While the light of the Emperor State flickered in the dark of Osoroshi, a far greater shadow was falling over the southern coast of Tellus.
The kingdom of Galadrielle had always been a jewel of the southern continent, named in reverence of the ancient Goddess of the West.
Its spires reached for the sun, and its harbors were the lifeline of the Allied Nations. But today, the sun did not set; it was extinguished.
From the churning depths of the Great Divide, a silhouette rose that defied the laws of nature. Abyssior, the Protector of the Seas.
He was a titan of scales and ancient malice, a giant serpent whose existence was the sole reason the four continents of Mumit remained isolated. He was the living wall, the gatekeeper of the deep. As his massive head crested the horizon, his shadow brought a premature midnight to the streets of Galadrielle.
On the ground, the battle between the A.N.T. soldiers and the lingering Dark Saint cells came to a jarring, terrified halt. Steel clattered against stone as men looked up. There was no time for a war cry. There was no time for a prayer.
Abyssior's gaze, cold and abyssal, fixed on the kingdom. This was the wrath of a god made flesh. With a single, rhythmic expansion of his chest, the serpent exhaled. A beam of concentrated oceanic pressure and raw primordial energy swept across the coastline.
In a flash, the kingdom of Galadrielle was erased from the map of the world. The spires, the markets, the soldiers, and the innocent—women, children, and men—were vaporized into sea mist. There were no ruins left behind, only a smooth, scorched indentation where a civilization had once breathed.
His purpose fulfilled, Abyssior turned back to the dark waters. He vanished beneath the waves without a ripple of remorse, leaving the southern coast in a haunting, hollow silence.
Thousands of miles away, in the heart of Noelle's hideout, the air was thick with the smell of charred stone and ozone.
Kael stood at the center of the trembling crowd of five hundred. The first line of mages had been reduced to piles of grey ash, their lives extinguished in a heartbeat. The sight had shattered the last remnants of morality and courage among the Dark Saints. They didn't see a boy anymore; they saw death itself.
The flames that had served as Kael's armor—white-hot and dancing with Emperor-level intensity—suddenly flickered and died. He stood in the center of the scorched circle, his brown eyes cold and grounded.
"You're inferior for my flames," Kael said, his voice carrying a weight that seemed to vibrate in the very floorboards. "Scum shouldn't be cleansed by fire. It's too pure for the likes of you."
He raised his fists, his stance shifting into a raw, combative guard. He looked at the mages, the fanatics, and the brawlers who had spent their lives terrorizing the weak.
"Come at me," Kael challenged, his voice a low growl of defiance. "No magic. No elements. If you want to kill me, do it with your hands."
He knew that not all of them were graced with mana. He wanted them to feel every strike. He wanted them to understand the physical reality of the monster they had tried to create.