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The dark orbs rained down like a relentless storm, each one carrying immense force, aiming to bury Kayle.
She spread her six radiant wings, weaving effortlessly through the onslaught of shadowy spheres.
Her holy sword glowed with divine brilliance as she struck, cleaving through the darkness with unwavering resolve.
Gold clashed against shadow, painting the sky in stark contrast. For a moment, everything else fell silent.
The surrounding water churned unnaturally, forming an invisible boundary that stilled—as if the world itself was holding its breath, waiting to witness the battle's outcome.
"Her energy seems... nearly limitless," Syndra murmured, her voice low and analytical.
Floating to Ryan's level, she studied Kayle. Dark magic pulsed around her, her eyes fixed on the celestial warrior holding her ground.
Despite the suppressive vapor and the constant hail of orbs, Kayle withstood the onslaught with remarkable fortitude.
Her resilience said everything about the power of a Targonian Aspect.
"This is our first encounter with one," Ryan said, his deep voice thoughtful.
"But from this short clash, it's clear—their power isn't truly their own. It's granted by the gods they serve."
Syndra frowned slightly, recalling the theory she and Ryan had already pieced together.
But Ryan's words carried a deeper implication. She paused, her expression shifting as realization struck like lightning.
"It's not just inherited power stored within her," she said, voice sharp with insight.
"She's drawing it—constantly—from somewhere else."
She raised her hand, summoning a runic circle.
The glyphs glowed with ominous energy as her magic merged with Ryan's control over the water, amplifying their combined power.
Her eyes turned black, radiating the energy of the Void.
A sly smile crept onto Syndra's lips.
"A being of the stars... a Targonian Aspect…"
"It seems you've figured it out," Ryan said, his voice calm but tinged with approval.
He knew the tide of the battle was beginning to turn.
"Now that we know her source, the next step is severing it," Syndra said thoughtfully, dark orbs beginning to spin faster around her.
Ryan shook his head. "No need to sever it. I'll restrain her. Use the same method you used when you absorbed the Spirit Willow's essence. That'll end this."
"The Spirit Willow…"
Syndra's gaze softened, memories washing over her.
She had once believed her boundless power came from within.
But when she began studying magic seriously, she realized the truth—her strength came from her innate ability to consume.
The Spirit Willow—her childhood sanctuary—had been the first.
When she was young and wounded, it comforted her.
Unintentionally, she devoured its essence, making it part of herself.
Since then, the Spirit Willow had never left her.
"To this day, only the Void has shown the power to resist you," Ryan said, grounding her in the present.
"Even the Aspect's power won't last long."
Syndra nodded, her voice calm but firm.
"I can do it. But I need the orbs to reach her. Bind her. Keep her still for as long as you can."
"Understood," Ryan replied with a faint smile, then launched himself toward Kayle.
Kayle's golden eyes blazed with divine fury.
"Foolish to challenge me in close combat," she said coldly, her celestial aura intensifying.
She shot toward Ryan like lightning, her sword cleaving through the air with divine precision.
Every swing shattered the dark orbs in her path, her will unshaken.
"I may not be the strongest mage," Ryan said, his voice calm amid the storm, "but sometimes, there's no avoiding a fight."
As his words echoed, the ring of Syndra's dark spheres shifted, twisting into the form of a pitch-black longsword in Ryan's hand.
"Shh."
His body turned into a torrent of water, surging toward Kayle at incredible speed.
Kayle's holy sword flashed, cleaving the wave in two with divine precision.
Yet in the same instant, two identical figures of Ryan materialized on either side of her, both wielding dark, rune-forged blades.
They struck in perfect unison.
"Hmph!"
Kayle scoffed, expression unshaken. Her sword split midair into two smaller blades—one in each hand.
With flawless grace, she parried both attacks.
One clone was instantly dispelled, exploding into water.
But the other pressed forward, its black blade just millimeters from the iron helm that masked her face.
Clang!
The clash scattered golden light and water in every direction, forcing both apart.
"I heard the holy sword of the Righteous was once split in two and given to her daughters," Ryan said, voice measured as his blade locked with Kayle's once more.
"But in the end, the gentler one gave hers up—seeking repentance for her sins."
Kayle's eyes stayed cold.
"A mistake, no matter how repented, remains a mistake."
Her voice was sharp, unwavering, as she launched another flurry of strikes.
The battle raged on. Light and shadow danced violently in the skies, their movements a blur.
Each exchange lowered them closer to the ground, gold and darkness rippling through the storm above.
Below, the devastation was spreading. Cracks splintered across city walls; buildings trembled as if nature itself feared the outcome.
If not for the efforts of Darius and Swain, holding the city together with Noxian grit and tactical brilliance, it would've collapsed already.
Elsewhere, storms of dark magic ravaged the battlefield, forcing Demacian soldiers to huddle together in defensive formations.
Even on the outskirts of the conflict, a single misstep could mean death.
"Captain Garen, it's not too late to retreat," urged Old General Laurent, standing resolute at the front lines.
His shield, though battered and worn, still stood as a bulwark against the debris falling from the sky.
The old general had long made peace with death—but not with losing Garen, not Demacia's future.
"I will not retreat," Garen said firmly, raising his greatsword as he deflected a falling arc of golden light.
"I have to see how this ends. Besides…"
He looked up grimly.
"Even if we wanted to flee, we couldn't."
Unlike Laurent, Garen could feel it. The sheer density of magic above them was unbearable—oppressive.
Their lives weren't their own anymore; they hung by a thread, held in place by the will of the ones fighting in the sky.
Only now did Garen truly grasp the terrifying scale of magic's power.
Against such force, the strength of swords and shields felt painfully obsolete.
The mages—Syndra, Ryan—and Kayle, the Winged Protector…
They wielded magic strong enough to erase armies.
"Magic," Garen muttered, his eyes locked on the heavens, "is truly a force that could end the world."
Suddenly, he shouted, his voice cutting through the battlefield like a blade:
"Everyone, down!"
The Demacians ducked instantly, crouching behind their shields.
Garen shoved Old General Laurent to the ground, shielding him with his own body.
Only Laurent's massive shield remained upright.
Hum!
A golden blade descended from above. It struck the old general's shield—Demacian steel, famed for its unmatched durability—and sliced it cleanly in two, as if it were nothing more than parchment. The two halves fell apart with eerie silence.
"This… this is the power of the Winged Protector…" Laurent whispered, awe and despair clashing in his voice.
Garen pulled him up, eyes grim.
"Do you still not see, General? She doesn't see us as people. To her, we're just pieces—acceptable sacrifices for her version of justice."
Laurent's expression darkened as Garen's words took hold.
"She may be called the Protector," Garen continued, bitterness bleeding into his voice, "but this is not the justice Demacia has stood for. Not the justice Jarvan died for."
He pointed upward. "And besides… she's losing now."
There was no illusion of victory in Garen's heart.
He, like Jarvan IV before him, understood what was coming.
This day would end in sorrow.
But as he glanced at the Dauntless Vanguard—those still standing firm under impossible odds—his resolve hardened.
General Laurent. The soldiers. They looked to him.
He cast one final look at his comrades, a quiet farewell in his eyes, then stepped forward.
If anyone was to fall first, it would be him. That was his duty.
He raised his greatsword and planted his feet.
"No one will harm my comrades," he said quietly, fiercely.
"Not while I still stand."