Chapter 763

Chapter 763
The violent displacement of air from Grondal’s massive halberd sent Tagmah flying backward. Even without connecting, the sheer momentum of the strike was enough to shatter his opponent’s center of gravity—a testament to the dwarf’s terrifying physical prowess. However, Grondal lacked the gift of flight. Having committed to an aerial assault, he inevitably plummeted back toward the earth.

Boom!

His boots hit the stone with such force that the ground fractured, sending a tremor through the surroundings. Standing amidst the rubble, Grondal flashed a savage, mocking smile.

“You’ve got some spine. What kind of freak are you supposed to be?”

“I am the herald preparing for the advent of the Black Revelation, the messenger of the blood oath, the bearer of the Fourth Blessing who broadcasts His divine intent. I am Tagmah, the Prophet.”

“That’s quite the mouthful for a self-introduction. A prophet, you say? You cultist rats certainly have a talent for talking nonsense.”

“Such vulgarity. Is this the lack of refinement one expects from a king?”

“I don’t waste my dignity on filth like you.”

Grondal readjusted his grip on his weapon. Behind him, a squad of dwarves stepped forward. These were the same companions who had been sharing drinks and rowdy laughter with him only hours before. They were the “Ironhearts,” the six legendary captains of the dwarven military. In Vallscrum, the title of Ironheart was reserved solely for the most elite commanders and warriors in the realm.

Grasping their weapons with furious intent, they bellowed:

“That winged freak looks like a handful. We’re backing you up!”

“He’s clearly the boss! If we drop him, this whole mess falls apart, right?”

“Damn straight! Let’s swarm the bastard and bury him!”

The captains could feel the weight of Tagmah’s presence. He was a foe capable of trading blows with Grondal—the pinnacle of dwarven strength—and surviving. That fact alone made a coordinated assault the most logical path. Grondal didn’t fundamentally disagree with the necessity of a group effort, but he knew the broader tactical reality.

He scanned the perimeter.

GRAAAAAH!

Hordes of twisted creatures were pouring in from every avenue. Dark magical detonations were rocking the city both inside and out, and the high-ranking prelates of the Salvation Order had begun to show themselves. If Tagmah decided to play defensively, even the combined might of the Ironhearts wouldn’t be able to finish him quickly. And time was a luxury they didn’t have.

“No. Stay back.”

Grondal shook his head firmly. The Ironhearts were needed elsewhere to stem the tide of the invasion.

“I’ll pin this bastard down. You lot go deal with the peripheral trash.”

“Are you sure about this, King?”

“I’ll keep him busy. Just wipe out the rest of them as fast as you can! That’s the better play.”

Acknowledging the iron-clad authority in Grondal’s voice, the captains gave a sharp nod. The dwarven front lines were already taking a beating; only the intervention of the captains could neutralize the enemy’s elite forces. With no other viable choice, the six warriors sprinted off in different directions.

Now, only Grondal and Tagmah remained in the clearing. Left to his own devices, Grondal bit his lip in frustration. Above him, Tagmah drifted in the air, a condescending smirk on his face.

“Tch. You smug piece of work…”

The reason for the prophet’s confidence was transparent. This wasn’t a duel with equal stakes. Grondal was burdened by the need to protect his kingdom and his kin. The invaders, however, had no such weights. They viewed their own soldiers—the undead and the chimeras—as disposable tools. Even if every monster in the city were pulverized, the Salvation Order would lose nothing of value.

Therefore, the only way to inflict a true wound on the Order was to spill the blood of this “prophet.”

BOOM!

Grondal exploded off the ground once more, his halberd lashing out like a bolt of lightning toward Tagmah.

CRACK!

A barrier of obsidian energy flared around Tagmah’s frame, soaking up the impact. Grondal didn’t relent. Using the kinetic energy of the deflection, he kicked off the air itself, launching into a relentless sequence of strikes.

BAM! BAM! BOOM!

Defying the laws of physics, Grondal used the recoil of each blow to maintain his altitude, dancing through the sky. It was a feat of incredible difficulty, demanding not just raw power and lung capacity, but a surgical level of finesse.

Tagmah attempted to create breathing room by venting a massive wave of dark force. Grondal simply smashed through the wave and closed the gap again. He took the brunt of the magical feedback with his rugged physique; a lesser warrior would have been shredded by the pressure.

The prophet, momentarily stunned by the dwarf’s tenacity, looked on with genuine interest.

“You truly are a formidable specimen.”

“Save your breath. I’m going to drown you in a vat of molten iron.”

CRASH! CRASH! KABOOM!

Regardless of Tagmah’s ability to fly, a sustained dogfight was inherently draining. True power was best harnessed on solid ground. Eventually, the pressure forced Tagmah back down to the earth. Grondal bared his teeth in a predatory grin.

“Arrogant fool. A dwarf is at his peak when his feet are on the soil.”

“You speak with much certainty.”

“I’ll show you why.”

Grondal swung his halberd in a vertical arc aimed at Tagmah’s skull. The prophet braced himself, stomping his foot to anchor his own power as he reached out to intercept.

KRAAAASH!

CRRRACK!

The collision of their powers tore the street asunder, causing neighboring structures to buckle and groan.

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

The two engaged in a frantic, ceaseless exchange. Ebon darkness clashed against glowing steel, cutting and smashing in a chaotic rhythm. It was a pure contest of strength against strength, soul against soul. Neither man flinched; neither man gave an inch of territory. It was a brutal war of attrition to see whose spirit would fracture first.

RUMBLE!

The terrain beneath them had been reduced to a cratered wasteland. The surrounding towers and walls had crumbled into fine grit. The sky seemed to dim under the weight of their killing intent, and the very atmosphere vibrated with tension.

CRACKLE!

The stalemate persisted, but Grondal was acutely aware of the ticking clock.

*The longer we dance like this, the more my people suffer.*

He resolved to push past his limits. Grondal clenched his jaw, his knuckles whitening as he raised his halberd high with both hands. The combat style of a dwarven monarch was fundamentally simple: a direct, overwhelming strike. But when that simplicity was fueled by the totality of his being, it became something transcendent.

Grondal’s eyes turned a vivid, glowing red. As he brought the weapon down with every ounce of his strength—

—it felt as though the fabric of reality was being torn in half.

KWAAAAAAAAAAAAANG!

The force of the blow sent Tagmah reeling backward. The ground ruptured beneath the prophet’s feet, carving a massive furrow into the earth as if a mountain had fallen upon it. Grondal did not pause.

CRACK! CRASH! KABOOM!

Like a blacksmith driving a spike, Grondal hammered Tagmah repeatedly with his halberd. Each strike caused Tagmah to shudder and retreat further into the debris. Every impact left a permanent scar on the landscape of Vallscrum.

Tagmah watched Grondal through the storm of dust.

“…Quite impressive.”

The dwarf was stronger than the reports suggested. No—he had been forced to become stronger. The king was disregarding his own safety entirely, pouring every drop of his life force into these attacks. It wasn’t just a desire to end the duel; it was a pure, unadulterated drive to annihilate his enemy.

CRASH! CRASH! CRAAAAASH!

Grondal pressed on, his face a mask of primal fury. He was clearly willing to trade his own flesh to land a fatal blow. Tagmah, meanwhile, remained eerily composed.

“When a fire burns at its brightest… it is often wise to simply wait for the fuel to vanish.”

The cult was in no rush. The monsters and sorcerers they had deployed were entirely expendable. As long as the prophets remained standing, their victory was inevitable.

CRASH! CRASH! CRAAAAASH!

Grondal knew he was being baited into exhausting himself, but he no longer cared. Fine steel isn’t made with a couple of taps. It is the result of being struck, cooled, and struck again thousands of times. Only through that repetitive torment does a blade find its edge. Patience and persistence were the core virtues of a master smith.

He would keep hammering until he drew his last breath, or until the stain known as Tagmah was wiped from the world.

CRASH! CRASH! KABOOOM!

Tagmah continued to be pushed back. Finally, after a long period of silent defense, the prophet spoke.

“Grondal, sovereign of Vallscrum and monarch of the dwarves. I offer you my sincere respect for your magnificent strength.”

“Shut your trap. No amount of flattery is going to save your hide. Get ready to be turned into a pancake.”

“And yet, your defiance concludes here. We have spent a lifetime preparing for the fall of this city.”

“Still talking? You really think you’re going to walk away from this?”

“It is the decree of God.”

Tagmah’s lips curled into a dark sneer. In that instant, Grondal sensed a foreign, hostile presence rapidly approaching his flank.

*Damn it.*

He was too overextended to parry or evade. He had committed too much of himself to his offensive against Tagmah.

KRAAAAK!

“Gah!”

The ambush struck home, sending Grondal tumbling across the shattered stone. He snarled, stabbing his halberd into the ground to arrest his slide and force himself back up. Standing beside Tagmah was another man of middle age, draped in identical dark vestments.

Grondal spat and growled, “And who the hell is this one?”

“I am the herald preparing for the advent of the Black Revelation, the messenger of the blood oath, the bearer of the Third Blessing who broadcasts His divine intent. I am Rahаmod, the Prophet.”

Grondal barked a dry, humorless laugh. The sheer arrogance of these cultists and their scripted introductions was almost comedic. However, he could feel the raw power radiating from the newcomer. This was a grave threat. It was clear the Order had come to finish things once and for all.

Ptooey!

Grondal cleared the blood from his mouth and stood tall, his posture unyielding. The situation had worsened, but his resolve remained unchanged. He had already accepted that he might die here. Adding another opponent didn’t change the stakes.

“Fine. Let’s see who gets to see the sunrise and who ends up in the dirt.”

As he finished speaking, a dual torrent of abyssal energy erupted from both Rahаmod and Tagmah, converging on Grondal.

KABOOOOOOM!

The center of Vallscrum was rocked by a massive explosion. A pillar of dust and debris shot into the heavens, and the very foundation of the city groaned in agony. Yet, even within that swirling vortex of destruction—

—one dwarf stood his ground, gripping his weapon, refusing to give up the ghost.

—

“Whew…”

Ghislain touched down softly on the ground. As his eyes opened, the chaotic mana storm that had been swirling around him began to dissipate. He had drained every drop of the mana he had spent days accumulating through his specialized formation. He also had to cease the flow of energy he was providing to his comrades. If he spent any more, he would be empty for the decisive confrontation ahead.

“Is everyone in position?”

— Julien, Ereneth, and Lionel have cleared the zone and are closing in! They’ve put enough distance between themselves and the core conflict—no issues to report!

Dark’s update was missing a critical name. Ghislain prompted him.

“What about Kyle?”

— Well… it’s not looking great. The dwarves didn’t fall back as planned, and it looks like he might be getting pinned down.

Ghislain’s brow furrowed. While he didn’t have the full picture, it was obvious the situation had devolved into chaos. He wasn’t in a position to offer immediate aid, as massive signatures of power were already clashing nearby.

*The prophets have arrived.*

He couldn’t confirm if it was Rahаmod—the one from their previous encounter—but he could sense two entities of that caliber. And the only one capable of holding them off was likely the Dwarven King, Grondal.

Ghislain sighed and gave a firm order.

“Tell Kyle to disengage and retreat immediately.”

They had hoped to save as many as possible, but perfection was impossible in a war where their allies weren’t fully cooperating. Losing Kyle was an unacceptable risk; his death would compromise the entire mission. They had provided enough of a window. The rest was up to the dwarves’ own luck.

— Copy that! Relaying the order now! He should be moving back shortly!

Ghislain took hold of his staff and looked at Deneb, who was waiting by his side.

“It’s time.”

There was no more room for hesitation. He needed to intervene. He swept Deneb up and took to the air, casting a wide-range sensing spell to map out the battlefield.

BOOM! BOOM! CRASH!

Near the royal palace, Grondal was locked in a desperate struggle against two prophets. Ghislain recognized one of the signatures instantly.

Rahаmod.

So he had indeed come. It was clear the Salvation Order was leaving nothing to chance.

KRAAAK!

As Ghislain watched, Grondal was hammered back again and again. His body was a map of lacerations and bruises, and the stones beneath him were slick with his own blood. Yet, the fire in the king’s eyes hadn’t dimmed; it had only grown more concentrated. But even a titan like Grondal had a breaking point. His physical form was nearing its limit.

Ghislain landed a safe distance away and set Deneb down. Then, his physical form seemed to dissolve into a cloud of dark vapor.

Snap!

He didn’t need to worry about being heard; the roar of the battle provided the perfect cover. Dampening his presence to the absolute minimum, he began his approach. Grondal was in dire straits, but a reckless charge would only lead to both of them dying.

Ssshhh…

Ghislain became one with the environment. He glided through the air currents, navigating the boundary between shadow and light. Like a predator—patient, methodical, and relentless—he narrowed the gap between himself and his targets. He moved like a natural breeze, something so mundane that no one notices it until it has already passed.

KRAAAAAK!

Grondal was sent skidding back once more. This time, he struggled to find his feet, coughing up a thick spray of crimson. Tagmah and Rahаmod approached him. While they showed signs of the grueling fight, they were largely unscathed.

“This is the end, King Grondal.”

The two prophets raised their hands in a synchronized gesture. A terrifying concentration of energy began to form between their palms. A single discharge would be enough to vaporize the dwarven king and end the resistance of Vallscrum.

Just as they were about to release the strike—

—Rahаmod felt an icy shiver race down his spine. An instinctive dread crawled up his neck, and every instinct screamed of a lethal threat. He spun around. Tagmah, sensing the same anomaly, turned just as quickly.

There, emerging from the thin air, was a blade. Without a word of warning, the sword slashed through the space between them.

SLAASH!