The battlefield fell into a stunned, horrified silence. The only sounds were the ragged breathing of the living and the faint, unsettling whisper of Dante's newly risen shadows.
Three ghostly puppets, perfect dark shapes of the casters they once were, stood at his command. Their violet eyes, burning with a cold, unholy light, fixed on the last members of Derek's team.
The four remaining brawlers, who had been the muscle and terror of Derek's group, were now nothing more than frightened animals in a cage.
They slipped and slid on the slick ice Masha had laid down. Their courage was shattered by the sight of their dead friends rising as his slaves.
"It's not over," Dante said, his voice cutting through the air like a shard of glass. "Finish them."
His team, fueled by a burning anger for their fallen friends, needed no more encouragement. The fight that followed was not a battle; it was an execution.
Masha extended her hands, and the ice field churned, sending jagged spikes erupting at the brawlers' feet, tripping them and throwing them off balance.
Erica, her mana slowly returning, launched precise, stinging firebolts that were less about damage and more about distraction, forcing them to flinch at the exact wrong moments.
Jin, his wounds partly mended by Rina's tireless work, was a blur of vengeance. He moved with a cold, deadly grace, his sword finding the gaps in their clumsy defenses.
He didn't fight with the wildness of before; each strike was a carefully placed end to a life.
But the true horror for them were the puppets. The three shadows surged forward, a wave of silent, unstoppable death.
The brawlers screamed as they were swarmed, their crude maces and axes passing harmlessly through the puppets' ghostly forms.
A brawler would swing at a shadow, only for it to dissolve and reform behind him. They were fighting ghosts, and they were losing badly.
One by one, they fell.
Thud.
The last one, his eyes wide with madness, dropped his weapon and tried to surrender, begging for a mercy that no longer existed in this clearing. Jin's blade silenced him permanently.
As the final brawler collapsed, Dante felt the familiar pull of their life force, their mana, waiting to be claimed.
He instinctively reached out with his power, planning to strengthen his army, to raise these four brutes as his new front line. But as he tried to pull their spirits into his grasp, he hit a wall.
It was a hard, unbreakable limit within his own power, a ceiling he hadn't known was there. He could feel the four fresh corpses, ready to be raised, but his connection would not form.
He looked at his current summons. The first shadow he had raised the echo of the Toximancy user and the three he had just created. Four puppets.
Plus the one goblin he had kept animated from their first fight, a lingering, mindless guard. Five. The limit was five. For now, at least.
His power, as huge as it felt, was not infinite. It had rules. It had limits.
It was an important, humbling lesson. He released his hold on the goblin puppet, letting it dissolve into dust, its purpose served.
Across the clearing, only one enemy remained. Derek.
He was still locked in a desperate struggle. His greatsword, covered in a red glow, clashed against the unmoving wall of Eric's shield and the powerful attacks of Talia's rapier.
He was a cornered beast, fighting with the last of his fierce strength.
"Eric. Talia," Dante called out, his voice calm. "Fall back."
They pulled back instantly, leaving Derek panting in the center of the blood-soaked ground, surrounded by the bodies of his entire team. He stared at Dante, his chest heaving, his eyes burning with a mixture of hatred and disbelief.
Dante began to walk toward him. His four shadow puppets fell into formation around him like a royal guard.
The shadow of the Graviton user floated to his left, the Phantasmist to his right. The Wardcrafter and the Toximancer flanked him from behind. They moved as one, a group of killers approaching their final target.
"You see, Derek," Dante began, his voice casual, as if they were discussing a failed class project. "'Survival of the fittest,' you said. But you weren't trying to be the fittest. You were just a bully with a powerful new toy."
"Shut up!" Derek roared, raising his greatsword. "I'll kill you myself!"
He charged. Dante didn't even flinch.
"Edgar," he said without turning. "Talk to me."
"His stamina is critical!" Edgar's voice was clear and sharp from behind him. "The artifact on his sword is burning through his life force! His swings are powerful, but his footwork is getting sloppy! He's favoring his right side!"
As Derek's massive blade came whistling down, Dante took a simple step to his left. The sword slammed into the earth where he had been standing, carving a deep line in the dirt. He didn't even need to block.
"You gathered nine people, Derek," Dante continued, circling him as he struggled to pull his heavy sword from the ground.
"You told them you were strong, that you would lead them to victory. But you didn't lead them. You spent them."
"You threw their lives away for a moment of power."
Derek finally wrenched his sword free and swung again, a wild, horizontal arc. This time, Dante didn't move.
The shadow of the Wardcraft user glided in front of him, raising a ghostly barrier. Derek's blade crashed against it with a dull thud, the impact doing nothing.
"You thought killing made you stronger," Dante said, his voice laced with pity. "And it does."
"But you never stopped to think about what kind of strength you were building. You were just a butcher."
"I, on the other hand... I am a creator."
Enraged, Derek abandoned him and charged at the puppets, swinging his sword like a madman. "I'll smash your little toys!"
The puppets were faster. They scattered, their forms flickering and dissolving as his blade passed through them. It was like trying to fight smoke.
"Every person you killed," Dante went on, his voice a relentless, sharp blade, "every soul you snuffed out, you were just gathering resources for me."
"You were my loyal helper, Derek, and you didn't even know it."
"You put together a team with perfect synergy for killing, and in doing so, you handed me the most useful undead army I could have ever wished for. So, from the bottom of my heart... thank you for the gift."
That was the final blow. Not a sword, but a word. Derek's mind, already worn out, snapped.
With a roar that was pure, mindless rage, he poured every last drop of his remaining strength into his artifact.
The crimson aura around him exploded, and he launched himself at Dante, his greatsword a blur of killing intent, ignoring all else. It was his final, all-or-nothing attack.
And Dante was ready for it.
"Now," he whispered.
His puppets, who had been scattered, came together in a single, coordinated strike. It was the symphony of ruin Derek had once conducted, now turned against him.
The shadow of the Graviton user gestured, and the ground around Derek's feet became as heavy as lead, his desperate charge slowing to a crawl.
The shadow of the Phantasmist waved its hands, and a dozen ghost-like copies of Dante appeared, surrounding Derek, each one mirroring his cold, calm expression.
The shadow of the Wardcraft user raised a barrier not in front of Dante, but behind Derek, a shimmering wall that cut off any possibility of retreat.
And finally, the shadow of the Toximancy user seeped a cloud of its phantom poison into the small, contained area, a weakening mist that sapped the last of his strength.
Derek stumbled to a halt, trapped, confused, poisoned, and utterly alone. He swung wildly at the illusions, his movements slow, his roars turning into panicked, choked coughs.
Dante walked through the phantom images of himself until he stood directly in front of him. He didn't even need a weapon.
He simply balled his hand into a fist, channeling the raw mana he had absorbed from Derek's fallen men. His fist glowed with a faint, dark energy.
Derek looked at him, his eyes finally showing the one thing Dante hadn't seen yet. Fear. True, absolute fear.
Dante drove his fist into Derek's stomach.
THUD.
The blow was not meant to kill, but to break. The air rushed from his lungs in a pained whoosh.
The crimson aura of his artifact sputtered and died. The greatsword, his symbol of power, slipped from his weak fingers and clattered to the ground.
Clang.
Derek, the great and terrible leader, collapsed to his knees, defeated, humiliated, and gasping for breath at Dante's feet.
He was surrounded by the ghosts of the men who had died for him, their silent, violet eyes his only audience.
The team watched from a distance, their faces a mixture of awe, relief, and a new, deep fear of the power Dante now wielded.