After all of his provocations, the demon let his gaze wander across the battlefield—casually scanning the broken ranks of men below.
Then, without warning, his eyes locked with Victor's.
Just for a split second.
That was all it took.
A searing crimson beam exploded from Victor's outstretched sword—like lightning condensed into a razor-sharp lance of energy. It ripped through the air, faster than thought, crackling with raw force. The demon barely had time to widen his eyes before it struck.
Sky Piercer.
The blast tore a hole in the sky, scattering clouds in every direction like a divine spear had punctured heaven itself.
The scene zoomed outward, following the trail of destruction in reverse—until it landed on the demon's face.
Still grinning. Still floating.
But now, half of his face was gone—incinerated by the blast. Flesh melted. Bone exposed.
And yet... he laughed.
"Found you," he said, voice rattling through his ruined throat.
Before the last word left his mouth, his face began to regenerate—tissue twisting, bone re-forming, skin crawling back into place like time itself rewinding. Within seconds, he was whole again.
But Victor wasn't finished.
Another strike came—faster than the first. This time, a blade.
In a blur of movement, Victor appeared before the demon, sword already mid-swing, aiming clean for the neck.
The demon raised an arm just in time—clang!—the blade bit deep, stopping mere inches from its target. Black blood hissed from the wound, and the force of the blow sent shockwaves through the air.
For a moment, they hovered there—locked in a frozen instant.
Then the demon's smile returned, calm and cruel.
"Hello there, human," he said, voice smooth once more.
"Now... let's dance."
As Victor and the demon broke apart, both landed on the ground, standing several meters apart—silent, still, waiting.
Then, the scene shifted.
Back to the battlefield.
The once-immobile soldiers—paralyzed by the demon's overwhelming aura—found themselves able to move again. The pressure had lifted. Air rushed into their lungs. Hands found their weapons once more.
And then they saw him.
Victor Vllynski—The Sword Saint. The strongest of them all. Standing tall, blade drawn, facing the nightmare head-on.
A spark of hope lit in their eyes.
Then it caught fire.
"We are Death Knights!" one soldier roared, voice cracking through the air. "And death is our reward!"
The cry rang out like thunder, turning heads.
"Those who can still stand—raise your swords!"
Dozens of blades lifted shakily into the air.
"Let us die with pride! Let the people of Gail live in peace—in exchange for our lives!"
The soldiers clenched their weapons, the fire in their hearts rising.
"Our leader has stepped onto the field himself—risking everything to protect those who cannot! Do not let your pain be an excuse. Let it be your fuel!"
He pointed his sword forward, voice trembling with fury and passion.
"Now rise—and charge!"
The scene shifted once more.
Inside the stronghold walls, behind layers of stone and fear, the civilians watched.
Families. Elders. Children clutching their mothers' hands. Their eyes were wide, not with panic—but awe.
They had seen it.
Victor's strike that split the sky. The rallying cry of the Death Knights. The sudden surge of courage echoing across the battlefield.
And in that moment, something changed.
Fear gave way to pride.
One by one, the people stood taller. Chests out. Shoulders straight. Then, almost in unison, they raised their right hands to their hearts.
And they shouted—not in desperation, but with fire in their voices:
"Long live the Gail Kingdom!"
The words echoed off the stone walls and soared into the air, carried on wind and will.