Ivan didn't retreat.
His golden gaze **burned hotter**, divinity flaring as he met Kaelen head-on. Light and blood collided—law against sovereignty—each impact shaking the sky like two grinding worlds.
For a heartbeat—
Ivan held.
Then he **felt it**.
Not a loss of strength.
Not a lapse in speed.
**Control. Slipping.**
The smile on his lips fractured.
Ivan twisted away mid-clash, light shearing outward as he snapped toward the apostles, his voice sharp with urgency.
> "Are you just going to stand there?"
> "If this continues, neither of us walks away unchanged."
Authority surged into his words as he spread one hand, golden radiance tightening around him.
> "Our partnership—finish it. Now."
The apostles turned.
And in that instant, Ivan understood his mistake.
Their forms shifted—wings flaring wider, halos **fracturing**—not in obedience, but in **revulsion**.
One spoke, voice layered with judgment and contempt.
> "Partnership?"
Another followed, eyes glacial.
> "We do not *partner*."
Their gazes locked onto Ivan—not Kaelen.
> "We are servants of Light," one declared.
> "Even if we must work beside a demon—"
Their wings beat once, violent and final.
> "—we will **never** align with an apostate."
Ivan's golden light **flickered**.
> "You dare—" he began.
The lead apostle cut him off without hesitation.
> "You are worse than the demon."
A pause.
Then the sentence that sealed it.
> "You chose self over divinity."
The air **shifted**.
Ivan turned slowly back to Kaelen.
For the first time, there was no arrogance in his eyes.
Only calculation.
Kaelen stood unmoved, his blood-heart pulsing steadily, expression unreadable.
> Kaelen said calmly,
> "Even puppets know when the strings are rotten."
Ivan's jaw tightened.
He exhaled—slow, controlled.
> "So be it."
The light around him **collapsed inward**, no longer radiant but **compressed**—dense, dangerous, focused.
> "If I cannot rule beside gods," Ivan said softly,
> "then I will outlast them."
Kaelen raised one hand.
The battlefield **answered**.
Blood stirred. Space bowed.
> "Then this ends one way," Kaelen replied.
> "Not with death."
His eyes locked onto Ivan's.
> "With submission."
Above them, the apostles hesitated.
For the first time since descending—
They weren't sure **who the true abomination was anymore**.
Ivan's smile returned—thin, sharp, **dishonest**.
He raised one hand, golden law sigils spiraling into existence… then **faltering**.
Cracks spider-webbed through the glyphs.
The truth surfaced.
This wasn't a *god-law override*.
It was a **lie dressed as authority**.
Ivan clicked his tongue softly.
> "Tch… figures."
The divine script unraveled mid-formation, collapsing into raw, unstable radiance. Ivan didn't look surprised—only irritated.
His gaze slid past Kaelen.
Upward.
Toward the sky.
Toward the **airships**.
> "Since the apostles won't interfere," Ivan said calmly,
> "I'll just lend them a hand."
He extended his arm—not toward Kaelen.
Toward **Lux Invicta**.
Golden light **tore free** from his body—not orderly, not sanctioned—**stolen divinity**, ripping loose like a blazing wound in reality.
The apostles' heads snapped up.
> "He's targeting—!"
Too late.
Ivan's voice echoed, cold and decisive.
> "They were going to sense it anyway."
> "Might as well finish it early."
The golden mass **compressed**, twisting into a spear of distorted law—not judgment, not punishment—
**Erasure.**
The air screamed.
On the command decks, alarms howled. Officers shouted. Barriers flared to maximum output—already strained, already cracking.
Theron's golden gaze narrowed.
> "All ships—evasive—!"
The spear **launched**.
Not fast.
**Inevitable.**
It crossed the sky like a falling sun, space warping around it, clouds torn into spirals as it descended toward the fleet.
The apostles moved at last.
Not to aid Ivan—
But to **contain the consequence**.
One spread her wings, slamming both palms forward.
> "Enough."
Light met light—but Ivan's attack wasn't *pure*. It chewed through resistance, grinding, screaming, forcing the apostle back inch by inch.
Ivan laughed.
> "See?"
> "Even you can't ignore this."
The radiance screamed toward the airships—
—and **reality broke first**.
Space before the fleet **cracked like glass**, a vertical fissure of blinding white tearing open. From it stepped a figure wreathed in absolute luminosity.
Six wings of pure light unfurled.
The **Apostle of Light**.
She didn't shout.
Didn't posture.
She raised one hand.
Ivan's attack struck her palm and **died**—not exploded, not deflected—
**Extinguished.**
Reduced to harmless motes that scattered like dust.
The shockwave never reached the ships.
On the command decks, silence fell heavier than any blast.
Theron's eyes narrowed.
"So they finally move," he muttered.
Ivan's smile twitched—just slightly.
Behind Kaelen—
**Space split again**.
Not light.
**Judgment.**
A massive figure forced itself through the rupture, muscles carved like stone, six wings darker and heavier, etched with runes that hurt to behold. Its presence pressed down like a verdict already passed.
The **Apostle of Judgment**.
It moved instantly.
A hand the size of a shield reached for Kaelen's head.
Kaelen didn't turn.
Didn't dodge.
His arm snapped up.
**Boom.**
Blood-mana detonated as his fist slammed into the apostle's face. The giant's head **whipped back**, wings carving gouges through the sky as it was driven several meters away, space buckling behind it.
The battlefield froze.
Kaelen finally turned, crimson eyes burning, voice low and absolute.
"Don't," he said.
One step forward.
"Lay hands."
Another step—blood orbiting him like a storm.
"On me."
The Apostle of Judgment steadied itself, jaw resetting with a grinding sound, eyes glowing with impersonal authority.
> "King Kaelen," it intoned. "By divine mandate—"
Kaelen cut it off.
"There is no mandate here."
His blood-heart pulsed—**once**—and the pressure doubled.
"You stand in *my* dominion."
The Apostle of Light glanced sideways, wings rustling, expression unreadable.
Ivan laughed softly, though his golden glow flickered.
"Well," he said, spreading his hands, "it seems the stage is finally crowded."
Kaelen didn't look at him.
His focus remained on the two apostles.
"Good," he said.
Blood spears formed slowly at his back—not yet aimed.
"Then watch closely."
The sky held its breath.
Because this was no longer a skirmish.
This was a **king**, standing before **judgment and light**—
—and daring them to pass sentence.