Sacred golden light and defiled black miasma flooded the battlefield, filling heaven and earth alike.
Sizzle. Sizzle.
The sound of evaporation rang out in waves.
The black, cursed aura—symbolizing distortion and malediction—was steadily vaporized under the golden radiance, purified inch by inch into nothingness.
Streams of black smoke rose from the demons' bodies, releasing soundless screams as they dissipated into the air.
The howls of the humanoid demons began to change.
At first, it was the agony of souls being torn apart.
Something was being forcibly stripped away from their very existence.
But soon, the screams of pain turned into low groans of release.
A relieved, trembling murmur—almost like suppressed sobbing.
Within their hollow eyes, once ruled solely by the instinct to kill, a faint spark of humanity began to flicker.
This sacred yet unsettling sight plunged every surviving soul on the battlefield into silence.
The dozen or so members of the God's Knights who had narrowly escaped death stood frozen like stone statues.
The weapons in their hands felt unbearably heavy.
They didn't dare move.
And they didn't dare advance.
One man alone could wipe them all out—and even their commander, Garling Saint, couldn't last a single exchange against him.
And unlike elite members such as Saint Somaz, they weren't endowed with powerful Devil Fruits or overwhelming strength.
Standing still was the only rational choice.
Charging forward blindly would be nothing but suicide.
Even more so when Lucian's attention was clearly focused entirely on the humanoid demons.
And in the distance—
"Pff—"
Figarland Garling Saint, slumped against the shattered cliff face, spat out another mouthful of blood mixed with fragments of organs.
The deep fist imprint on his chest was like a red-hot brand, radiating searing pain. Every breath felt like his body was being torn apart from the inside.
Physical pain, he could endure.
But the mental impact nearly broke him.
He stared fixedly at the white-masked figure shrouded in golden light at the center of the battlefield. In his eyes remained only the most primal, most deranged hatred.
As the supreme commander of the God's Knights, others might not understand—but he did.
He could more or less tell what Lucian was doing.
That bastard…
He was purifying them.
He was trying to turn the Davie clan—those personally twisted and reshaped by Lord Im, perfected into immortal killing weapons—back into humans.
What should he do?
What could he do?
In his current state, there was no way he could stop him!
Garling Saint's mind was in complete disarray, his injuries and fear tightening around his throat like a noose.
And then—
In that very instant.
Hum.
An indescribable, utterly frigid will descended without warning.
It had no form, no substance—yet it was everywhere.
It pierced through time and space, ignoring all distance, like a burning needle that stabbed straight through Garling Saint's mental world.
"Ugh—!"
His vision went black as his soul was seized by an invisible hand spanning heaven and earth, crushed and kneaded at will.
Under that absolute suppression from the highest dimension of life itself, he couldn't even scream. Only a muffled groan escaped his throat as his body went limp and dropped to one knee.
Then—
An ancient, emotionless voice formed from the very origin of the world echoed directly in the deepest recesses of his mind.
It carried no gender, no feeling—only an absolute decree that permitted no defiance from any living being.
Just three words.
[Stop him]
Boom.
Those three words struck his soul with the weight of the entire world.
In an instant, all the chaos, fear, and hatred in his mind were crushed flat by that supreme will.
And in that same instant—
He understood who the voice belonged to.
That being.
The one seated upon the Empty Throne.
The one who gazed down upon all creation.
The sole true god who held dominion over the world itself.
The King of the World.
Lord Im.
The moment he realized this, a terror far greater than death—millions of times more dreadful—flooded his heart like a black ocean.
Fear of the unknown power of the masked man?
Before the divine authority of that being, it was nothing.
Garling Saint knew better than anyone—
Defying the man before him might mean death.
But defying Lord Im's will…
Would mean his soul cast into eternal darkness, condemned to punishment infinitely worse than death—never to know rest.
In less than a second, his complexion shifted from deathly pale to an even more lifeless white.
He had been driven into a dead end.
Either—
He died here at the hands of the masked man.
Or—
He survived, only to suffer divine punishment from Lord Im—unable to live, unable to die.
At that moment, this exalted Celestial Dragon noble, supreme commander of the God's Knights, finally tasted true despair.
He chose the former.
"Heh… hngh…"
Garling Saint plunged the tip of his ceremonial sword—the symbol of his honor—deep into the ground, using it to force his trembling body upright despite the pain and terror tearing through him.
Beneath the tattered remnants of his formal attire, his eyes locked onto Lucian.
All reason within them had burned away, leaving only the madness of a beast cornered at the edge of annihilation.
He didn't scream at Lucian.
There was no point.
Instead, he turned and used the last of his strength to unleash a hoarse roar at his subordinates—who were just as terrified, their will to fight nearly shattered.
"All of you… move."
The remaining Knights shuddered, their faces filled with resistance and fear.
Seeing their hesitation, the blood vessels in Garling Saint's eyes nearly burst as he shouted the words that would seal everything.
"Stop him."
"This… is His Majesty's will."
His Majesty.
Those two words struck like thunderbolts, slamming into the hearts of every Knight present.
The fear on their faces froze—then sank into something far deeper.
Despair.
Garling Saint knew it still wasn't enough.
His voice trembled as he pressed on, unable to conceal his own terror of divine punishment.
"Those who disobey… you and I…"
"Will… all… suffer… divine… punishment."
Divine punishment.
Those words extinguished the last flicker of hope in their hearts.
They exchanged glances instinctively, seeing the same despair reflected in each other's eyes—
And a resolve to die.
Better to die here—
Than to be punished beyond death itself.
On the silent battlefield, one of the most ordinary God's Knights suddenly let out a deeply tragic roar.
A cry of marching toward death.
"For the World Government!!!"
"For His Majesty—!"
He raised his trembling sword once more, eyes bloodshot, and became the first—and last—to charge at Lucian in a suicidal assault.
That single action shattered the suffocating stalemate.
One became two.
Two became three.
The remaining Knights followed, faces numb and resolute, launching the final, suicidal charge of their lives.
Were they afraid of death?
Of course they were.
But they had no other choice.