The battlefield was a graveyard of shattered skies. The thousand lesser beings under the Outer God fell upon the Revenants and the Mirrored Six, each clash shaking the fractured land. Kairo bent time in shards, Ashveil carved the air with black fire, and Zarynth moved like silence incarnate. Their partners struck in perfect rhythm, meeting steel, magic, and claw with defiance.
But Lucien? He walked straight into the storm.
He didn't rush. Every step felt deliberate, each one heavier than the last, as if his will pressed against the world itself. The first of the Outer God's minions lunged—a beast of bone and iron, jaws wide enough to swallow a man whole. Lucien's hand rose lazily, then blurred. The monster split in half, the strike so clean it hadn't even realized it was dead until its halves slid apart.
Another came. Then ten. Then a hundred.
Lucien didn't break stride. He slipped between blades like a phantom, his body flickering in and out of reach—Phantom Step alive in motion. Every counter carried absurd force: fists crashing through armored hides, knees shattering ribs, elbows snapping skulls. His aura burned pale, almost transparent, and yet it tore through the army like an endless tide.
The others caught glimpses of him only between their own battles. One heartbeat he was nowhere. The next, he was there, flattening titans with strikes that rippled the earth. His every movement was a lesson in martial perfection—techniques born from pain, from every revival he had endured in the White, sharpened by the Martial God System into something unstoppable.
The army broke around him, fear spreading like fire. Still, he didn't rush to the Outer God. No—he enjoyed the fight. He let himself warm up. Let his blood remember what endless combat felt like.
Then the ground darkened.
The Outer God finally moved.
It wasn't a strike. It wasn't a gesture. Just a presence. The air thinned, space buckled, and sound itself seemed to fold inwards. Every Revenant felt it—every Mirrored Six staggered. And Lucien… he stopped, raising his head at last.
The figure at the center of the chaos stared down at him, eyes like wells that had seen the birth and death of countless stars. Its body carried weight not meant for mortal worlds, each breath gnawing at the edges of reality.
"Sole Exception," the voice thundered, calm yet heavy enough to bruise the soul. "You are an insult to the order I built. Today, you end."
Lucien smirked. Not bravado—certainty. He rolled his shoulders, the pale aura around him sharpening until even the earth hissed beneath his feet.
"Finally," he muttered, voice almost casual. "No more warm-ups."
The Outer God's hand shifted. The sky tore in half.
Lucien moved.
And the battlefield, already broken beyond recognition, erupted into a war none could follow with mortal eyes.