The mountain detonated outward in a shower of blackened stone.
Oberon barely raised Excalibur in time—a slab of bedrock the size of a carriage hurtled toward them.
He stepped in front of Ganevére, his sword enveloped in holy light. The impact cracked the earth behind him, but the sword cut through the falling rock..
From the smoke in the mountains, it emerged.
Vorthax.
Its form was not one of this world.
It loomed like a mountain of putrid, black, petrified corpses, all writhing in eternal agony, their mouths open in silent screams as they clawed for freedom.
Twenty meters tall—and still growing, its silhouette twisting and collapsing into itself as more of the cursed mass oozed free from the shattered seal.
Oberon's gaze locked with the creature's.
Instantly, a terror unlike any he'd known surged through his soul.
The air thickened. His knees buckled. His breath caught.
He circulated his Holy Energy through Excalibur, to amplify its effects, and wash away the discomfort.
'So that's a General?' Oberon thought grimly.
The Cursed Energy pouring from it...
Even from kilometers away, it was more suffocating than when he was trapped in Voldemort's Domain Expansion.
His body tensed.
"My Lord!" Ganevére shouted, voice steady despite the chaos. "Even though it may seem undefeatable, it has just been released from its seal. Its true power should be no more than that of a very high-level Special Grade Curse."
"As long as we repair the Ley Lines," she continued, "we may stand a chance."
Oberon inhaled deeply, gaze flicking to her.
"Tell me what to do."
Without hesitation, Ganevére raised her staff and signaled the nearby Druids to move. They scattered, forming a protective perimeter around the edge of the village.
"To restore the Ley Lines," she said, "I need to channel Cernunnos into the land. It will be a taxing ritual. I need you to buy me time distracting him."
Oberon swallowed hard.
"I'll do what I can. Please… be fast. I don't know how long I can hold it back."
Ganevére placed a hand over her heart and bowed slightly.
"Thank you, my Lord."
Oberon started running as fast as he could and joined the Druid forces.
Although they wouldn't need to face Lysander's subjects as they fled, Vorthax's presence was already causing low-grade Cursed Spirits to appear.
"What are your orders, my Lord?" the commander of the Druids asked.
"You must face the emerging Cursed Spirits. I will face it." Oberon said, pointing his sword toward Vorthax.
The Druids obeyed and moved toward the Cursed Spirits.
Oberon looked at Vorthax. It was still breaking free from its seal, uncaring of anything around it.
Given the circumstances, he had no choice but to use every resource at his disposal.
He took out the Philosopher's Stone. Crushing the Philosopher's Stone, a potent elixir exuding strong Magical Energy dripped from it.
He downed a few drops of the Philosopher's Stone Elixir, flooding his veins with restored mana.
His Magic Reserves pulsed from the buff. Also, his magic circuits burned from the high-speed and fervent Magic Energy.
He hoped that with this, he would be able to gain Ganevére the time needed.
Without glancing back, he surged forward.
To the eye, it looked absurd—this lone figure charging at Vorthax was like a flea hurling itself at an elephant.
He didn't know how to stop it.
But he knew how to delay it.
He needed to destroy most of its new body to gain time before it restored most of its strength.
He activated his Innate Technique, Avalon's Blessing. Magic pulsed outward as he channeled it into Excalibur.
The blade shimmered with sacred light, and the very air bent around him.
With a cry, Oberon launched himself into the sky like a comet.
Vorthax turned to meet him. Its gaze passive. Dismissive.
A giant looking down at a speck of dust.
It swung its arm against him. Oberon twisted midair, narrowly evading, and brought Excalibur crashing into its limb.
But the cursed flesh held. Even Holy Energy could not carve cleanly through it.
Vorthax roared, the second arm already in motion.
Oberon ducked low—too late. The blow connected.
The world blurred. He struck the ground like a meteor.
Coughing blood, Oberon forced himself up. His ribs protested. His vision blurred. But he was alive.
Barely.
Had that hit landed straight on, he wouldn't be standing. Its strength wasn't one of this world.
He raised the Philosopher's Stone again—this time, not a few drops, but nearly a bucket's worth. His magic flared wild and unstable. The Philosopher's Stone vanished into his robes as he clenched his jaw, trying to contain it.
Too much.
His soul's vessel screamed.
He was burning from the inside out. He couldn't waste more time.
"Maximum: Eternal Sword of Avalon."
He went to unsheathe Excalibur, but this time, the tattoo started glowing and Holy Energy exploded upward.
This time, the giant version of Excalibur above his head wasn't just very big, it was almost as big as Vorthax itself.
He raised his arm.
And swung.
It drained him instantly. But through the pain, he felt Ganevére's energy radiating from the forest, he just needed to continue.
The blade struck.
Vorthax screamed.
"AAAAAGGHHHHHH!"
It was no ordinary cry.
It struck not just the ears, but the soul.
The druids cried out, collapsing, clutching their chests as though their spirits themselves were bleeding.
Oberon staggered. The elixir overdose was catching up. His body barely held together. His vision frayed at the edges.
But he stood.
Vorthax's guttural voice split the air like a curse.
"Scoundrel wizard," it spat, words soaked in malice. "A mere rat… dares defy me? A General of Their Profane Eminences?"
Its form twisted.
The sky dimmed.
"Cursed Technique: Whisper Burial"
A wave of Cursed Energy surged forth from Vorthax—cold, corrosive, and suffocating.
Oberon felt it invade his mind, probing deep, erasing memories like ink fading from parchment.
"No…"
His connection to everything—friends, family, past, present, future—all began to disappear..
"NO!"
He refused to succumb.
He would not allow it.
He grabbed Excalibur tightly.
A radiant light enveloped him, a shield of pure Holy Energy.
The dark wave shattered against it—halted.
"That repulsive Holy Energy! Who are you?!?!" Vorthax's voice exploded with disgust.
"I am the heir of Arthur Pendragon and son of the greatest Dark Lord, Gellert Grindelwald."
"Tch! A descendant of that damned knight," Vorthax sneered.
"My Lord!"
A shout pierced the battlefield. Ganevére's attendant, breathless.
"Retreat, my Lord!"
Oberon stepped back, creating distance from the monstrous General.
Sadness weighed heavy, most druids struck by the cursed technique had lost everything. Their minds erased, leaving empty husks.
"I'm sorry, my Lord," a druid whispered.
"Don't worry. I'm fine. How is the ritual?"
"Almost complete. Matriarch Ganevére needs your help with the last step." She explained urgently.
"She needs you to channel your Holy Energy into the Magic Circle at the ritual site to repel the Cursed Energy from Lysander's followers. Go! We'll hold them off."
Oberon nodded sharply.
"Don't die."
"Of course, my Lord."
He turned and ran.
Like a man possessed.
He knew Vorthax's strength.
No matter how powerful he was, the General was stronger.
His only hope was to restore the Ley Line's powering the seal.
When he arrived, Ganevére stood at the center of the Magic Circle.
"Are you alright, my Lord?" She asked.
"I could be worse."
"We're ready, my Lord."
"Very well. I will begin channeling Holy Energy into the circle."
Ganevére nodded.
The air thrummed with power.
Oberon stuck Excalibur in the middle of the Magic Circle. Holy Energy swirled, drawn to the ritual site.
Ganevére's hands moved in intricate seals, and the circle pulsed with raw magic.
Oberon focused, steadying himself to sustain the flow.
The Magic Circle glowed, and so did Ganevére.
She was using Oberon's Holy Energy to bless the druids' magic with anti-Cursed Magic property to restore the Ley Lines.
It was working.
The Cursed Spirits faded and so too the dark energy suffusing the land.
But it was not enough.
Vorthax remained, relentless, tearing through the powerless druids.
Oberon felt the energy within him wane, the strain unbearable.
Magic roared wild inside his chest.
The circle expanded, swelling with power.
But it was too much for his mortal body.
He dropped to his knees, breath ragged, heart pounding like thunder.
Blood welled in his eyes.
With a final cascade of gestures, Ganevére's Magic Circle engulfed the entire mountain range.
Then, with a sudden, crushing compression, it shrank to invisibility.
Vorthax's furious roar echoed through the valley.
Oberon teetered on the edge of collapse.
When consciousness slipped away, the Ley Lines' energy rebounded—flaring through Excalibur.
"What…?!" he shouted as the energy flooded his body.
"AAAARRRGHHH!!!"
"...…rd!"
"...Lord!"
"…y Lord!"
"My Lord!" Ganevére exclaimed, tears betraying the calm dignity of the Matriarch.
"How much time has passed?" Oberon asked, concern shadowing his voice.
"Not long, my Lord. It's only been a few seconds," Ganevére replied.
"Good. Where is Vorthax?"
"It stopped moving when the ritual concluded."
"We must stop it."
Oberon, Ganevére, and the elite druids guarding the Matriarch advanced toward the still form of the Cursed General of Isolation.
"YOU WRETCHED FOOLS! YOU WILL PAY FOR YOUR ACTS OF DEFIANCE!" Vorthax bellowed.
Then, something strange occurred.
With a single motion of its hand, the mountain-like body that had once housed Vorthax began to harden—turning to stone and crumbling apart.
"What?!" Oberon stared, unable to comprehend what he was witnessing.
"Look!" a druid shouted, pointing.
From the collapsing ruin of rock and cursed flesh, a figure emerged.
It was small, vaguely humanoid, but what stepped forward was no man.
A skeletal wraith slipped from the rubble with an unsettling grace.
Skin clung to jutting bones, gray and lifeless, barely restraining the twitch of sinew beneath.
Its limbs were too long, joints bending at angles no living body could manage. Fingers ended in hooked talons that moved constantly, opening and closing in slow, restless motions.
But the face, or rather the void where a face should have been, was the true horror.
No mouth. No nose. No eyes. Just emptiness.
Two deep, hollow pits marred its surface. No light within them, only an absence.
This… this was Vorthax's true form.
The General of Isolation raised a single clawed hand, and the very air began to rot.
The grass beneath its feet blackened and crumbled to ash because of the density of the Cursed Energy around Vorthax.
The druids behind Oberon staggered, gasping, not for breath, but because they no longer remembered how to breathe.
Ganevére's staff lit with a fierce glow, her voice ringing out with strain and defiance. A wave of energy burst from her as final act of resistance.
"Tch. Weak," Vorthax hissed, clicking its tongue.
"AAAAAGHHH!!"
A chorus of anguish erupted from the druids as they clutched their skulls, agony lancing through their minds.
"You will pay for your insolence."
Vorthax closed its hand into a fist.
"Die."
"Cursed Technique: Whisper Burial – Sin of the Forgotten Act."
The atmosphere quivered.
The ground darkened beneath their feet, and the stench of damp soil poured into the air. Centuries of neglected graves pressing inward from every direction.
Then the whispers began.
A thousand voices, brittle and fading, slipped into the druids' ears. They coiled through their thoughts, burrowing deeper with every breath.
"You were never here."
"No one will say your name."
"You are already gone."
The effect was immediate.
Druids dropped mid-step, their minds buckling under the weight of forgetfulness. One druid screamed as his hands passed through his body, his hand holding onto his bleeding heart.
Another sat silently, eyes hollow, lips mouthing a name that no longer lived meant anything to her.
Ganevére gasped. Her staff shook violently as the whispers crept into her soul. Her memories peeled away like dead bark.
Her mother's face.
The sound of her first incantation.
The vow she had made to protect the land.
All at the limit of being lost.
Oberon fell to his knees. The holy glow of Excalibur dimmed in his grasp as the curse sank its fangs into his spirit.
A single thought wrapped around him like a noose:
Who am I?
For one terrible heartbeat, he did not know.
A voice pierced the void. Not his own.
"Oberon."
The name hit him like thunder through fog.
Ganevére.
She knelt beside him, bleeding from her nose, her staff cracked but still alight. Her lips moved again, forming a word with trembling resolve.
"Remember."
And he did.