Minutes before Evan smashed into the hall, Arven slipped one critical line into his mind.
"The Lord is forging a Spirit Core," he warned.
"If you find the core and force an overflow, you can break his ascension. I'm scanning—roots converge under the throne. Watch for the pulse. I will try to find where it is."
Evan's jaw set. He landed anyway.
....
Present time...
He stopped beside the swordsman who had mocked him—Corlan—the one who'd painted Sylen's team with shame, in Elya's eyes.
Evan remembered the laughter, the pointing fingers, the taste of humiliation.
He swore then he would never let it slide. Today, he would settle that debt.
To the team, he looked like a saviour: a lone man who'd stood against a Lord.
They rushed hope toward him like moths to a flare.
"We're saved," Corlan cried, breathless with relief.
"Our saviour will free the Expanse."
Evan laughed—cold, short, without mercy.
"Saved?" he scoffed, sharp enough to cut. "You're still that naive?"
Sylen, bruised and half-buried in wreckage, lifted his head.
"Don't get full of yourself," he rasped, trying to reassert command. "You think a flame stunt makes you better than us? Don't mock my team."
Evan's grin widened. "This team? Cowards who roar at the small and cower at the large. You play leader like a mask."
Silence hit the hall for a breath. Sylen's face went rigid—Evan's words landed like stones.
Before anyone could reply, Elya stepped forward, voice snapping.
"Don't you dare slander our captain. You helped us, not own us—so keep your tongue."
Evan's amusement deepened. "Ah, the captain's defender arrives. Elya—remember when you taught me a lesson that day?"
He pointed at Corlan. "Watch closely. The lesson ends now."
Nobody understood until Sylen noticed the masked man raise his sword high.
"Cooooo—Corlan—get down!" Sylen screamed.
Too late.
Evan's blade already rested at his feet, clean.
One graceful motion and a sleek line carved across Corlan's body.
Blood burst, hot and unstoppable. Corlan stared, disbelief hollowing his eyes as red soaked the stones.
The hall froze.
Sylen's heart dropped. He saw the moment and understood the worst of it: the timing, the choice. Regret hit like a blow.
"Run!" he barked, voice raw.
"Everyone—run! That man—he's hunting us! It's the Undead mage—get away!"
Panic unfurled like a banner. Boots pounded stone. Shouts turned to ragged screams.
Evan laughed—no warmth, pure theater. "Yes, run. Today, my blade will drink every last one of your heads. Thank your captain—he taught you who would finish you."
He sounded cruel, theatrical, and every word was a scalpel.
But it was an act. A calculated mask.
Elya's face crumpled—betrayal and fury mixing. She'd taught Corlan a lesson to teach this man a lesson that day, never thinking it would bite them down now.
She spat, furious and shaking, but she ran with the others. Vengeance promised itself in her bones for later.
Above them, Peyndral watched, irritation twisted into decision.
When the humans fled, a single flick of his hand sealed every exit with writhing vine.
"No feud matters," he thundered, voice like cracking bark, "today you all die!"
Most could barely stand; many fell unconscious under the Lord's pressure.
Evan smiled, watching the sealed paths slacken their hope.
Peyndral bared his intention. "First—this arrogant human."
Vines shot forward like a green tide, determined to overwhelm.
Peyndral hesitated only for a shade. He'd expected to burn them away, to watch the fire cleanse the intruders. But this masked killer had slain his servant and now stood among the dying.
'Is he an ally, enemy, or a saboteur?' the Lord wondered, eyes narrowing.
His mind flicked to the urgent matter that weighed him down: the core.
'I cannot risk more mana drain. Peyndral thought, teeth clenched. If I exhaust the formation, decades of growth are lost. I will crush them, but I must preserve my ascension.'
He poured his will into the vines, forcing them to press, to suffocate, to buy time while the Spirit Core continued its feverish birth somewhere hidden.
Evan watched the roots writhe and understood, speed mattered. If he waited, the core would stabilise; if he rushed, he might force open a window.
He smiled thinly at the choking hall and stepped forward.
Evan smirked faintly. He could almost read the thoughts running through the Lord Spirit's mind.
"It's pointless," he said calmly. "No matter how many weak vines you throw, numbers don't matter before absolute strength."
The blade in his hand flared to life, erupting in searing flames. In an instant, countless slashes cut through the air—each one trailing fire. The vines rushing toward him were sliced apart, burnt to ash before they could touch him.
Even as Evan dominated the field, despair crept over the remaining humans. They knew the moment this monster fell, their turn would come next.
"Why are you doing this to us?!" one of them, a mage, shouted, trembling. "We're humans, just like you! Can't you help us defeat this, Lord? Free the Expanse from his terror?"
Evan stopped. Slowly, he turned his head toward them, a chill leaking from his masked presence.
"Hahaha… freedom?" he laughed coldly. "Tell me something. Has this Lord ever attacked you? Ever harmed you directly? You fools are just pawns—blind pieces in your leader's little game.
He collected you like a hero in his team to kill the Demon King. And you all followed him like sheep. And now scream at me like I care."
He took a step forward, the tone of his voice sharpening.
"You think your leader fights for your safety? For justice? He's no saint. He's a devil wearing a hero's mask. He's not even hu—"
Evan suddenly tilted his head to the side, narrowly dodging a strike that came flying straight at him. He grinned.
"Ah… there you are. Took you long enough."
"Shut up!" Sylen roared, appearing behind the attack. "Don't listen to him, everyone! Escape! I'll open the path! This traitor isn't human—he's a demon in disguise! Don't get into his lies; he is manipulating you all."
His aura burst forth, bright silver light flaring from his body. The ground trembled. The power he released now rivalled Beyth's—maybe even surpassed it.
Evan smirked beneath his mask. "Finally showing your true colours… when your lies start to crack."
Sylen didn't answer. Instead, he turned, slashing his blade through the thick vines, sealing their escape. The strike was powerful, but even then, it took effort to cut through.
The team didn't wait. The moment the gap opened, they ran—every elite, every fighter—fleeing like frightened animals.
All except Elya.
Even as the others escaped, she refused to move.
Something inside her told her Sylen could win. She didn't know why, but she believed it—an unshakable, blind faith.
But just as they neared the exit, a new threat emerged.
From the shadows, glowing dots of green flame appeared—one, then many—advancing with a killing intent so heavy it froze their breath.
"What… what is that…?" one whispered.
Sylen turned in confusion, ready to shout again, but the words died in his throat. From the darkness, skeletal heads rose, followed by familiar beasts cloaked in ghostly fire.
Undead Wolves.
Elya's eyes widened. The same wolves they had slain before—now resurrected, burning with death's aura.
Sylen's face twisted in fury as he looked toward Evan.
"The Undead Mage…" he spat.
"How could I forget?" Sylen growled. "Don't panic! These are the same wolves we killed before! They can die twice, too! Fight!"
The team steadied themselves, drawing weapons.
Evan chuckled. "Don't worry. By the time I'm done with you, Sylen, your team will already be corpses. Focus on me. You'll follow them soon enough."
From his shadow, hulking beasts and armoured skeletons emerged—dozens, then hundreds, filling the hall. The number was overwhelming.
Even with full strength, they couldn't win.
Elya's confidence faltered as she realised the scale of what they faced.
"Elya," Sylen said firmly, "help the others. I'll handle these two."
He charged, clashing blades with Evan.
"Are you sure you can take me on?" Evan said, parrying easily. "Once I'm done here, you won't be going back to your town—you'll be joining the dead."
Flames burst from Evan's sword, coating his entire body in fire. Silver moonlight flared from Sylen's blade in response.
The clash ignited.
Each blow sent shockwaves through the hall—steel against flame, moonlight against inferno. Neither gained ground, but the strain began to show.
Evan was steady. Sylen was faltering.
Evan knew it. Sylen's power wouldn't last long. Soon, he'd be forced to use his Authority—his last trump card.
From a distance, Peyndral watched, amused. His enemies were killing each other, saving him the trouble.
'Perfect,' the Lord thought darkly. 'When they wear themselves out… I'll finish them all.'
He smirked, feeling the mana inside him roil. Maintaining his vines and core formation took everything he had—but if he timed it right, he could wipe the entire hall clean.
Peyndral watched the chaos unfold with a twisted grin.
Evan was holding an army of undead while clashing head-on with Sylen's overflowing silver mana. No matter how monstrous his flames looked, Peyndral believed one truth—he was still human.
And humans had limits.
After weighing the risks and his chances, Peyndral made his move.
He gathered his mana and unleashed a vicious strike, launching a monstrous vine toward the masked human.
"Die!" he bellowed, already tasting victory.
The human was distracted—this was the perfect moment to end it.
But before his joy could take form, Evan's blade cut through the air.
In a single flash, the massive vine split apart and fell burning to the ground.
Evan's gaze locked onto Peyndral.
His voice dropped cold. "Stay where you are. Once I'm done here, you're next. But if you're impatient… I can finish you now."
Peyndral faltered for a second, feeling that killing intent scrape across his mind.
Then pride flared. He roared back, "You think I'm scared? Come then, human! I'll rip you apart till you can't even count the holes in your body!"
Evan's flames rippled, his tone sharper than steel.
"If you're that eager to die… so be it."
He turned away, walking toward Sylen as if Peyndral didn't exist.
Mockery flickered in Peyndral's voice. "What's wrong? Scared now?"
Then his smirk froze.
The ground beneath Evan's steps ignited. The flames spread outward, swelling, twisting—growing into a massive sphere of fire that pulsed with deathly energy.
Evan stopped and glanced back, his eyes like burning ash.
"You tried to set your roots in the valley of death," he said softly. "Now face the consequence."
He raised his sword high.
"Rise, my summon. Engulf this world in the Ashen Flames of Death.
Show them your might… come forth—Death Phoenix!"
The fireball exploded.
A surge of gray-black flame flooded the hall, devouring everything it touched. The heat wasn't natural—it was heavy, suffocating, alive and cold.
From within the inferno, wings unfurled.
A colossal, skeletal bird wreathed in dusk-colored fire emerged, its cry shattering the vines that lined the ceiling. The air warped around her presence.
Velma.
The Death Phoenix.
The day Evan raised her, he knew she would become his trump card—and today, she had arrived to prove it.
The hall fell silent.
Even the undead paused in hesitation, instinctively bowing before the aura of their superior.
Every surviving human stood frozen, trembling at the sight.
Even Sylen's breath caught, his eyes widening in disbelief.
"Wha…" was all he could manage.
Velma's burning gaze turned toward Peyndral.
The Lord couldn't move. His body refused to obey him.
He could feel it—the sheer pressure, the killing instinct that dwarfed his own existence.
Now he understood.
This wasn't human power.
This was the source of those cursed flames.
Evan's grin widened. "Now then… let's begin the real night of slaughter."
His eyes shifted toward his true target—Sylen, frozen in horror.
To Be Continued…
Velma, the Death Phoenix, has descended—Evan's trump card and the harbinger of ash.
The balance of battle has shattered.
What will Sylen do now, standing before the tide of death itself?
Add it to your library to witness the next descent.