For a split second, Charles froze in surprise at Danche's sudden act of bravery. But then, adrenaline surging, he pushed his battered legs forward and charged alongside him!
He felt burning hot all over, aching everywhere, like he was burning up with a fever over 104 degrees;
His legs wobbled, unsteady, like a drunk running a marathon—
All classic symptoms of draining way too much magic in too short a time. His not-yet-legendary body just couldn't keep up with this level of output.
But right now, there was no backing down!
"NGH—!"
Up ahead, Danche let out a wild, guttural roar. He leaped forward, greataxe arcing straight for Montport's chest!
But Montport's twin-bladed polearm was there in a flash—one sweeping blow, blade meeting blade, and the reckless half-orc went flying, blood trailing behind him in a crimson arc.
But Danche's gambit paid off. With that single, self-sacrificing cleave, he snagged Charles the second he needed!
Close behind, Charles arrived. Shadowfell energy rippled around him, weaving into a longsword of pure magic. With a sharp thrust, he drove it into Montport's body!
The strike itself wouldn't have fazed even a lesser demon—but then Charles whispered, "Purified!"
BZZZZZ—!
Brilliant white light burst out—his force of purification, upgraded after reaching Level 3 Monastery, began to devour the Abyssal Lord's form!
Montport's eyes went wide. "What?!"
In that instant, all the fury and arrogant confidence he'd built up through this battle—suddenly doused, replaced by raw, instinctive terror.
What's happening?!
What is this power that targets my soul directly?!
Even as he was battered and dying, Montport hadn't truly feared death. This was still a winning trip—his twin-bladed polearm was only a hair's width from becoming a true artifact. Even if he died now, his soul would just return to his dominion on the Infinite Layers of the Abyss and reform—a fate most Demon Lords would envy.
Greed alone had kept him going, hoping for more—waiting for the strong ones and balors and goristros to whittle each other down so he could scoop up their souls.
But now, by his own arrogance, he was about to lose everything. How could he not be furious?
And in his rage, all he wanted was to crush the one who'd ruined it all—the white-haired human spellcaster, Charles, to devour his soul!
Only that could wash away the anger and regret—only then could he return to the Abyss and be reborn.
But he'd never expected—when he struck at this human—
That the human could strike at his soul.
"No—!"
In panic and rage, Montport swung his polearm at Charles with everything he had. A Demon Lord's soul was their core—any scratch, any blemish, was an irreparable wound!
He needed to kill Charles—now! But Charles whispered another incantation: "Shield!"
BZZZZZ—
The magical force field materialized as Montport's massive weapon came slamming down. He cleaved through layer after layer, but by the time the blade broke through, the force was spent—the blow barely even grazed Charles!
And in that instant, the force of purification burrowed deeper, past flesh into the Abyssal Lord's fractured soul. With his flesh in tatters, there was nowhere left to hide—he was moments away from utter erasure!
He tried to bring his weapon back for a final strike—when, suddenly, a powerful minotaur barreled into his arm, driving a fist straight into the gaping hole in his chest—
BANG—!
The impact knocked Montport's polearm askew, buying Charles the vital split-second to cast a fourth-level False Life, shielding himself—and causing the Abyssal Lord to miss his last true shot at killing Charles.
"No—!"
Montport's howl this time was pure terror, raw and wordless.
Absolutely—no, absolutely not! My soul cannot be lost!
His thoughts careened. Only one thing left—his polearm.
In a flash of twisted genius, he rammed the twin-bladed weapon into his own chest.
Slishhh—
That final, fatal strike—done by his own hand, using his proudest weapon.
Crimson light shimmered along the blades, instinctively beginning to siphon soul energy. A sense of irony twisted through Montport's mind: would his own offering be the final price to promote this weapon to artifact?
He couldn't say; there was no time to wonder. His soul leapt into the polearm, seeking sanctuary—
And with the soul's departure, the demon body lost control. The chaotic energy within burst free, swelling until he began to shine and balloon with unstable power.
From the holes blasted by Eldritch Blast, blinding light flared—then came the blast.
BOOOOOOM—!
A beam of light shot skyward as the explosion tore the earth apart. The ground beneath Montport's feet ruptured and collapsed, and Charles and Torun—standing too close—fell with it!
The earth had been hollowed by the chthonians below; now, the two closest to the blast plunged into the tangled, winding labyrinth beneath.
The shockwave rippled in every direction—far and wide, even the most distant refugees were smashed to the ground or hurled backward.
Screams and sobs echoed everywhere—even in death, this demon caused utter havoc.
"Charles—!"
Anno cried out, lunging after him—but the shockwave caught her too, tossing her aside.
By the time she'd scrambled up and tried to run again, exhaustion crashed over her. Sophia, battered by the blast, could no longer maintain Haste. The spell ended—and its backlash hit Anno hard. Her legs folded under her, dropping her to her knees, despairing as she watched Charles vanish into the pit.
RUMBLE—RUMBLE—RUMBLE—
Aftershocks and cave-ins rumbled for what felt like ages—then, mercifully, went still. The shaken survivors huddled at the edge, staring down into the bottomless crater, trembling—uncertain if they were even truly safe.
And then—an abrupt pulse of teleportation magic, the same way Montport had arrived.
The refugees flinched, grabbing whatever weapons they had, eyes full of terror.
But as the light faded, it revealed ten battered, weary figures.
One among them was tall and thin, sprouting antlers, cloaked in a scorched and tattered patchwork of brightly colored bird feathers—it was none other than the Alliance's own Archdruid, Ilarode.
At the sight of him, the refugees sighed in relief; the strongest, most dependable ally was here at last. Panic faded, hearts inching back toward hope.
But Ilarode's heart leapt into his throat. He swept his gaze across the crowd, voice urgent: "Everyone, what's your status? How many casualties? Where's Nidalee?"
That last question was the one that really mattered to him.
Among the ten, a stunning nun's silhouette stood—Theresa herself. She was frowning slightly, her figure flickering with silvery light as she blinked to the pit's edge, looking down, silent and grave.
She looked fatigued, her face and hands mottled with burns. Clearly, fighting balors had pushed her to the very edge.
Still, she kept her dignity and composure—even as all around her, nerves strained and tempers frayed.
The middle-aged half-elven redemption paladin strode forward, her voice tight with anxiety: "Where's Montport? What happened to the Abyssal Lord? What the hell was that explosion? Someone—please explain!"
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