"He actually blocked it."
Quaiesse's eyes widened in genuine surprise and rising delight. A deeper respect for raw power gleamed in his gaze as he stared up at the dark warrior perched atop the struggling griffon.
The vast net of radiant sword energy suspended before Momon refused to shatter beneath the Lich King's colossal, flame-wreathed palm. Instead, with relentless pressure, it slowly forced the monstrous hand backward, inch by agonizing inch.
After a tense stalemate that seemed to stretch the very air taut, the Lich King abruptly feigned weakness. Its towering skeletal frame swayed dramatically, as though overpowered, yielding ground to the shimmering barrier.
A cold snort echoed from its hollow maw. "To think a mere warrior could block one of my strikes. What is your name?"
Momonga—ever pragmatic—seized the opportunity. Making the alias "Momon" renowned across E-Rantel aligned perfectly with his broader objectives here.
Standing firm atop the griffon, he raised his voice to thunder across the battlefield. "Listen well, monster. I am the Dark Warrior, Momon."
The words rolled like distant thunder, carrying to every corner of the frozen field and imprinting themselves on the minds of defenders and undead alike.
"Excellent. This Momon is yet another treasure of humanity." Zinedine's eyes flashed with astonishment through the crystal ball's surveillance. He had truly not anticipated that the armored adventurer could not only endure a direct blow from the Lich King but momentarily overpower it in raw contest.
Yet admiration could wait. Though the Lich King appeared at a brief disadvantage, the wider situation remained dire for the humans—Death Knights still encircled the city, and the colossal undead lord loomed unchallenged.
As Zinedine pondered next moves, the Lich King's expression shifted back to mocking amusement. "Muhahaha! Good… very good. A little pre-dinner entertainment has brought me such exquisite joy."
Its hollow gaze swept over the guards and adventurers lining the city walls, lingering meaningfully on Helant—now cradled limply in Mino's arms.
In an instant, every undead across the field—those harrying the walls and those arrayed below—froze in perfect unison.
"Humans," the Lich King intoned with theatrical patience, "I have played enough. In ten minutes, we shall commence the third round."
As the words fell, the ghostly blue flames wreathing its body surged brighter, fiercer. Paradoxically, no scorching heat radiated outward; instead, layers of biting frost crept across the ground from its feet, crystallizing grass, stone, and fallen corpses alike.
Within mere seconds, the environs of E-Rantel transformed into a bleak winter wasteland. Swirling snowflakes danced in the wind, and the cold clawed through armor and cloaks, drawing involuntary shivers from even the hardiest defenders.
The Lich King stood motionless, elegant and unhurried, like a gourmet allowing his meal to cool before indulgence. "In ten minutes, I shall savor my feast."
A feast.
The implication struck like ice water: they themselves were the meal.
Are we truly going to die here?
The ten-minute countdown sapped the last vestiges of strength from many. Adventurers and Guard Army soldiers alike did not wail or panic—they simply slumped against the battlements in heavy silence, watching the snow drift lazily from the darkened sky, as though already half-frozen in resignation.
"Quaiesse, steady the griffon. We're returning to the wall." Momon descended unsteadily, his armored form radiating visible exhaustion. "I've reached my limit just blocking that single strike from the Lich King."
Quaiesse gave a solemn nod and guided the beast downward, bearing them both back to the safety of the ramparts.
"Quaiesse," Zinedine's voice came through the mental link, tinged with cautious relief at the Lich King's announced delay, "once Helant and Momon have taken the God's Blood, use your Teleportation Magic to extract them immediately."
As long as neither was slain outright, escape remained viable. And Helant's grievous wounds? Zinedine harbored no real concern there.
An alchemist capable of producing God's Blood—the fabled red healing elixir of YGGDRASIL legend—would surely heal himself in time, provided death was not instantaneous.
No injury existed that God's Blood could not mend… or so the records claimed.
On the city wall, Mino cradled Helant tightly, her pale fingers trembling as she pulled aside his torn clothing to expose the wound. The ghostly blue flames still clung there, writhing like parasitic worms burrowing deeper into flesh.
Tears streamed unchecked down her cheeks. "Helant… the wound… it won't heal at all…"
Her broken sobs echoed across the rampart, deepening the pall of despair that already smothered the defenders. If even Helant—their radiant savior—lay helpless against this corruption, what hope remained for anyone?
A god, perhaps?
Helant, pale and weak in her arms, managed a faint, subtle glance upward—encouraging, almost amused. In a voice barely above a whisper meant only for her, he murmured, "Nice acting. I'll reward you properly when we get back~"
Just then, Quaiesse landed with Momonga in tow. The moment his boots touched stone, he hurried to Helant's side. "Miss Mino, quickly—administer the God's Blood potion to him!"
He could not fathom why they had delayed so long. Did they truly wish to wallow in collective despair?
Before Mino could respond, Helant forced himself upright with visible effort. Offering a wan, bitter smile, he produced a small vial from his inventory and uncorked it. The rich crimson liquid within shimmered with potent life force.
He poured it directly over the wound.
"Arrh.."
The moment the legendary God's Blood touched the ghostly blue flames, it did not quench them. Instead, the fire greedily consumed the vitality, flaring brighter and hotter, spreading tendrils of frost deeper into Helant's chest.
"As.. urg.. you can see," Helant rasped, voice strained but steady, "the Lich King's flames devour life force itself. My potion… is merely fuel to this unholy blaze."
There truly existed wounds beyond even God's Blood's reach?
Quaiesse stared at the writhing azure corruption, shock and anxiety etching deep lines into his face.
Through the crystal ball, Zinedine fell utterly silent. Even his disciplined mind, honed by decades of intelligence gathering and ruthless pragmatism, struggled to accept the sight. He had long believed that, barring deliberate rejection, no injury could withstand a God's Blood potion.
Evidently, he had been profoundly mistaken.
His gaze flicked between the dying Helant and the Lich King—an abyss given form—and a cold, mirthless laugh escaped him.
Could Helant possibly be deceiving me? In league with that terrifying Demon God?
The notion was absurd, impossible.
Zinedine shoved the paranoia aside and issued the command. "Quaiesse, take Helant and esc—"
Before the word "escape" could leave his lips, Helant's weak but clear voice cut through. "There is… one more way. To slay the Lich King in a single, decisive blow."
Though faint, the words carried to every ear on the wall.
A fragile spark of hope reignited in eyes that had dulled with resignation. Strength seemed to return to weary limbs as adventurers and soldiers slowly rose, drawn inexorably closer to Helant.
Momonga stepped forward beside him. "What way?"
Every face turned toward Helant in desperate expectation.
"No—you'll die."
Before he could elaborate, Mino threw her arms around him in a fierce embrace.
Her eyes, red and swollen from tears, shimmered with fresh anguish. Her voice broke on sobs. "Summoning the Holy Domain God Lord in your current state… it will kill you."
"Holy Domain God Lord?"
Quaiesse and Zinedine both snapped to full alertness. That name—the deity Helant had referenced before.
Could such a being truly contend with the despair incarnate that was the Lich King on this damned battlefield?
____
Give this girl Mino an Oscar!!
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