes narrowed at the figure now standing between him and Elna.
Green eyes. Black hair. A single white strand framing his face. Although time and hardship had changed him, Oryu recognized the boy immediately.
Leo Mantine. The thorn in his side. The one who'd ruined everything.
"You?" Oryu spat, voice laced with disbelief and fury. "You're still alive?
Before he could strike, another presence burst in from his right. Fast—too fast.
Oryu swung his staff up in defense—but the blow landed like a meteor. A sword, coated in a strange, seething energy, collided with his staff.
The impact launched Oryu backwards, like a doll in a hurricane. His body flew across the square, slammed into the side of a house, and crashed through the wall, vanishing inside with a sound of shattering stone and splintering wood.
Dust and rubble fell where he'd disappeared. For a moment, there was only silence.
…
When Leo saw Arthur standing guard, his heart steadied. He ran straight to Elna, who lay on the cold stone ground.
"Elna?" he said, falling to his knees and gently lifting her into his arms.
Her eyes were glassy, unfocused—lost. Briva knelt beside them, her hands glowing as she poured healing magic into Elna's body. Slowly, clarity returned to her gaze. She blinked and met Leo's eyes.
"Leo? … Are you… real?" she whispered.
Leo nodded. "I'm here."
Tears welled up in Elna's eyes. Her trembling hand clutched at his shirt as she pulled herself closer. "You're late."
"I'm sorry," Leo said softly, offering her a small, warm smile.
A minute passed in stillness before the quiet cracked—Oryu began to emerge from the ruined house. Leo gently shifted Elna into Briva's arms.
"Protect her," he said.
But Elna's hand still clung to his shirt. Leo placed his hand over hers.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'm not leaving again."
She stared into his eyes, searching for something—then finally nodded, and let go.
Leo stood, stepping beside Arthur. Thorn in his hand pulsed, glowing with a deep red light.
"Arthur…"
Arthur turned toward him.
"Leave him to me."
Arthur looked like he wanted to argue—but one glance into Leo's eyes silenced him. There was no room for doubt there. Only purpose.
Oryu dusted his bloodied robe with mocking calm.
"You're finally back, Arthur," he said, smiling cruelly. "Too late, though. Your father's probably already dead by now."
He opened his mouth to taunt further—but Leo was already in front of him. His sword crashed against Oryu's staff with a thunderous crack.
"Shouldn't he be the one to attack?" Oryu sneered. "You may have grown stronger—but you're still not enough."
He began to push Leo back, but the veins on Leo's arms bulged, glowing with blood-infused magic. His energy surged, and the sword in his hand began to drip red blood.
"Blood Slash."
Caught off guard, Oryu was hurled back midair. He slowed himself with a pulse of holy energy and floated, irritated—but Leo was already upon him, launching another Blood Slash. The strike sent Oryu hurtling skyward like a ragdoll.
Floating high above, his face twisted in anger. "Damn kid—always a pain in the ass."
He raised his hand, and a radiant church manifested in the sky—his domain. The massive doors creaked open, and two orbs of light hovered above it, preparing to unleash an attack.
But Leo didn't wait. He was already there. Oryu flinched. That speed was impossible.
He grinned anyway—cocky, confident. "You won't win."
He raised his staff to fire before Leo's blade could reach him—but Leo suddenly stopped just a meter away.
"Blood Explosion!"
A deep crimson sphere erupted around them, engulfing both Oryu and his summoned church. The air shook. The ground trembled.
When the bloodstorm cleared, Oryu's form emerged—damaged, robes torn, and his church reduced to a smoldering ruin.
"Where did you get that power?" he hissed.
He lifted his staff and the gem at its head began to glow ominously.
Then—
A flash of light.
A blinding radiance lit up the entire sky, halting the battle instantly. For a few breathless seconds, no one could see.
All eyes turned skyward. Even Oryu and Leo. Something had happened. Something that would change everything.
…
"Judgment Day."
The words left Alister's lips like a death sentence. A golden light erupted from him—rushing outward like an ocean devouring the land. It swallowed everything. The ground, the sky, the battlefield, erased in brilliance. Nothing but endless, blinding radiance.
Thomas turned instinctively, trying to find anything through the flood of light, but there was no direction, no shadow, no time. Only light.
Then, they appeared. Mirages of the Pope, one for each S-rank, formed from the golden glow. Not quite real, not quite illusion. Each one walked silently toward its target, eyes glowing with divine intensity.
Thomas struck first. He lunged forward with his lance, aiming for the heart, but his weapon passed through harmlessly, as though through mist.
Clementia hurled ice spears; Iralian summoned void tendrils. Nothing worked. The Pope's figure simply stared, silent and unblinking.
Then, they all raised a hand.
"I find you guilty."
The voice was not just heard, it echoed inside their minds, like judgment pronounced by the world itself. And then came the blast.
A divine explosion, light, fire, soul-burning flame, and soundless annihilation. It consumed everything. The kind of magic not meant for mortal realms. A spell so massive, so complete, that it could erase the entire capital and every village for miles.
Thomas screamed as he summoned every portal he had—dozens, spinning around him in a desperate storm. They began to absorb the fire, draining the heat, the judgment. But it wasn't enough. His magic buckled. The portals shattered like glass. He was left naked before divine wrath.
Clementia wrapped herself in a brilliant, icy crystal, blurring even time itself—but the holy fire broke through. It wasn't physical flame. It burned soul. Her scream tore across the battlefield, raw and inhuman. Her eyes glowed with golden fire from within—then began to melt. But in the final second, she opened a portal and vanished.
Iralian tried to fly, tried to flee—but the fire caught her. She fell, writhing. Her skin cracked, the fire seeping through, setting her veins alight. She screamed a single word—then a massive portal tore open above her. A dark purple eye blinked from the void beyond, and she vanished into it before her body could turn to ash.
And then—stillness. The light receded like the tide. What was left was ruin.
Thomas lay on his knees, gasping. His armor was gone—burned off. His chest was bare, skin seared, blood dripping down his side. His magic reserves were empty. Nothing remained but his breath—and even that was shallow.
He forced his head up. The Pope—no, Maverick—stood unmoved. His golden armor was shattered, his body damaged, but a faint light still flickered around him like a holy ember. His gaze found Thomas.
"That was Judgment Day," he said, voice ethereal, as if echoing from somewhere beyond. "The spell sacrifices the caster... but judges every soul in range."
He smiled faintly.
"This body has no soul… so he is fine, although he is already at his limits. And it looks like you already gave yours up."
Thomas coughed, blood dripping down his lip. His vision swam as he looked around.
"Don't bother looking for your friends," Maverick or the God of light continued. "Even if they lived… they're just empty shells now. No soul. You can't run from this kind of judgment."
Then Maverick looked toward the city.
"I suggest you leave. What's coming next... is not meant for you."
Thomas's heart sank. He understood. He opened a portal with the last of his strength, a dull red shimmer forming beside him.
"Oh," Maverick added. "Give my regards to the Mad God."
Thomas didn't answer. He stepped into the portal—and was gone.
…
Leo stood frozen, staring at the sky, at the last remnants of the holy spell still lingering like golden fireflies in the air. And then—he saw a shape tumbling from above.
A figure, falling. His breath caught in his throat. He knew who it was—Alister, the Pope.
Without thinking, Leo shot forward. Wind cracked behind him as he launched into the sky, caught the limp, scorched body midair, and descended quickly back toward Arthur.
His boots hit the ground with a heavy thud. He knelt, gently lowering Alister's broken form onto the earth. His robes were burned, his flesh pale and cracked like porcelain. There was no light left in his eyes.
Arthur stared, unmoving. His knees gave out as he dropped beside his father. No tears came. Just silence. A son kneeling before the man who had ruled both the church and his destiny.
At this moment a low hum began—soft, like the toll of a bell heard from a distant hilltop. And then, above the Holy Cathedral, a beam of light tore through the clouds, descending like a spear of divinity. It struck the center of the building—and began to widen, slowly, steadily, unnaturally.
The air shifted. The earth trembled. Then came the voice. Not spoken. Not heard with ears. It moved through their minds, through their bones.
"Come, my loyal subjects. It is time for you to become one with me."
The voice was everywhere—echoing from every wall, every breath of wind, every heartbeat.
The light expanded. Gold turned to white. Only to become something deeper—something wrong. People across the city began to rise slowly into the air, their eyes glowing, their bodies stiff.
A choir began to hum from the cathedral. No mouths moved. Leo's breath caught. Arthur finally looked up, his voice quiet and broken. "He is here."
Briva tightened her grip on Elna, holding her as the ground around them pulsed with divine rhythm.
The light continued to expand, and the voice grew stronger.
"All must return to the Light."
End of Volume 2: Tides Of Power