This was uncharted territory.
Roman had only pushed the Fallen God's power to twelve percent before and even that had nearly shattered him.
But now, standing at fifteen percent, the cost hit him like a blade through the chest.
His veins bulged black beneath his skin, pulsing with every heartbeat.
His muscles tore and knitted back together, tore and knitted again, caught in an endless cycle of destruction and regeneration.
Blood streamed from his nose, his eyes, his ears the seams of his body breaking under a power never meant for mortal flesh.
His core groaned. Cracked. Screamed a sound only he could hear.
He ignored it all.
The dead were still screaming their accusations. The mother with her child's head. The knight with his hollow chest.
The paladin with his broken legs.
Their voices clawed at his mind, trying to drag him back into the darkness.
He shut them out.
He locked his eyes on the monsters and moved.
The moment the Fallen God's power reached fifteen percent, the world seemed to hold its breath.
Jacob felt it first a wave of pressure that slammed into his chest like a physical blow.
He turned toward his son, and his heart nearly stopped.
Roman stood at the center of the battlefield, his body wreathed in gold and black, his aura so massive it warped the air around him.
The ground beneath his feet cracked and blackened. The sky above him churned.
"Roman…" Jacob whispered.
Selena saw it too. Her sword lowered.
Her eyes widened. "What… what is he doing?"
The knights and paladins felt it that oppressive, ancient power pressing down on them. Their despair flickered.
Their hope fragile, desperate rekindled.
The Warherald was fighting like a mad war god.
Roman walked alone through the battlefield and the dead turned to dust in his wake.
Their bodies crumbled mid-step, their voices silenced, their misery erased by the light and shadow that poured from him. He gave them rest. He gave them peace.
Then he moved.
Heaven-Piercing Cut.
A vertical golden slash split the void above. Black lightning arced through it, and the magic circles spinning around his blade amplified the strike into a pillar of annihilation.
Monsters within a hundred meters disintegrated not falling, not dying, simply ceasing to exist.
Abyss Rend.
A horizontal black strike tore through the shadows.
The magical circles extended its reach across the battlefield, and the cut carved through the horde like a scythe through wheat.
Monsters were bisected mid-stride, their torsos sliding off their legs before they even realized they were dead.
Dragon's Wing Arc.
Twin diagonal cuts crossed like a predator's wings one golden, one black tearing through a cluster of the risen dead. Their bodies fell in pieces.
Their voices died in their throats.
Thunder Fang.
A lightning-fast thrust that pierced through a hundred creatures in a single motion.
Black lightning erupted from the blade, chaining between the monsters, reducing them to ash.
He combined magic with steel every strike amplified by the spinning circles, every spell sharpened by his swordsmanship. He was destruction incarnate.
The knights watched in awe.
"He's… he's not human," one whispered.
"The Warherald he's like a force of nature."
"Don't stop fighting! He's holding the line!"
Paladins renewed their divine shields. Knights tightened their formations.
Hope fragile but fierce pushed back the despair.
But no matter how hard humanity fought, the darkness seemed endless.
Roman was burning like a sun and suns burn themselves out.
Blood dripped from his chin, mixing with the monster blood already caked on his face.
His veins bulged.
His muscles screamed.
His core cracked further with every technique, every spell, every swing of his sword.
He ignored it all cutting down everything in his path, fighting his way through the horde.
But his destiny was not helping him.
Far below in the depths of the world a voice laughed.
"Oh, the puppet is not that bad."
The voice was silk wrapped around a blade. Ancient. Hungry.
"I'll enjoy tearing him apart myself. But it can wait. I've prepared something else."
A pause.
"Go, my children. Give the Warherald a hello for me."
The dungeons went silent.
No monsters emerged.
No screams.
No roars.
Just silence so complete it felt like the world had died.
Then the air before the Presia gate shimmered.
A figure floated forward.
It looked human. Almost.
Tall, slender, its body wrapped in black robes that moved like living shadows.
Its face was beautiful too beautiful, the way a corpse might be beautiful after being dressed for burial.
Its eyes were pits of absolute darkness, endless and hungry.
Its presence hit the battlefield like a hammer.
Knights fell to their knees.
Paladins clutched their chests, their divine power flickering.
Even the twelve Paladins the strongest warriors of the Holy Empire felt their breath catch.
This was a dungeon boss.
The figure looked at Roman.
A smile spread across its too-perfect face.
Roman didn't hesitate.
He moved faster than ever, his Archon Sword aimed at its heart.
The boss clapped its hands.
The sound was quiet.
Almost gentle.
Roman's sword slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground.
He stumbled, off balance then slowly turned toward his right hand.
His hand was gone.
Severed cleanly at the wrist.
Blood poured from the stump, painting the ground crimson.
The pain hit a second later white-hot, blinding, screaming through his nerves.
Roman stared at the wound.
His vision blurred.
His legs trembled.
The boss tilted its head, its smile widening.
"Hello, Warherald."