The echoes of our combined scream still vibrated through the very foundations of the theater, a sound that felt as if it had been ripped from the collective soul of everyone standing within the blue barrier. The light from the archangels, the flickering violet of the lightning magic, the dark crimson of the demon girl, and the golden storm of Euphyne's ego had all merged into a singular, blinding white event. For several long, agonizing seconds, the dimension was silent, the air so thick with displaced mana and vaporized obsidian that it was impossible to see even an inch in front of my face. My "Body Enhanced State" was still active, my heart maintaining its slow, heavy thrum—thump, thump, thump—but the strain of the "all-in-one" attack had left my muscles trembling under the tightened skin.
As the smoke disappeared, we saw Zaltraf.
The sight was enough to make even the most hardened warrior pause. The Demonking, who had stood like an immovable monument of shadow throughout the entire ordeal, was no longer untouched. He was bleeding bad. Dark, viscous blood—the color of a bruised midnight—leaked from a dozen jagged gashes across his torso and limbs. His armor was shattered, hanging from his frame in useless, blackened shards. One of the Skulls of Burning Souls had been extinguished entirely, leaving only a charred, hollow husk of bone floating near his shoulder. He was hunched over, his breathing a wet, ragged sound that hissed through the settling dust. For a fleeting, beautiful moment, it looked as if the impossible had happened. It looked like we had won.
But the hope was a fragile thing in this dimension.
As we tried to attack, hoping to deliver the final, crushing blow while he was reeling, the air around Zaltraf suddenly curdled. The dark blood on the floor didn't just sit there; it began to vibrate, then it flew back toward his body like iron filings to a magnet.
Suddenly he regenerated.
The wounds closed with a sickening, wet sound of knitting flesh and snapping bone. It wasn't just a healing process; it was a violent reconstruction. His form seemed to expand, his muscles bulging and his height increasing by several inches. The dark aura that had been flickering moments ago erupted into a towering pillar of obsidian fire. He became stronger—not just back to his full power, but beyond it, his presence becoming so heavy that the invisible floor beneath him began to groan and warp under the sheer weight of his existence.
And his barrier became harder.
The translucent shield that had been cracking and weeping vapor under our assault solidified into a pitch-black shell. It didn't just reflect the light now; it seemed to consume it, creating a pocket of absolute nothingness around the Demonking. I lunged forward, my white gold sword leading the way, but the "Body Enhanced State" screamed at me to stop. I could feel the density of the air around his barrier; it was no longer a wall of magic, but a wall of physical, unyielding law.
As we're losing hope, watching our greatest effort get swallowed by his monstrous adaptation, a shift in the spatial fabric occurred to our flank.
Suddenly Celdrich and Tokine appeared.
They emerged from a ripple in the reddish-black mist, their silhouettes standing out against the chaotic backdrop of the battle. Celdrich was covered in grime and scratches, his armor dented from his clash with the time-wielder, but his eyes were bright with a triumphant, sharp intelligence. Beside him stood Tokine. The girl who had ignored Sir Vael's offer of forgiveness, the one who had served as Sagha's silent shadow, was no longer standing in a combat stance. She stood with her arms crossed, a look of bored calculation on her face.
Celdrich said that he convinced Tokine to be back on our side.
The statement felt like a thunderclap in the middle of a storm. We all looked at the girl who had been our enemy moments ago, her time magic a threat that had nearly dismantled our entire strategy. To have her back was a turning point we hadn't dared to dream of, but the look on her face suggested that the price had been steep.
Tokine smirked and said that only on one condition.
She looked at Celdrich, her eyes glinting with a mischievous, almost predatory light. It was a stark contrast to the grim, apocalyptic battle happening just yards away. She pointed a finger at him, the temporal energy flickering around her digits.
"Celdrich has to be my pet," Tokine said.
The theater went silent for a heartbeat, the sound of Zaltraf's roaring aura providing a bizarre soundtrack to the demand. Euphyne looked back at them, his war axe lowered in confusion. I felt the "thrum" of my heart falter for a split second. It was an absurd, jarring request in the middle of a war for the fate of our souls.
Celdrich just looked annoyed. His brow furrowed, and he let out a long, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of every bad decision he'd ever made. He looked at the Demonking, then back at the smirking girl beside him. He knew the stakes. He knew that without her, we were likely dead.
But he agreed.
He gave a sharp, begrudging nod, his jaw tightening as he accepted the humiliating terms. Tokine's smirk widened into a genuine grin, and she stepped forward, the cold, detached aura she had carried as a traitor finally beginning to melt away.
And then we looked at Zaltraf.
The Demonking wasn't paying attention to the negotiations behind us. He was staring at me—or rather, he was staring at the weapon in my hand. His regeneration was complete, but his mind seemed caught in a loop of ancient, bitter resentment. He began to scream, a sound that wasn't human, a sound that carried the vibration of a thousand years of hatred.
"The sword of the first hero doesn't deserve to be in the hands of the unworthy!" Zaltraf screamed.
His voice shook the blue barrier, the sheer volume of his rage causing the obsidian ridges in the distance to crumble into dust. He lunged toward the edge of his barrier, his claws scraping against the black energy shell, his eyes fixed on the white gold metal with a territorial madness.
Celdrich looks at my sword and he smirked.
He stepped past Euphyne and me, his movements calm and purposeful. He wasn't looking at the Demonking's rage with fear; he was looking at it as an opportunity. He reached out a hand toward me, his gaze locked on mine.
"Give me your sword," he said.
I didn't hesitate. Even with the "Body Enhanced State" urging me to hold onto my weapon, I trusted the look in Celdrich's eyes. I handed over the white gold blade, the hilt still warm from the emerald fire of my creation magic. He gripped it with a practiced ease, his fingers tracing the grain of the metal.
He asked me to create a vessel with creation magic.
I closed my eyes, tapping into the core of my power, the love of Elphyete acting as the conduit for the visualization. I didn't think about swords or shields; I thought about a container—a body without a soul, a vessel designed to hold a legacy that had been lost to time. I channeled the emerald energy through my fingertips, weaving it into the air in front of Celdrich.
I created one.
The vessel manifested as a shimmering, translucent humanoid form, floating in the center of our group. It had no features, no weight, only a hollow, inviting resonance that seemed to pull at the surrounding light. It was a masterpiece of temporary creation, a blank canvas waiting for a master's touch.
Suddenly he threw the sword into the vessel.
The white gold blade didn't bounce off; it was swallowed by the emerald light. The metal merged with the translucent form, the sword becoming the "spine" of the creation. The energy of the vessel began to churn and darken, reacting to the ancient power of the hero's weapon.
Celdrich stepped back, his hands beginning to glow with a familiar, forbidden light. He looked at the vessel, his expression one of absolute focus. He said to me that he's going to use the same revive magic that I copied from when Zaltraf got revived. It was a dangerous, high-level manipulation of the boundary between life and death—a spell that used the weapon as a tether to pull a specific soul back from the void.
He raised his voice, the incantation cutting through the roar of Zaltraf's black fire.
"The first hero that killed the Demon King of that time, wake up!" Celdrich said.
Suddenly the vessel glowed with a bright blue light.
The emerald shimmer was obliterated by a sapphire radiance so intense it felt as if a star had been born inside the theater. The blue light was pure, cold, and authoritative, a frequency that made the reddish-black mist of the dimension vanish instantly. The humanoid form began to solidify, the translucent shell being replaced by muscle, skin, and fabric. The white gold sword at the center dissolved into the being, its essence becoming the very life force of the resurrected man.
Suddenly a blonde-haired guy with long hair appeared.
The blue light receded, revealing a figure that stood with a relaxed, effortless grace. He had long, golden hair that seemed to catch a light that wasn't present in the dimension, falling over shoulders clad in simple but elegant travel gear. His presence was a complete anomaly in this dark world—he looked as if he had just stepped out of a sunny meadow rather than a tomb of ancient history.
He looked around, his blue eyes taking in the fractured obsidian, the blue barrier, and the terrified students within. When he saw Zaltraf, he looked surprised. He tilted his head, a small frown appearing on his face as he observed the monstrosity that the Demonking had become. But the surprise didn't last long; he seemed to understand why he was back. He looked at his own hands, opening and closing them as he tested the weight of his new existence.
I looked at him, the "Body Enhanced State" making me feel small in the face of such ancient, serene power. I asked him what his name was.
He looked at me with the brightest smile I've ever seen. It wasn't the smirk of Celdrich or the laugh of Sagha; it was a smile of genuine, uncomplicated warmth—a smile that felt like a sunrise after a lifetime of darkness.
"My name is Eufrien," he said.
The name carried a resonance that seemed to soothe the jagged edges of the dimension. But the peaceful moment was short-lived. Eufrien's gaze shifted back to Zaltraf, and the warmth in his eyes didn't vanish, but it was joined by a sharp, uncompromising clarity.
Suddenly he dashed forward.
He didn't use lightning magic. He didn't break the floor. He simply moved. He was a blur of gold and blue, a movement so fluid it made my own hyper-accelerated speed look clunky and forced. He reached the black energy shell of the Demonking in a single, effortless stride.
He swung against Zaltraf.
He didn't have a physical sword in his hand anymore; instead, his very arm seemed to trailing a wake of white gold light. It was a simple, horizontal strike, delivered with the casual strength of a man brushing away a cobweb.
And his barrier instantly got sliced.
The pitch-black shell, the one that had tanked our all-in-one attack and adapted to our every move, was parted like water. The dark energy didn't shatter; it was simply negated, the white gold light of the first hero bypassing the defense as if it didn't exist. The strike continued through the barrier and carved a shallow line across Zaltraf's newly regenerated chest.
Zaltraf looked surprised. He stumbled back, his claws clutching at the new wound, his eyes wide with a terror he hadn't shown even when we were bombarding him with archangels. He looked at the blonde man, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and disbelief.
"Why is the first hero this strong?" Zaltraf asked.
Eufrien stopped his follow-up, standing in the center of the dark fire, his posture completely relaxed. He looked at his own limbs, observing the way the emerald energy of my creation magic was pulsing beneath his skin, reinforcing his resurrected form. He looked at himself, the bright smile returning to his face as he felt the sheer volume of power flowing through his new vessel.
"I have no idea too, but my new body feels far stronger than before," Eufrien said.