Chapter 142
The rift had not merely opened—it roared. Flames of crimson and violet clawed upward, smoke twisting into impossible shapes. Shadows lengthened unnaturally, and shrieks echoed from the void like metal tearing through bone. Daniel moved within it, a whirlwind of gunblade, fire, and feral instinct, tearing through warriors who dared approach and demons that had already begun to spill forth. The coliseum was no longer a battlefield; it was a nexus of chaos, bending reality itself.
Kaerthis, Seralyth, Kolvar, and the others—those who had survived Daniel's first onslaught—now fought for survival rather than glory. Sparks of fire, ice, water, and shadow collided in a cacophony of destruction. Yet Daniel's eyes, mismatched and burning with unrestrained ferocity, remained fixed on the ebb and flow of power, feeding upon each strike, each wound, each scream. He twisted, ducked, and slashed in a storm of violence, his own mana bleeding into the fractured arena floor, accelerating the growth of the rift beneath him.
But then the outer gates of the coliseum shattered, and new forces poured in. King Deryth Cererindur and Queen Nimriel, flanked by their third wife, Aranel Finrod, appeared at the edge of the chaos, their regal forms momentarily stilling the storm around them. Behind them ran their children: Lashrael, twenty-two, hair whipping in the wind as her rapier shimmered with conjured air currents; Waelthor, twenty-one, nocking arrows that flared with magical fire; and Caerthynna, twenty, whose glaive pulsed with unstable energy, her bursts of teleportation allowing her to vanish and reappear where she was needed most. Civilians screamed as the void's tendrils spilled over into the streets outside, and yet, with a single motion, Caerthynna teleported among them, deflecting falling debris and cutting a path for escape.
Duchess Elleena Laeanna Rothchester and her knights rallied alongside them, swords drawn and shields raised, striking down demons and rogue warriors masquerading as civilians. The air became a blur of steel, fire, and wind. Every slash, thrust, and spell carved out a narrow corridor of survival, but the rift's energy made each movement unpredictable. One moment, a demon erupted from a fissure; the next, a wave of mana tore the ground beneath the knights' feet.
At the same time, the conspiracy within the city unfurled. The right Azure Archmage, Aithlin Hasterient, and Maisha Cohnal, the consort of uncertain allegiance, struck at anyone connected to the royal family. Their magic was precise, ruthless: bolts of azure energy arced through the air, seeking out nobles and loyalists alike. Fires erupted in the streets, walls crumbled, and even as the royal family's children fought to save civilians, they were forced to defend themselves from treachery.
Lashrael's wind currents deflected fireballs, spiraling around her like a miniature hurricane as she lunged with her rapier, slashing at Aithlin's summoned constructs. Waelthor fired flaming arrows in perfect arcs, the projectiles weaving through collapsing streets to strike mercilessly at enemies, while Caerthynna blinked in bursts, teleporting between injured civilians and fallen knights, her glaive slicing through twisted forms emerging from the void.
Yet through it all, Daniel moved like a storm unbound. He did not pause to see who fought for survival or who fell to the rift's horrors. His gunblade, now glowing with a mixture of arcane and elemental energy, cut through demon, warrior, and stone alike. He pivoted midair to deflect an oncoming glaive strike from Caerthynna, then spun low to kick a demon's head into a wall of collapsing stone. Sparks, blood, and mana collided around him. Each wound he suffered only made him faster, his mind sharpening with every counterattack. The battlefield itself seemed to bend toward him, as though the rift and chaos conspired to make him the axis around which the world turned.
Civilians screamed, shields clattered, and the royal family's line was forced back, though they fought with relentless determination. Caerthynna's teleportation allowed her to pluck the innocent from harm's way, while Lashrael's rapier sliced at enemies that darted through the smoke, and Waelthor's arrows ignited walls, setting back hostile forces long enough to form protective corridors. Duchesses and knights moved in sync, carving narrow paths through demons and rebels alike, yet the sheer speed and ferocity of Daniel's rampage made even these efforts feel precarious.
Above it all, the void pulsed. The rift widened, black tendrils of energy writhing outward, searing the edges of reality. Demons emerged in waves, some the size of houses, others small, quick, and insidious, all clawing toward life and death alike. Daniel did not hesitate. He struck through them as if the world itself were merely a target, his gunblade flashing with lethal precision. One moment he was cutting through the massive hulks that fell from the rift, the next he twisted midair, dodging a flurry of arcane bolts fired by Aithlin and Maisha, then slashed again to send their constructs flying.
Despite the carnage, there were moments of eerie coordination. Lashrael summoned a wind wall to deflect a rain of molten debris; Waelthor's arrows split the air, striking hidden enemies before they could move; Caerthynna blinked directly into the path of collapsing rooftops to drag trapped civilians free. Yet even their combined skill could not rival the unbound chaos surrounding Daniel. The crowd—what remained of it—watched with awe and mounting terror, realizing that the young warrior at the heart of the storm was no longer a man entirely. He had become something else, a force of destruction feeding on his own exhilaration, each wound and each enemy a spark fueling his unstoppable momentum.
Cracks widened further beneath the arena. Red-and-black mana swirled violently, and from the rift came a sound like tearing fabric, a wail that carried a terrible promise: the demon void realm was seeping into the world. The air warped, reality bending around Daniel's presence. And in the center of it all, he laughed, a sound both exultant and unhinged, his gunblade leaving trails of fire and light with every swing. Nothing not demons, not magic, not mortal skill—could contain him. The battlefield had already become a crucible, and he was its unholy apex.
As the royal family fought to protect the innocent, the rebellion coalesced around them, cutting down traitors and rogue mercenaries alike. The coliseum's walls began to crumble entirely, shards of stone raining onto streets below. The rift's tendrils snaked upward, lashing at anything that moved. And still, Daniel moved through it all, a hurricane of violence, a storm feeding on chaos, unstoppable, untethered.
Then, with a deafening, reality-shaking roar, the void itself surged. The rift exploded outward, energy surging over the battlefield, consuming the edges of the coliseum, and searing the air with demonic fire. Knights and civilians alike were flung backward, debris flying in impossible arcs. The royal family's children screamed as the air shimmered with impossible heat and energy. And Daniel, bloodied, laughing, glowing with arcane mana and primal rage, stood at the very heart of the eruption, his presence amplifying the tearing of the world.
The apocalypse had begun, and at its center was a single, unrelenting force: Daniel Rothchester, the Lazarus of the battlefield, feeding, laughing, and fighting as the demon rift swallowed everything in its reach.
The rift had grown into a maelstrom of corruption. Smoke twisted with black fire, ash fell like snow, and the screams of demons mingled with the cries of fleeing civilians. Mana warped around the coliseum, bending reality, and the ground cracked underfoot as Daniel surged forward, the heart of the storm. His gunblade glowed with searing light, arcs of molten energy clinging to its edges. The more he fought, the more his mortal shell seemed to strain under the pressure, his mismatched eyes now blazing with a fierce, unnatural hunger.
From the void, infernal demons poured into the arena, summoned and amplified by the dark machinations of Azure Archmage Aithlin Hasterient and the consort Maisha Cohnal. Towering beasts, skeletal fiends, and fire-lashed horrors leapt from the rift's edges, cutting through knights, rebels, and even the royal family's guards. The air burned with magic, and every spell the royal family cast, wind, fire, and teleportation, was met with violent counterforce. Lashrael spun in arcs of gales, his rapier cutting through demonic limbs; Waelthor's flaming arrows ignited the advancing horde, while Caerthynna blinked between the wounded, driving her glaive into skulls and claws alike. Yet even their combined might seemed barely enough to slow the surge.
Daniel did not pause to measure, did not falter at the screams around him. His body moved faster than thought, slashing through demons, ricocheting attacks off constructs of shadow and flame, feeding on the carnage as if it were oxygen.
Each foe he felled, each strike he survived, fueled the Neatherborn blood stirring deep within him. His veins pulsed with energy not meant for mortal bodies, his skin paling as the transformation began. black armor fused with raw chaos energy , came out from his body and a shadowy heavy aura flared around him, twisting the air into unnatural currents. He was becoming something more something other. the formless armor reflected his chaotic surrounding, creating a fearsome look that made his enemies hesitate for a moment. Daniel made sure that his enemies will see his anger and bloodlust, the formless armor covered his body into the form many knew.
Dense waves of magic erupted around Daniel, filling the air with a storm of light and sound. Fire and lightning clashed together, igniting bursts of searing plasma that streaked across the battlefield. But these were no ordinary spells. Each one was a simple tier-one incantation, the kind apprentices used in training halls, yet Daniel fused them in ways that defied logic. Gravity melded with molten rock, dragging enemies down into rising pools of magma that clung like quicksand.
Paralysis linked with venom, freezing muscles while toxins spread through their blood. Blindness combined with deflection, forcing foes into darkness while every attempt to strike back ricocheted against themselves. Flames merged with lightning bursts, creating spheres of living fire that exploded in storms of crackling energy. Wind sharpened with frost, turning the air into invisible blades that froze and sliced at the same time. Even water, the simplest of spells, was bound with silence, drowning screams before they could leave a throat.
What made it terrifying was not the power of the spells themselves, but the speed, Daniel's mind moved faster than the eye could follow, conjuring incantations at a rate beyond human measure. Each cast stacked upon the last, spells overlapping and detonating in the same instant. Within the span of a heartbeat, fifty layered combinations detonated around the infernal demon, each weaving into the next with flawless precision. Fire became thunder, thunder became frost, frost became venom. The magic didn't come in waves, it was a storm collapsing in on itself, crushing and devouring everything in range.
The level 60 infernal demon, a beast that had weathered centuries of battle, found itself overwhelmed. It could not even process how the magic worked, only that every fraction of a second brought a dozen new agonies: burning skin, muscles locked stiff, lungs filling with smoke and poison, senses blinded and shattered. To the demon, it was as if the universe itself had turned hostile. To Daniel, it was simply casting spells at the speed of thought.
Amidst the chaos, the royal family fought to survive. King Deryth's blade clashed against a hulking infernal brute, sparks spraying like fireworks. Queen Nimriel conjured protective wards, fire and light dancing across her palms, while Aranel Finrod slashed through smaller fiends with cold precision. Lashrael's wind currents deflected columns of molten rock; Waelthor's flaming arrows streaked between demons; Caerthynna blinked repeatedly, ferrying civilians out of harm's way. Yet even as they fought valiantly, treachery struck: Aithlin and Maisha's magic hunted them relentlessly, striking through shadows and manipulating the battlefield like predators.
Then, from a trembling tear in the air, a new force arrived. A shimmering transfer gate opened above the battlefield, and hundreds of warriors descended, banners snapping in impossible wind currents. They bore a single insignia: the black serpent of Vaelith. Two hundred Marauder warriors poured into the arena, blades flashing as they waded into the infernal hordes. Behind them, fifty Harpies with silver wings, led by the horned Nyxiel, screeched in unison, diving into demons and tearing through them with talons like scythes.
And yet more arrived: fifty deadly assassins from The Sapphire Lotus, led by Kitsune, their nine tails flicking with preternatural precision, weaving through the chaos to eliminate enemy spellcasters. Velvet Knights followed, coordinated and lethal. Captain Jin Xifeng, twenty-five, a master of the Dao saber style, cut down demons with rhythmic precision, while his sister Bai Xifeng, twenty-three, added wind, poison smoke, and subtle healing barriers to protect her allies, tracking mana signatures through the rift's chaotic energies. The sheer precision of their strikes seemed to bend the battlefield, cutting pathways through demons and treacherous forces alike.
Amid this influx of reinforcements, Bralthor's Grey Ogre army waded into the fray, crushing demons under monstrous fists. Their allegiance was clear, they served the Neatherborn, the emerging apex of the battlefield, and as Daniel's form twisted fully, he became that apex. His aura of shadow and flame expanded, tendrils of raw mana whipping outward, tearing demons from the ground and flinging them into the air. Even Vaelith's black legion surged forward, allies of convenience who obeyed the pull of his presence as if the storm of chaos had chosen him.
Daniel's strikes became impossible to track. The arena shattered around him: stone pillars collapsed, lava-burned fissures spat molten fire, and the wind itself bent in his wake. Demons clawed at him from all sides, the Black Legion cutting down their own enemies, Harpies slicing the air like silver blades, assassins darting between melee lines. The royal family and the rebellion could only fight to survive, their attacks precise but fragmented, every strike a desperate measure against overwhelming chaos.
Daniel's laughter rose above the storm, echoing like thunder through the rift. He was no longer merely a mortal warrior. Horns gleamed, claws flared with energy, and shadowy wings unfurled as he lunged through the battlefield, gunblade and fury in one fluid motion. Demons were flung aside, humans and traitors alike thrown into disarray. His aura's sheer force shattered constructs, disrupted spells, and created a shifting tide of destruction, feeding the rift itself. Every slash, every roar, every chaotic maneuver increased the instability of the void below, and yet he reveled in it. Pain, blood, death, they were sustenance, and Daniel drank deeply.
The rift's edges pulsed violently, tendrils of demonic flame lashing outward, feeding the arena-wide inferno. Vaelith's Marauders clashed with the hordes with brutal efficiency, cutting pathways through impossibly dense waves of enemies. Nyxiel's Harpies dove through the chaos, disrupting formations and tearing open pockets for civilians and knights to retreat. Kitsune and the Sapphire Lotus assassins darted among Aithlin and Maisha's summoning points, eliminating minor spellcasters and spies with silent precision. And through it all, Daniel, fully Neatherborn, carved a path of annihilation, moving faster, stronger, deadlier than any mortal could endure.
Yet despite the overwhelming force he became, the arena was irreversibly changed. Cracks stretched from the rift to the edge of the coliseum, stone pillars had toppled, fires raged across sand and streets alike, and a river of mana flowed like molten veins across the battlefield. The royal family fought desperately to maintain order, shielding civilians, countering assassins, and keeping the rebellion alive amidst impossible odds. Even as the Black Legion, Harpies, and Sapphire Lotus carved their way into dominance, the presence of Daniel Rothchester—the Neatherborn,remained the singular pivot around which the battle spun.
Every slash of his gunblade, every arc of energy, every roar and lunge sent ripples across the field. Demons fell in heaps, enemies scattered, and yet new threats emerged from the void, their cries echoing with unnatural malice. The rift pulsed, the air trembled, and Daniel fed, laughed, and destroyed, his chaotic will bending the battlefield into an unrecognizable storm.
The coliseum, the streets, the very reality of the arena had been reshaped. The royal family and their allies clung to survival, demons and traitors alike fell to coordinated assault, and yet the battlefield seemed to recognize one truth: Daniel Rothchester, the Neatherborn, was the unstoppable center of this apocalypse.
The rift pulsed like a living wound, its edges writhing with demonic energy that clawed at reality itself. Shadows stretched unnaturally, fire leapt in impossible directions, and the air itself seemed to scream as molten mana bled from the fissure beneath the coliseum. Daniel Rothchester, fully transformed into his Neatherborn form, was at the eye of this storm.
Horns curved black and gleaming from his skull, shadowy wings arched from his shoulders, and tendrils of raw, unstable mana lashed outward with every movement. His gunblade slashed in arcs of fire and energy that left trails across the battlefield, obliterating demons, enemy spellcasters, and assassins alike.
The coliseum and surrounding streets had become a battlefield of impossible scale. Civilians ran behind barricades erected by the royal family and the rebellion, and every strike of a mage, every swing of a saber, every arrow fired from Waelthor's bow carved paths for them to escape. Tens, then hundreds, were shepherded out of danger, guided by Caerthynna's teleportation bursts, Lashrael's wind currents, and the shields of knights and Duchess Elleena's retainers. Despite the apocalypse tearing at the edges of reality, many were saved—lives plucked from the jaws of annihilation by precision, bravery, and sheer speed.
Daniel moved like a force of nature. The rift's energy twisted his aura into a vortex, bending the battlefield around him. He met clusters of demons in one strike, shattered constructs from Aithlin and Maisha's infernal magic in the next, and spun through assassins of the Sapphire Lotus and Velvet Knights with lethal precision. He fed on chaos, each wound and each enemy fueling the raw power of his Neatherborn form. Mountains of dead enemies began to pile behind him—demons, mages, traitorous mercenaries—and still he pressed forward, unstoppable, unrelenting, feeding the rift with the violent rhythm of his existence.
Then, as the horde surged, a glimmer of hope pierced the storm. From the edge of the battlefield, Melgil appeared, radiant and commanding. Her presence seemed to still the air, her hands glowing with concentrated healing mana. One by one, she restored the twelve original warriors to full strength:
Kaerthis Drovane's molten cracks pulsed brighter, his glaive now blazing with renewed fire. Lysiriel Veyna's storm-sea eyes sharpened as her spectral hawks returned, circling with lethal grace. Dhorvak "Stonehide" Brumhal's chest and arms regenerated, his warhammer's runes flaring once more. Seralyth Noiren's shadow-weaving became sharper, her twin crescent daggers slicing air with predatory elegance. Hessarion's shield gleamed anew, his battle scars fading into unbroken strength.
Firana Kaldeth's crystalline glaive and hydromancy returned to full potency, glasswater whips snapping through the air. Kolvar Droshar's lightning axe surged with raw storm energy once more. Velmira "Ashveil" Corthyn's charred staff now pulsed with controlled ash and smog. Dravos Myrkhal's cleavers reformed, stitched with the trophies of his renewed strength. Hirwen Veylor's crystalline constructs reassembled with precision. Ikeshia Stormveil, her phoenix flames reigniting, rose fully reborn, her power more radiant than ever.
Melgil herself stepped into the fray, no longer holding back. Her aura of chaos mana flared, she moved fluidly among the chaos, deflecting deadly blows, healing the fallen, and striking with devastating precision. The combined might of Daniel and the twelve warriors reshaped the battlefield into a new theater of destruction.
The royal family, pushed to their limits, fought with desperation and strategy. King Deryth's sword was a beacon of steel against demons; Queen Nimriel's wards flared to protect fleeing civilians; Aranel Finrod's blade and magic cleared paths through the horde. Lashrael's wind-riding rapier strikes sliced through infernal constructs, Waelthor's flaming arrows rained down devastation, and Caerthynna blinked between civilians and enemies alike, her glaive a lethal extension of her will. Each movement saved lives, each strike created breathing space, each burst of power held back annihilation.
Meanwhile, Daniel became a whirlwind of carnage. His Neatherborn form towered above demons, tendrils of shadow and fire snapping across the battlefield, his gunblade cutting through even the largest of infernal monstrosities. Enemy mages and assassins fell in droves beneath his speed and ferocity, the very fabric of reality bending around his movements. Even as the rift's corruption crept further, threatening to tear the city and coliseum apart, Daniel's laughter echoed above the chaos, wild and unrestrained.
Together, the twelve warriors, Melgil, the royal family, and the rebellion formed a lethal lattice of resistance. Every counter, every strike, every spell worked in tandem, guiding fleeing civilians to safety and felling mountains of enemies. The dead piled higher and higher, a testament to the devastation wrought by both the demonic horde and the Neatherborn apex at its center.
Kaerthis' fire, Lysiriel's arrows, Dhorvak's stone, Seralyth's shadows, Hessarion's shield, Firana's water, Kolvar's storm, Velmira's ash, Dravos' savagery, Hirwen's crystals, Ikeshia's flames, Daniel's Neatherborn fury, and Melgil's divine power—each played its part in turning an impossible battle into a chaotic ballet of survival and death.
And yet the rift pulsed stronger, larger, hungrier. Reality itself groaned under the strain, the edges of the coliseum warping and breaking, cities trembling in the distance, and the air bending with demonic power. The combined might of the survivors—warriors, royal family, rebellion, and Neatherborn—held back the tide just enough, buying precious moments to evacuate civilians and thin the horde. But even as they fought, the knowledge loomed: the apocalypse had only just begun.
At the center, Daniel Rothchester, fully Neatherborn, continued his relentless surge. His laughter, wild and inhuman, mingled with the screams of the horde and the cheers of the saved. He was chaos made flesh, the unstoppable axis around which all life, death, and hope spun. And though the rift threatened to devour everything, the combined forces of the royal family, Melgil, and the twelve warriors ensured that the innocent would survive, even as the battlefield itself became unrecognizable, a shattered world held together by sheer will and unrelenting fury.
The rift had become a living wound in the world, an abyss clawing outward with jagged tendrils of black flame and swirling mana that shredded the very air. Daniel Rothchester stood at its epicenter, fully Neatherborn, horns gleaming, wings unfurled, aura of shadow and fire radiating in waves that bent reality. His gunblade was a cyclone of energy, cutting through demons, assassins, and rogue mages with each swing, each shot erupting in explosions of flame and shadow. The battlefield had ceased to be an arena, it was now a stormed, shattered plane of existence, where the laws of physics were suggestions, and survival hung by a thread.
Around him, chaos reached its apex. The Black Legion surged like a tide of steel, axes and blades slicing through infernal demons, their banners snapping against the unnatural winds. Harpies led by Nyxiel dove from the skies, talons rending anything that moved, screeching in unison to scatter foes and create openings for civilians to flee. The Sapphire Lotus assassins moved like liquid shadows, weaving through the battlefield, neutralizing enemy mages and spellcasters, leaving destruction in their wake. Bralthor's Grey Ogres crashed into the densest clusters of demons, fists smashing through armor and bone, the ground trembling with every step.
Daniel did not stop. Each movement, each strike, was a masterstroke of violence and precision. The longer he fought, the more the Neatherborn power within him consumed his mortal restraint. Flames and shadows licked across his body, tendrils of pure mana coiling like serpents around the rift, tearing at the fissure's edges. Mountains of dead lay behind him—demons, assassins, mages, even the fiercest of the twelve original warriors' enemies. And yet, the fight was far from over.
The royal family fought desperately, their presence the fragile axis keeping civilians alive. King Deryth swung his sword through infernal beasts with practiced might, but even his decades of battle could not hold against the relentless tide. Queen Nimriel conjured protective wards, shaping light into walls and barriers, shielding fleeing citizens and injured allies. Aranel Finrod's magic and blade cut pathways through the advancing hordes. Lashrael, Waelthor, and Caerthynna moved with lethal precision, teleporting, firing, and striking to buy civilians more breathing room.
But the Right Azure Archmage Aithlin Hasterient had not yet revealed his full fury. With a surge of violet lightning and forbidden mana, he struck at King Deryth himself, landing a crushing blow that sent the king staggering and blood spraying across his armor. The royal bloodline teetered on the edge of disaster. The battle seemed poised to claim the throne itself.
"Father!" Caerthynna's voice rang out, but even as she prepared to intervene, the archmage advanced with predatory speed.
From behind, Duches Elleena Rothchester lunged, intercepting Aithlin's next strike. Steel met magic, her blade sparking and cracking under the assault, but she held, deflecting the fatal blow just long enough for the king to regain footing. Aithlin hissed, retreating briefly but not giving up, eyes burning with malice.
At the same time, the consort Maisha Cohnal struck. In a swift, lethal motion, her dagger found Queen Nimriel, wounding her across the side. Pain and blood spattered the battlefield, and the queen faltered, staggering as the infernal chaos continued around them. Civilians shrieked and scrambled for safety, and the rebellion pushed back desperate waves of demons to create breathing room.
But Caerthynna, only twenty, had watched. Her eyes burned with fury as she blinked in a streak of light burst teleportation sending her across the battlefield in an instant. The glaive in her hands shimmered with lethal energy as she struck. With a precise, spinning arc, her weapon cleaved through Maisha Cohnal's arm, severing it cleanly. The consort cried out in shock and fury, stumbling backward, her attack interrupted, her advantage gone. Caerthynna's eyes did not waver; her focus was absolute, her father and mother alive, her wrath a living force.
Meanwhile, Daniel tore through the densest waves of enemies, demons screaming, assassins collapsing beneath his unholy power, and the Black Legion, Harpies, Sapphire Lotus, and Grey Ogres clashing in a chaotic symphony around him. Shadows and fire enveloped his form, and the very air seemed to obey him. Mountains of the dead, enemies who had once struck fear into all—piled high behind him, a testament to his relentless apex power. Even the twelve original warriors fought with renewed vigor, their wounds healed by Melgil, striking alongside him in perfect coordination. Kaerthis' flames roared, Lysiriel's arrows flew with deadly precision,
Dhorvak's stone fists smashed, Seralyth's shadows cut like razors, Hessarion's shield blocked infernal strikes, Firana's water whipped, Kolvar's storm raged, Velmira's ash choked, Dravos' cleavers cleaved, Hirwen's crystals pierced, and Ikeshia's phoenix flames ignited the battlefield.
In this moment, the coliseum was no longer a battleground; it was a crucible, a theater of apocalypse where every swing, every spell, and every step could decide life or death. Civilians were shepherded to safety, soldiers and rebels rallied where possible, and Daniel Rothchester, fully Neatherborn, laughed and roared through the storm, his gunblade cutting and piercing a path of destruction unmatched in history.
Even as Aithlin and Maisha regrouped to strike again, Caerthynna stood ready, her glaive poised and energy flaring. The royal family, the rebellion, the twelve warriors, and Daniel who was now Neatherborn, apex predator and chaos incarnate, formed the last line against the rift, the demons, and the infernal uprising. The battlefield had become a storm of various element , shadow, mana, and steel, and it was clear to all: the fight for survival, and for the fate of the world, had reached its cinematic apex.
The battlefield was silent, though the silence was not peaceful, it was the quiet that comes after a storm of unimaginable destruction. The coliseum, once a marvel of stone and spectacle, was now a shattered ruin. Cracks ran like scars across the floor, glowing faintly with residual mana from the rift. Piles of defeated demons, assassins, and infernal constructs littered the arena, their bodies still smoldering from the Neatherborn's onslaught and the divine fury of Melgil. Fires burned in scattered corners, though they were small flickers compared to the infernos that had raged moments before.
At the center of it all stood Daniel Rothchester, fully transformed into his Netherborn form. Horns as black as obsidian curved menacingly from his skull, and jagged wings stretched skyward, casting vast shadows across the battlefield. His mismatched eyes, yellow-gold and ocean blue, glimmered like twin suns, reflecting the destruction and chaos he had orchestrated. Yet, beneath the monstrous appearance, there was a discipline, a restraint. He did not unleash his full potential recklessly; instead, he stood as a sentinel of his own personal rules, knowing that another stage of war would inevitably arise and that the balance of his world could not be shattered entirely.
The royal family, survivors huddled amid the debris, lifted their heads in cautious recognition. King Deryth, still bearing the marks of Aithlin's strike, and Queen Nimriel, wounded but alive, glimpsed the monstrous figure that had so decisively turned the tide. Despite the fearsome visage, they understood that this being, this Netherborn, was their ally.
Through the chaos, they saw a guardian, a force that had fought not for dominion, but for their survival and that of the innocent. Aranel Finrod, Lashrael, Waelthor, and Caerthynna, each weary but alive, felt the same certainty: the demon tide had been broken because of the Neatherborn at the center.
The twelve warriors who had fought alongside him, Kaerthis, Lysiriel, Dhorvak, Seralyth, Hessarion, Firana, Kolvar, Velmira, Dravos, Hirwen, and Ikeshia, sensed it immediately.
Their ability to perceive mana, honed through years of battle, revealed the truth: Daniel and the Netherborn were one and the same. His aura had grown exponentially, his mana capacity skyrocketing from a humanly formidable 500 to a staggering 40,000. Each pulse of his energy warped the air around him, distorting space slightly, causing even the hardened veterans to step back instinctively.
Beside him, Melgil moved like a goddess of war made flesh. The divine aura she exuded tore through lingering demons with casual ferocity, rending infernal creatures as if they were nothing more than paper constructs. Her mana capacity had surged even higher than Daniel's, climbing from 300 to a massive 55,000. Every strike she made reshaped the battlefield, each motion a symphony of raw destructive power tempered by mastery.
Those who had witnessed her ferocity, including rebel soldiers, surviving civilians, and even enemy spellcasters, players , warrior and veteran hunters kept their distance and their mouths shut, knowing that to speak aloud could invite the wrath of a being whose power dwarfed nations.
Even the rift, still yawning at the heart of the shattered undergrown part on the coliseum, quivered in recognition of their presence. Its edges rippled, destabilizing reality in minor but perceptible ways, and yet, Daniel did not succumb to the full lure of its chaotic energy.
He absorbed some of its raw power, expanding his own mana reserves, but always with control, a testament to his years of instinctive training and his innate Lazarus-born discipline. He had tasted chaos and destruction, reveled in it even, yet he restrained it, aware that this apocalypse was only a prelude to a greater storm.
The survivors, those who had witnessed the apex of power and yet remained unscathed, regarded the two with a mix of awe and terror. To see Melgil and the Neatherborn together was to witness the manifestation of impossible, world-altering strength. And still, their identities remained, in a sense, cloaked from the wider world.
Civilians and soldiers warriors alike knew better than to speak of what they had seen, the consequences of disturbing beings such as these could be catastrophic, capable of leveling kingdoms or rewriting the rules of war entirely.
Daniel flexed his formless armors massive wings, the blackened tendrils of mana coiling around him like serpents. He scanned the battlefield, noting which areas were still unstable, which civilians were in danger, and which enemies remained, few though they were. His breathing was steady, despite the adrenaline, despite the lingering chaos, and his gaze met Melgil's briefly.
No words were needed; they were in perfect understanding. Both had survived the impossible, both had wielded power beyond measure, and both knew that their restraint now was not weakness but strategy.
The arena, though devastated, had become a sanctuary of survival in the middle of chaos. Civilians had been saved, armies decimated, and enemies either fleeing or vanquished. Daniel's presence alone ensured order in the lingering madness, while Melgil's calamity and primal authority cleared any residual threats. Together, they towered over a battlefield that would be remembered for generations, their combined aura bending the very perception of those who remained.
And yet, even in this calm after the storm, there was the unspoken knowledge that this was only the beginning. Another wave of conflict would rise; another stage of war awaited. Daniel, standing as both savior and harbinger, allowed himself a brief glance at the horizon. The rift still pulsed, the mana trembled, and the world itself seemed to hold its breath. But for now, the Netherborn, bound by his own code, and Melgil, the force of destruction and healing, had proven that even against apocalypse, they could endure.
The twelve warriors, now fully aware of the magnitude of Daniel's and Melgil's power, gathered around him, sharing silent nods of respect. None dared to speak, for even the strongest knew that words could trigger unnecessary disaster. In the center of the arena, amid shattered stone and smoking debris, Daniel Rothchester remained a terrifying sentinel of order within chaos, fully Neatherborn, fully alive, yet tethered to the rules of his own making. And the world, fragile and trembling, had been granted a brief reprieve from the rift's insatiable hunger.
The battlefield had grown eerily quiet. Even the distant echoes of collapsing stone and dying demons were muffled under the oppressive, pulsing hum of the rift. Its jagged edges writhed like a wound in the fabric of reality, the darkness beyond it throbbing with malevolent hunger. Mana churned violently, bending space and time around the coliseum, and the air itself vibrated with the raw chaos of the demon realm pressing against the mortal world. The remaining warriors, civilians, and royal family stood tensely, knowing that the next moment could erase everything they had fought to protect.
Daniel Rothchester, fully Neatherborn, stood at the epicenter of the chaos. His wings stretched wide, spanning dozens of meters, black as a void streaked with molten veins of shadow energy. Horns arched from his head, and his mismatched eyes glowed with the terrifying brilliance of two suns, one golden, one ocean blue.
The mana surrounding him churned like a storm, lightning of shadow and fire snapping across his body in fractal patterns. He had learned, adapted, and consumed all the power around him, yet even this was only the precursor to the act he now prepared: a spell of catastrophic magnitude, a Tier Ten destructive incantation capable of decimating entire regions with the force of five nuclear thermal blasts.
He raised his arms, wings folding back slightly as the air grew impossibly heavy. His voice, deep and resonant, intoned a series of ancient syllables, words older than mortal memory, woven with the pure chaos of the Neatherborn. The ground trembled violently beneath him, fissures cracking deeper into the already broken arena, glowing with crimson and violet light. The rift pulsed in recognition, as if sensing the threat to its very existence.
Around him, Melgil and Duchess Elleena Rothchester channeled every ounce of their power, their auras flaring like twin suns of light and raw mana. Melgil's arms glowed with spectral energy, fingers weaving patterns that wove together reality itself into a shimmering lattice of force.
Every gesture pulsed with power beyond imagination, her mana now at a staggering 55,000. Beside her, the Duchess's presence radiated disciplined authority, barriers and shields forming and extending in perfect synchronization, amplifying Melgil's weaving. Together, they constructed the most powerful barrier ever attempted, a shimmering dome of radiant energy stretching hundreds of meters, designed to hold back the onslaught of rift-born demons even as Daniel prepared to strike at the rift's heart.
With a roar that shook the heavens, Daniel released the spell. The blast of raw chaos tore outward in concentric waves, the energy so vast that the coliseum trembled as if the world itself were cracking. The air ignited with fire and shadow, molten energy surging into the rift like a tidal wave of pure destructive intent.
The rift howled in protest, tendrils of demonic flame and void essence writhing violently as the Tier Ten spell struck its core. Rocks, mana, and twisted fragments of the demon realm were ripped apart and obliterated, the force severing the energy that had maintained the massive underground rift .
The shockwave tore through the battlefield, flattening debris, scattering demons, and forcing even the Black Legion and Sapphire Lotus warriors to brace against the raw output of Daniel's power. Yet, even as chaos raged, Melgil and the Duchess's barrier held firm. Waves of demonic energy struck it like storms against cliffs, flashes of infernal lightning and shattering force bending against the radiant lattice. Civilians and surviving warriors sheltered beneath it, saved from the consuming tide that would have otherwise destroyed everything.
The rift itself began to collapse. Its edges burned away, the monstrous void shrieking as portions of the demon realm were annihilated, fragments reduced to ash and mana dispersing into nothingness. The remaining tendrils flailed wildly, attempting to latch onto reality, but Daniel's exhaustion of his chaos energy had anchored them to a single truth: the rift could not survive against such force.
Daniel's knees buckled, his body trembling violently from the sheer expenditure of energy. The Neatherborn form wavered, wings folding as molten energy hissed and dissipated, leaving him panting and bloodied but victorious. Melgil, still radiant and unyielding, kept the barrier intact, her power flowing like molten rivers across the lattice. Duchess Elleena, eyes blazing with determination, reinforced every weak point, ensuring the last surviving demons could not break free.
As the dust settled, the coliseum stood battered but intact. The rift had collapsed, its abyssal maw sealed, a portion of the demon realm destroyed, and the remaining creatures either vanquished or imprisoned beyond the barrier.
The battlefield was littered with the dead: demons, rogue mages, assassins, and remnants of the Black Legion who had fallen in the chaos. Piles of bodies testified to the apocalyptic scale of the engagement, yet the civilians, royal family, and warriors survived, shielded by the combined might of Daniel, Melgil, and the Duchess.
Silence followed the devastation. The air was thick with the residue of mana, scorched earth, and ash. Daniel, still in his Neatherborn form, let himself slowly sink to one knee, the immense energy he had unleashed leaving his body trembling. Around him, the twelve warriors who had fought alongside him, the royal family, and surviving knights and civilians looked on, awe-struck and fearful. The truth of his power, combined with Melgil's, was undeniable. For a fleeting moment, all dared not speak, knowing that even a whisper might stir the attention of beings who could tear kingdoms apart with a gesture.
And yet, even as he exhaled and the energy subsided, Daniel's mind remained vigilant. He had stayed within his own limits, restrained his chaos, and preserved life where possible, but he knew with certainty that this was only the first stage. Other waves of war would come, stronger, more relentless. The world had survived this trial, but survival had only been the beginning. He rose, slowly, Neatherborn form still faintly radiating, and cast a careful glance at the royal family, Melgil, and the twelve warriors.
The rift was sealed, for now. A portion of the demon realm lay in ruins, its energy dispersed and unbound. Yet the air still shimmered with residual mana, a reminder that the storm was not over. Daniel, fully aware of his role as both weapon and sentinel, looked toward the horizon. The Neatherborn may have bent reality, shattered infernal realms, and saved countless lives,but he would be ready for the next stage of the war, the next surge of chaos, the next rift that threatened to devour everything.
In the aftermath, the world was irrevocably changed. Survivors whispered of what they had seen: the Neatherborn, who was Daniel Rothchester, and Melgil the human form of the white calamity wielding power beyond comprehension. No one spoke carelessly. No one dared claim understanding. And as Daniel finally allowed himself a moment's rest, he knew the battle had ended but the war for the new reality was only just beginning as Daniel opened a transfer gate and left with all his force, toward a unknown place to rest.
The day after the cataclysmic battle, the coliseum grounds were a mixture of quiet devastation and cautious vigilance. Scorched earth and shattered stone lay strewn across the arena, yet survivors moved among the ruins, assessing the toll of the infernal onslaught and the monumental forces that had quelled it. The royal family, bruised but alive, worked with the remaining knights and loyal warriors to secure the perimeter. Civilians were guided to safety under the protective oversight of Duchess Elleena Rothchester, her calm authority steadying those still shaken by the horrors of the previous day.
From the distant spire of the Crescent Tower, the left Archmage Sylveth Melriel emerged for the first time in weeks. Known as the Crescent Magus, she had secluded herself to study the chaotic energy she had sensed radiating from the Neatherborn during the arena battle. Every report of the devastation and the power wielded by Daniel and Melgil reached her like a shockwave. She paused at the tower steps, her sapphire robes fluttering in a wind that seemed aware of her aura, eyes wide with the realization that the chaos she had been studying had manifested in a living, breathing force. Yet the royal family did not scold or question her absence. Her isolation had been requested beforehand, a precaution taken to allow her to focus on the mysteries of chaos energy without distraction. Understanding, rather than anger, filled their gaze.
Meanwhile, justice moved swiftly for the perpetrators of treachery. The right Azure Archmage, Aithlin Hasterient, and the royal consort, Maisha Cohnal, were publicly tried for their crimes: the murder of the Duchess's husband and the kidnapping of her son. Their betrayal had cost countless lives and threatened the very foundations of the kingdom. The verdict was clear, and when the sentence was carried out, it was not just punishment, it was a statement.
The Duchess herself had enacted the execution, her hands steady as she cut down both traitors, her aura of power undeniable. Every noble present, and every witness to the act, understood her message: those who would harm her family or the realm would face absolute and unyielding retribution. The echoes of her resolve reverberated across the city, silencing whispers of rebellion and greed before they could take root.
Even as the royal court restored order, a heavy, unspoken weight lingered among those who had survived the battle. They had seen the impossible: the Neatherborn in full apex, the Black Legion kneeling before him, the Silver Wings hovering like living constellations, the assassins of the Sapphire Lotus bowing in reverence, and the Velvet Knights and Grey Hunting Ogres acknowledging a power they could scarcely comprehend. Daniel Rothchester's true identity had been glimpsed by a select few, and the knowledge settled upon them like a sacred oath. Not a single one dared speak it aloud. To reveal that the mortal and the Neatherborn were one would not only shatter the fragile peace but potentially endanger their entire land and every living being on it.
Even the twelve warriors who had fought alongside him, Kaerthis, Lysiriel, Dhorvak, Seralyth, Hessarion, Firana, Kolvar, Velmira, Dravos, Hirwen, Ikeshia, and many influential loyal to crown nobles, merchants, guild leaders and their members remained silent. Though they had trained, fought, and survived n their own merit and skill, the magnitude of his power now transcended mortal understanding. Every glance exchanged between them was heavy with unspoken acknowledgment: this was a force that could unmake nations, yet one that had, by choice, protected life and order.
Throughout the city, whispers of the battle began to spread among the lower ranks and surviving mercenaries, but the witnesses who had seen the full extent of the devastation knew better than to embellish or speak openly.
To talk of the Neatherborn, to describe his wings, his looks , the searing brilliance of his heavy and absolutely heart gripping, terrifying raw chaos mana, or the monstrous precision of Melgil's assaults would invite chaos both from outside forces seeking to exploit it and from the sheer incomprehensible power itself. Thus, they kept their silence, a pact of necessity, understanding that some truths were too dangerous to breathe aloud.
As the sun set over the shattered arena and the still-glowing remnants of the rift, Sylveth Melriel descended fully into the court. She approached the Duchess, offering her counsel and her arcane expertise. Her eyes, wide with both fear and fascination, betrayed the knowledge that what she had studied in isolation had now walked among mortals.
The rift's destruction had left echoes of its energy behind, unstable yet tantalizing. Sylveth's mind raced with possibilities: how much of that chaos could be harnessed, controlled, or studied further without imperiling the realm?
And yet, amid the grandeur and terror, amid the lessons of loyalty, betrayal, and apocalyptic power, a quiet understanding settled among the survivors. Daniel, the Neatherborn, stood as the apex sentinel of the battlefield, his power absolute yet restrained, the very embodiment of controlled chaos. Beside him, Melgil radiated divine authority, a partner in destruction and preservation. Together, they had not only survived the onslaught of demons, traitors, and infernal forces, but they had reshaped the world itself.
The royal family, standing bruised but alive, watched Daniel from a distance, a mixture of awe and relief in their eyes. Caerthynna, Lashrael, Waelthor, and even the elderly King Deryth and Queen Nimriel understood that the battlefield had revealed a truth far greater than the survival of a city or even a kingdom. It had shown them that some powers were not to be measured by titles or lineage, but by the willingness to wield them with both precision and restraint.
And as the night deepened, the remaining warriors, the royal family, the left Arch mage Sylveth Melriel, and the surviving citizens at the district were the coliseum stood all turned their gaze toward the horizon, the distant scars of the rift still glowing faintly in crimson and violet. They knew that this reprieve was temporary. The world had survived, but another storm would come, another rift, another test of will and power. And when it did, they would need to be ready. For now, silence ruled, heavy with awe, fear, and respect, as those who had glimpsed true power kept their knowledge buried deep within themselves, a secret too dangerous to ever speak aloud.
The sun had long dipped below the horizon, leaving the kingdom in a quiet lull, the chaos of the battlefield a fading memory beneath the blanket of night. The streets were alive with cautious murmurs as survivors repaired what could be repaired, tended to the wounded, and honored the fallen. Yet for those who had fought, the weight of the day's horrors still lingered in every muscle, every breath.
In the quiet of the Duchess's mansion, the atmosphere was markedly different. Thick stone walls and enchanted wards provided more than just protection, they offered a sanctuary, a rare pocket of calm in a world freshly scarred by cataclysm. Daniel and Melgil entered together, their steps slow, almost reluctant, weighed down by exhaustion, both physical and mental. The echo of the battlefield still hummed faintly in their veins, the adrenaline of survival only now beginning to ebb.
Every room in the mansion had been fortified by the remaining loyal guardians. Outside the main hall, Vaelith and the Black Legion, 150 hundred Marauder warriors whose loyalty was absolute stood in disciplined silence, their armor gleaming faintly in the torchlight. Silver-winged Nyxiel and forty evolved Harpies circled the perimeter, their eyes sharp, alert to any disturbance. The Kitsune of the Sapphire Lotus, thirty trained assassins and spy blended seamlessly among the shadows, ready to strike before a threat could even manifest. The Velvet Knights, seventy of the finest warriors sworn to Daniel and the Duchess, maintained vigilant positions, Jin Xifeng and Bai Xifeng leading with precision and discipline. Bralthor, the Grey Ogre, and Shunra, his formidable partner, commanded a loyal contingent of 150, their immense presence enough to deter even the most daring intruder.
Inside the private chambers, the air was thick with quiet relief. Daniel and Melgil removed their battle-worn cloaks, the traces of blood, ash, and mana lingering faintly in their clothes. They allowed themselves the simplest of comforts: the soft bed in the center of the room, large enough to accommodate the two without feeling cramped. Their movements were slow, careful, as if every motion was weighted by the exhaustion of countless battles and the lingering resonance of their powers.
For a long moment, neither spoke. Words were unnecessary. The room hummed with a shared understanding, a fragile peace won through fire, blood, and the unwavering loyalty of those around them. Finally, they allowed themselves to sink into the bed, the mattresses and pillows embracing them like a rare respite from the storm of their lives. Daniel's mismatched eyes, glowing faintly even in repose, met Melgil's steady gaze. Exhaustion softened the edges of their features, but beneath it lay the unspoken acknowledgment of all they had endured, all they had fought for.
Outside, the guards remained vigilant, yet there was an unshakable confidence in their formation. Every sentinel, every loyal warrior, from the Black Legion to the Grey Ogre hunters, understood that their charges were untouchable not merely because of their power, but because of the absolute loyalty of those who would die to protect them. The mansion itself became a bastion of order amidst a world that had, just hours before, teetered on the brink of annihilation.
As the night deepened, Daniel and Melgil finally allowed their eyes to close. Their bodies, tense for countless hours of combat, began to relax. Dreams, if dreams could find them were faint, overshadowed by the day's vivid horrors and the memories of those who had fallen. Yet for the first time since the rift had torn open, they were safe, if only for a night. Safe under the vigilant watch of the forces they had inspired, surrounded by those whose loyalty had been earned in blood and fire.
And so the city slept, and within the mansion's fortified walls, two warriors allowed themselves the briefest reprieve. Exhausted, worn out, but not unbroken, Daniel and Melgil lay side by side, the quiet promise of another day ahead lingering in the dark, a fragile hope cradled within the sanctuary of the Duchess's massive home.