Lenard's chest tightened as a cold, creeping horror gripped him. His fingers were stiff around the hilt of his sword, knuckles white, yet he could not move. The paladins he had fought beside for years—those whose courage and loyalty had never wavered—were being systematically incapacitated before his eyes.
"Kuh kuh kuh, you moron," Shion's voice floated lightly to him, the tone almost playful, though it carried a weight that felt like a death knell. "For that human, having a lack of four limbs is a normal condition. There's no way recovery magic could heal him, right? He's already in a condition in which there are no problems."
Lenard's mind froze at her words. At first, he thought he misheard, but the realization hit him in waves, like icy water flooding a warm chamber.
She wasn't just speaking—it was a statement of fact, a declaration of her absolute power over natural laws themselves.
She had rewritten reality, and what Lenard saw before him was the unshakable proof. Those paladins—stalwart, disciplined warriors who had survived countless battles—lay on the ground, their limbs gone, yet not dead. Every spell, every holy incantation that could have restored them was rendered powerless. Their very bodies had been altered.
The moment she had struck, Lenard realized the horrifying scope of her ability. Shion wasn't merely strong. She didn't merely swing a sword faster than thought or manipulate energy with ease. She had the power to manipulate the laws that governed the battlefield. To change the world's outcomes according to her will. To rewrite existence itself to match her desires.
All of Lenard's training, all of his years of mastery over Holy Magic, all of the painstaking refinement of his swordsmanship—all of it became meaningless before a being who could reshape reality at a whim. He had faced upper-tier monsters before. He had stared down elite A-rank demons and even survived skirmishes that had left others dead. But none of them had forced him to confront this truth: that there were powers so absolute, so transcendent, that no human—or even paladin—could hope to oppose them directly.
Fear began to coil in his chest, cold and unrelenting. This was no ordinary Oni. This was an entity that moved beyond the natural order, a living lawbreaker. And now that entity was systematically dismantling everything he held dear.
Shion's eyes gleamed as she moved among the fallen paladins. Her black-and-purple hair fluttered with every motion, her horn catching the faint light of the battlefield like a crescent moon. She knelt beside one exhausted paladin, who could barely lift his head, his spiritual energy entirely spent. With a swift, almost casual motion, she severed his limbs. The holy energy radiating faintly from the paladin, the very life force that had sustained him for years, meant nothing against Shion's will. He did not die, but he would never again wield a sword, shield, or even rise to his feet in battle.
Lenard watched, heart hammering, as this process continued. Each paladin fell one by one. Each life—each identity, each pride—was stripped from them in a mechanical, almost artful rhythm. It was as if she were composing a symphony of suffering. And the most horrifying part was that she seemed… pleased.
"No…" Lenard whispered, but the word was swallowed by the chaos. His voice was useless. His sword felt like a weight in his hand, his magic useless at the mere thought of opposing her. He wanted to act, to do something, anything, yet he knew deep down that no measure of skill or power would suffice.
The paladins who were still able to maintain the Holy Field glanced at him, desperation in their eyes. They wanted him to act, to lead, to find a solution—but he had none. Every thought, every strategy, every spell he had ever learned was inadequate. How could he oppose a creature that could twist reality with a flick of her wrist?
Shion approached the next paladin, who was still conscious but trembling. She crouched, her eyes holding his, and spoke in a tone that was soft, almost affectionate.
"Don't worry. I will take good care of you. You'll see, your limbs will be preserved… somewhere else. But here? Here, you will serve a lesson."
The paladin tried to scream, tried to struggle—but it was as if the laws of motion themselves had betrayed him. He could not move fast enough, could not defend himself against an opponent who transcended even the natural laws that governed his body. Lenard's stomach churned with nausea. His hands shook violently, but he could not avert his eyes.
Every act of Shion's seemed to mock him. Each time she severed a limb, she spoke to the paladin as though speaking to a child, explaining her actions as if they were a favor, a kindness. The juxtaposition of her elegance and the horror of her actions made Lenard's mind reel. He had faced many enemies in his lifetime, but none had shown such a casual disregard for the sanctity of life while simultaneously flaunting utter mastery.
"Impossible…" he muttered. "This… this can't be happening. How—how can anyone have such control over the laws of this world? This… monstrosity… why… why now?"
Fear had rooted him to the spot. It wasn't mere terror at the loss of life, nor the sight of the mutilated paladins. It was a deeper, more primal fear—the recognition that he was confronting a being far beyond the comprehension of humans, one whose very existence defied everything he had learned about magic, combat, and even life itself.
Shion's pace slowed as she approached Lenard. Her presence filled the field, a perfect balance of grace and menace. The air around her seemed to ripple, as if reality itself was acknowledging her authority. Lenard felt the subtle shift in weight and space, the microscopic tug in the world around him, and he understood in a cold, bone-deep way that resistance was futile.
"Now then…" her voice was gentle, almost playful, as if she were speaking to an old friend rather than an enemy. "It's your turn, you know?"
The words brushed against Lenard's ear, soft as silk yet sharp as a blade. A whisper that carried with it a promise of devastation, of pain so precise that it could carve not just flesh but soul. His stomach lurched violently. Every thought in his head screamed at him to flee, to cast every spell he knew, to run, to beg—but he could not move. His body refused the command of his mind.
Lenard's heart pounded in a way that felt unnatural. Every beat was a countdown, every inhale a step closer to inevitable horror. He realized that the paladins he had commanded, the allies who had fought by his side, had been reduced not only in ability but in hope. And now, their captain—the one who had so often stood at the forefront of battle, wielding Holy Magic and sword in perfect harmony—was about to face the same fate.
Shion's eyes narrowed, her expression softening into something that almost resembled fondness. "Oh, Lenard," she murmured. "You've been so careful, so precise, so diligent in your planning. And yet… all that preparation means nothing now. Don't you see? You are mine to shape, just as I have shaped your comrades."
Her voice was mesmerizing, terrifyingly calm. Lenard's muscles quivered under the weight of its authority. Even as a seasoned paladin and swordmage, he felt an unnatural paralysis settle into him—not of body, but of mind. Every instinct screamed that resistance was hopeless. Every memory of training, every lesson in Holy Magic, every discipline and technique he had ever honed was meaningless against her.
Shion's approach was deliberate, each step measured, a predator closing in on prey. The surrounding paladins watched in frozen silence, the Holy Field's light flickering faintly as it strained against her presence. But even their combined power seemed like a candle against the storm of inevitability she carried.
Lenard's mind raced despite the paralysis. He thought of every technique, every loophole, every potential contingency. He tried to invoke every spell he could remember, every defensive measure, but nothing resonated. Nothing responded. Shion's will was a gravitational force, bending the battlefield to her whim. She had altered the very framework of their engagement, rewriting outcomes before they could even manifest.
A scream tore through the field as another paladin, who had struggled to stand, was struck. The limbs of the man were ripped away, yet he remained alive, screaming in agony but unable to defend himself. The sound was like ice in Lenard's veins. His heart pounded. He knew it was only a matter of seconds before he would experience the same.
Shion crouched slightly, her eyes locking onto Lenard's. The crimson glare was absolute, unwavering, and infinite in its intensity. "Do you understand now?" she whispered. "Do you understand the futility of opposing me? That your skill, your courage, your life… none of it matters?"
Lenard's body trembled violently. His sword felt heavier than lead in his hands. His mind screamed for action, but the paralysis of futility weighed him down. Fear surged like a tidal wave, threatening to sweep him away completely. Every muscle in his body ached, every nerve burned. The weight of knowing that the outcome of this moment—his survival, the fate of his comrades, the very reality of the world around him—rested entirely in the hands of a being who could bend laws at will, was suffocating.
Shion's grin widened slightly, a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. "Lenard, it's your turn," she said again, more gently this time, as if offering him a courtesy before the inevitable. Her shadow stretched across the battlefield, a dark, commanding presence that distorted light and space. "Will you embrace your end, or will you struggle and only make your suffering last longer?"
Lenard's vision blurred. The battlefield—the shattered Holy Field, the fallen comrades, the scorched earth, the twisted remnants of the Oni—was all a testament to her absolute dominance. His knees buckled, his will faltered, but somewhere deep within, the spark of his humanity refused to die. Not yet.
He inhaled sharply, forcing his breath into a steady rhythm. "I… I will not yield," he whispered, voice trembling, but carrying the weight of a man determined to stand, even against impossible odds. Even as terror clawed at his mind, even as the reality of Shion's power threatened to crush him, Lenard's resolve crystallized into steel.
Shion tilted her head, as though amused by the flicker of defiance. The battle, she realized, was far from over—but the scales had shifted entirely in her favor. Yet, even now, in this confrontation of absolute power versus human will, a single, fragile ember of resistance remained. Lenard's heart, trembling as it was, beat defiantly, marking the beginning of his personal trial against the unrelenting shadow that was Shion.
The silence of the battlefield stretched, broken only by the ragged breathing of the paladins, the faint hum of the Holy Field, and the soft, terrifyingly cheerful voice of the Oni. The moment had arrived—the last barrier between despair and action. Lenard knew that whatever happened next would define not only the outcome of this battle but the meaning of his very existence.
The shadow of fear enveloped him, and yet, in its deepest recesses, he understood the truth: to face Shion was to confront the impossible, and to confront the impossible was to challenge the very limits of humanity itself.
Lenard gritted his teeth, raised his sword, and took the first step toward what might be his end—or a spark of unprecedented courage in a world ruled by the laws of a godless Oni.
The time for Lenard to know true terror had begun.