The reddish-black mist of the theater continued to swirl in violent, erratic patterns, thick enough to cling to my emerald blades like a physical weight. Within the "Body Enhanced State," my perception remained a high-frequency stream of data, cataloging the subtle shifts in the air pressure and the rhythmic, heavy pulse of my heart—thump, thump, thump. The dimension was dying, the white cracks in the sky widening until they threatened to swallow the ceiling entirely, yet the focus of the battlefield remained on the titan standing in the center.
Zaltraf was a monument to unyielding darkness, his obsidian hide now glowing with a faint, pulsing violet light that signaled his most recent evolution. He stood amidst the pulverized remains of the floor, his dark aura creating a pressurized zone that forced the mist to recoil. He was sweating—the dark, viscous ichor dripping from his brow—but his presence was as immovable as a mountain.
Beside me, Eufrien was a sun on the verge of collapsing. The white-gold light leaking from the fissures in his skin had become so intense that it cast long, flickering shadows across the wreckage. Every time he shifted his weight, the sound of cracking vases echoed through the hollow theater, a fragile, haunting chime that underscored the sheer violence of the mana he was channeling. His dual-colored eyes—emerald and sapphire—never left the Demonking, his breathing a sharp, metallic rasp.
We knew that a single strike, no matter how powerful, would not be enough. The "Ball Of Light Of Divine Gods" had reduced Zaltraf to liquid, yet he had reformed in a heartbeat, his armor becoming denser and more jagged with every regeneration.
We tightened our grips. We synchronized our breathing.
Everyone coordinated to attack Zaltraf.
It was a total, unbridled surge of legend and intent. We moved not as individuals, but as a singular engine of destruction.
I led the charge, the "Body Enhanced State" pushing my legs to a frequency that turned the theater into a series of static frames. I launched myself forward, my two emerald swords becoming a blur of high-velocity slashes. I targeted Zaltraf's left side, my blades carving through the dark aura and hitting the crystalline hide with a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil. CLANG. CLANG. CLANG. Emerald sparks flew in every direction as I sought the seams in his armor, my creation magic flaring to reinforce the edges of my steel.
Eufrien was the core of the assault. He followed my lead, his white-gold sword humming with the resonance of the 100 mana folds. He targeted the Demonking's center, his strikes delivering a continuous, rhythmic pressure that forced Zaltraf to brace himself against the floor. Every swing Eufrien made was accompanied by that terrifying, porcelain-cracking sound, and the white light from his skin illuminated the entire battlefield in a strobe-light of divine fury.
On the right, Celdrich was a phantom of black steel and violet energy. He used the "Body Enhanced State" to weave through the shadows, his black katana and dagger striking at Zaltraf's joints with surgical precision. He fired pulses of purple energy that acted as concussive anchors, pinning the Demonking's limbs for a microsecond to allow the rest of our strikes to land. He was a blur of lethal calculation, his eyes tracking the flow of Zaltraf's dark aura.
To the left, Euphyne and Tokine were a storm of gold and silver. Euphyne brought his war axe down in a series of heavy, vertical crushes, the golden fire of his ego-aura turning the surrounding mist into steam. Each hit was a thunderclap that shook the foundations of the dimension. Tokine wove through the gaps in his swings, her scythe a silver crescent of death. She used her time magic to create localized pockets of temporal friction, making Zaltraf's parries appear sluggish and out of sync.
We hit him with everything. Emerald creation, white-gold divinity, shadow-steel, golden fire, and silver time converged on a single point of space. The sound was a continuous, deafening roar—CLANG. CRASH. SLICE. BOOM.—that filled the hollow theater until the rifts themselves seemed to tremble.
Zaltraf was buried under the weight of five legends. His obsidian hide was being shredded, his dark aura was being torn apart, and his dark blood was flying in all directions. We were a hurricane of vengeance, our coordination so perfect that there was never a gap in the assault. When I backed off to reset my blades, Eufrien was there. When Eufrien's body cracked under the pressure, Celdrich filled the void. When Zaltraf tried to counter, Tokine and Euphyne suppressed him with fire and scythe.
But as the seconds turned into minutes of unrelenting violence, the weight of the situation began to settle in our chests.
They can't seem to make a permanent damage to Zaltraf.
I watched through the "Body Enhanced State" as my emerald blades carved a deep, glowing furrow across Zaltraf's chest. The obsidian hide peeled back, exposing the dark, pulsing core within. But before I could even withdraw the steel, the wound began to hiss. The dark blood didn't spray; it surged forward like a living thing, knitting the hide back together in a fraction of a heartbeat. The scar vanished before the light of my strike had even faded.
It was the same for everyone else.
Eufrien's white-gold sword would bisect the Demonking's shoulder, only for the bone and muscle to fuse back together as the blade passed through. Celdrich's purple energy would disintegrate a section of Zaltraf's armor, but the crystalline hide would regrow instantly, often appearing thicker and more resistant than before. Euphyne's axe would shatter the Demonking's ribs, but the sound of the breaking bone was immediately followed by the wet, magnetic snap of the regeneration.
Zaltraf wasn't just healing; he was existing in a state of constant, perfect restoration. He was a mountain that absorbed the storm. He stood in the center of our whirlwind, his violet eyes watching us with a grim, predatory patience. He was sweating, and his dark ichor was splattered across the debris, but he wasn't slowing down. His adaptation was keeping pace with our most frantic efforts, turning our coordination into a series of lessons for his own survival.
The "Body Enhanced State" calculated the output versus the result, and the data was sobering. We were pouring a lethal amount of mana into a void. The more we hit him, the more he adapted. The more he adapted, the more power we had to use. And the more power we used, the more the dimension—and Eufrien—began to break.
The "vase cracking" sounds were now a constant, high-pitched ringing. The white light leaking from Eufrien was so bright that it was becoming difficult to see the Demonking's form. I could see the cracks on Eufrien's face extending toward his eyes, the skin around the fissures turning into a pale, translucent ceramic. He was pushing the 100 mana folds beyond the point of no return, his physical vessel screaming under the weight of the divinity he was channeling.
"Eufrien!" I shouted, my voice straining against the roar of the battle.
He didn't answer. He launched another 100 mana folds attack, his sword hitting Zaltraf's guard with the force of a tectonic plate shift. The shockwave sent a spray of obsidian dust into the air, but the Demonking didn't budge. He caught Eufrien's blade with his bare claws, the obsidian on his hands glowing violet as it absorbed the divine resonance.
Then, the rhythm broke.
The sound of the cracking vases reached a crescendo—a sharp, splintering SNAP that echoed louder than the clashing steel.
Eufrien suddenly dropped down into the ground.
His knees hit the shattered obsidian with a heavy, hollow thud. His sword arm fell to his side, the white-gold blade flickering as the mana flow stuttered. The white light from his cracks flared once, blindingly bright, before dimming to a low, pulsing throb. He stayed there for a heartbeat, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking with the effort of holding himself together. The reddish-black mist closed in around him, sensing the moment of weakness.
"Eufrien!" Celdrich and Euphyne moved instinctively toward him, but Zaltraf was already reacting.
The Demonking raised a clawed hand, his dark aura coiling for a lethal counter-strike. He saw the opening, the moment where the First Hero's vessel had finally reached its limit. He stepped forward, the floor groaning under his weight, his violet eyes fixed on the kneeling warrior.
But the light within the cracks didn't go out.
Eufrien gripped the hilt of his sword, his knuckles white and glowing. He took a deep, jagged breath that sounded like grinding glass. The "vase cracking" sounds slowed, settling into a steady, rhythmic chime that matched the pulse of his mana.
But he stood up.
He rose slowly, his movements deliberate and heavy. The cracks on his skin were still there, weeping white light, but his stance had changed. He wasn't just standing; he was resetting. He adjusted his grip on the white-gold sword, the green spirit-light of the healing bird flowing once more through the metal. He looked at Zaltraf, then he looked at us—Sogha, Celdrich, Euphyne, and Tokine.
The dual-colored eyes—emerald and sapphire—were clear, focused, and filled with a sudden, sharp clarity that cut through the chaos of the dying theater. He stood tall amidst the wreckage, a shattered masterpiece that refused to fall, his presence once again stabilizing the dimension around him.
He exhaled a cloud of white, glowing vapor and looked at us.
"I've got an idea on how to beat Zaltraf."