The battlefield of Presia Dukedom lay silent for the first time in hours. The titanic monster had fallen, cut from head to toe by Roman's radiant Archon sword, and with its death, the gaping dungeon gate sealed shut with a thunderous boom.
Roman, however, was left in a dire state. He landed heavily on one knee, his chest heaving, blood trickling down his lips. His aura flickered violently—one side blazing in pure gold, the other drowning in suffocating black. The Yin-Yang core, forced into balance with the added strain of the Fallen God's power, had torn his body apart from within.
The Shadow System's healing veil wrapped around him, layer after layer of green light sealing his wounds. But it was not enough. His body screamed in protest, as if it were being ripped into two halves—one of light, one of shadow. His core pulsed dangerously, threatening to collapse in on itself.
Inside the duke's underground safe room, Jacob and Selena stood by the windows, eyes fixed on the battlefield outside. The eerie quiet unsettled them. And then, like a blade cutting through their fears, Selena gasped:
"Roman…"
Without a moment's hesitation, they both rushed outside. The sight awaiting them froze their blood.
Roman lay unconscious, his body still glowing faintly under the layers of healing magic, but the veins in his arms and chest were blackened as if corroded by shadow. His once-proud aura sputtered like a dying flame.
"Roman!" Selena screamed, darting forward, but Jacob was quicker. He reached his son first, kneeling beside him. His hands trembled as he touched the boy's face.
"How… how could a nineteen-year-old withstand a battle like this?" Jacob whispered in disbelief. He had fought wars, led armies, and crushed foes—but even he, the second-strongest duke of Clover Kingdom, could not fathom fighting against such monstrosities alone.
Selena's eyes filled with tears. "Father! We need to move him now! His body… it's tearing apart. If this continues—"
Jacob snapped out of his daze, lifting Roman into his arms. With a grim expression, he carried him swiftly into the palace. The priests were already waiting, casting divine healing magic in desperation. Holy light enveloped Roman, yet even that struggled to mend the damage wrought by the Fallen God's power.
But though Presia Dukedom had been spared—for now—the rest of the world was not so fortunate.
Across the Clover Kingdom, chaos spread like wildfire. Dungeon gates erupted from the earth and sky alike, vomiting forth monstrous horrors. Cities burned, villages crumbled, and families were slaughtered in droves. There was no chance for rescue—only annihilation.
And beyond Clover, the calamity spread. The Spade Kingdom, the Heart Kingdom, the Diamond territories—all were ravaged as gates cracked reality apart, monsters roaming freely as though the world itself had surrendered to them. The cries of the dying echoed across the continents.
Yet amidst this despair, a light answered.
The Holy Empire of Arcania, guardians of the goddess's will, acted without hesitation. Through divine artifacts, they teleported their most elite: twenty High Paladins and their knight retinues. These Paladins were no ordinary warriors—they bore the Blessings of Goddess Aria, their very bodies fortified by divine grace.
Descending upon the chaos, the Paladins unleashed their might. Their first vow was to protect the innocent, and so they carved paths through the swarms of monsters, shielding the weak and evacuating survivors. Their second vow was to close the dungeon gates, no matter the cost.
For seven relentless days and nights, the battle raged. The Paladins fought without rest, their armor dented, their blades soaked in blood. The ground was stained red across kingdoms, yet the holy warriors pressed on. At last, one by one, the dungeon gates were sealed shut, silencing the endless tide of beasts.
But victory brought no celebration.
The world was left in ruin. Streets were painted with corpses, homes reduced to rubble. Some bodies were too mutilated to identify, while others lay half-devoured by the monsters' fangs. The kingdoms wept together, for the disaster had made no distinction between noble or commoner—all were equal before the bloodshed.
At the heart of this tragedy stood the Holy Empire. They alone had stood firm, saving countless lives with their unwavering determination. And so, when the dust finally settled, the eyes of the world turned toward them.
A great council was held, attended by kings, emperors, and nobles of every surviving nation. At its center, robed in immaculate white and adorned with the sigil of the goddess, stood the Holy Pope of Arcania—Lucius Seraphael. His voice, serene yet unshakable, carried across the chamber.
"People of this world," Lucius intoned, raising his hands in prayer, "today we mourn the countless lives lost. May Goddess Aria guide their souls to eternal peace. But know this—the prophecy long foretold has now begun. The age of trials is upon us."
The chamber fell into silence. Even the most arrogant of kings dared not interrupt.
Lucius's eyes, glowing faintly with divine light, swept across the rulers before him. "This is no longer a time for division. If we continue as fractured kingdoms, we will all perish. The goddess has chosen her herald, the leader who will stand against the abyss. It is time for the world to unite as one."
And then, slowly, deliberately, he turned his gaze toward the King of Clover Kingdom.
Gasps echoed through the chamber. Some whispered in disbelief, others in awe.
Meanwhile, far from this monumental gathering, in the quiet of Presia Dukedom's palace, Roman remained unconscious.
Eight days had passed since the battle. He lay still, his body wrapped in divine light, unaware of the devastation that had scarred the world—or the monumental shift in power that had begun to take shape.
The world had changed.
And when Roman awoke, he would awaken to a world on the brink of something far greater.