'That damn woman. Always playing around.'
Vorgath clenched his teeth, fury simmering beneath his molten gaze. He had nearly killed Arthur. Nearly crushed him beneath the weight of carnage itself. And yet—she interfered.
Even now, standing atop the battlefield, he could still feel the lingering suppression of Alyssara's presence, like a shadow hanging over his throat. Even with Infernal Armis, even with his power elevated beyond mortal constraints, she had effortlessly subdued him.
'Fucking bitch.'
But he couldn't let himself dwell on that now. His grip tightened around his ruinous axe, and he turned his full attention to the three women before him. Seraphina, Cecilia, and Rin. They fought well—too well, even. They weren't on his level, but they were still forces to be reckoned with.
Even so—
They were in his way.
Vorgath surged forward, his foot slamming into Rin's stomach, sending her flying backward. She let out a strangled cough as she hit the ground hard, her body twitching in exhaustion. He could see it in her eyes—her regeneration had finally reached its limit.
'Good. One down.'
He raised his axe, black mana and astral energy coiling around its edge. This would finish her.
But before he could bring it down, Seraphina and Cecilia were already there.
Cecilia's barriers flared, golden shields forming a desperate wall, while Seraphina's plum blossoms of ice spiraled into deadly streaks, slashing at his armor with pinpoint precision.
It wasn't enough.
With a single swing, Vorgath shattered the barriers and sent Seraphina and Cecilia to their knees, their bodies screaming from the sheer pressure of his mana.
He loomed over them, his molten crown casting eerie shadows over their faces.
"You're dead," he growled, raising his axe to end them—
Then, his body lurched backward.
Vorgath's eyes widened in shock. He hadn't sensed it.
A force unlike anything he had encountered slammed into him, sending him skidding back. His heels dug into the broken battlefield as he steadied himself, his mind reeling.
What was that?
Then, he saw him.
Arthur stood tall, his back to the three women, his golden wings unfurling like the dawn of a new era.
Vorgath's eyes narrowed. "What the hell…?"
Arthur smiled.
"Thank you," he said, his voice unwavering. "You helped me complete my transformation, First Calamity."
Vorgath felt a chill that had nothing to do with cold.
Because something had changed.
Arthur's aura was sharper, more refined, and yet infinitely vast—like a paradox contained within human flesh. His very presence seemed to radiate order, an overwhelming harmony of power that bent the world around him.
His sword pulsed with energy, no longer just an extension of his will—but a part of him.
"With this," Arthur continued, his golden gaze locking onto Vorgath, "my strength has been perfected."
Vorgath gritted his teeth.
"What the fuck did you just do?"
Arthur's wings stretched wider, the air humming with the weight of his existence.
"Wings of Seraphim," Arthur declared.
Vorgath felt the weight of those words settle over him.
Unity.
Unity was a concept reserved for Radiant-rankers. A swordsman at his level should have no business understanding it, let alone achieving it.
And yet—
Arthur had forged his own Unity.
It wasn't just a connection to his sword. It was a connection to himself.
The harmony of his three Gifts, once the foundation of his True Domain, had been collapsed upon his own body. The very laws of his Domain had become his own.
He took a step forward, and Vorgath felt it.
Not just a rise in power. A complete transformation.
The air warped around Arthur's presence, his sword shimmering with something unquantifiable. It wasn't just mana. It wasn't just astral energy.
It was a state of being.
And yet—
Even as Arthur stood, ascendant, Vorgath caught the slight tremor in his fingers.
Rachel's light magic flooded through him, her healing keeping his body together—because this form was breaking him apart.
Arthur had surpassed his limits.
But that didn't mean he wasn't paying the price.
Vorgath's molten grin returned.
"Perfected, huh?" Vorgath's voice was low, dangerously amused. "Then show me."
Arthur raised his sword. And the world split apart.
The moment their weapons met, the battlefield shuddered beneath their clash.
Ruin Axe against Nyxthar.
Blade and axe collided, sending shockwaves rippling through the very fabric of space. The air trembled under the sheer force of their strikes, the ground cracking beneath their feet as power beyond mortal comprehension warred between them.
Vorgath swung with the weight of carnage itself, his strikes fueled by the devastation of Infernal Armis, each blow a promise of ruin. Arthur met him strike for strike, his sword illuminated by the celestial glow of Wings of Seraphim, every motion infused with the harmony of his three Gifts.
The result was equal.
Vorgath's expression twisted in astonishment.
Equal?
He, Vorgath Ironmaw, empowered by a Mythical-grade artifact, standing at low Radiant-rank—was only matching Arthur Nightingale, a mere peak Immortal-ranker?
Even with Immortal Slayer amplifying his power to a level that should have been untouchable, even with the raw destructive force of Infernal Armis burning through his veins—he could only match him?
It was unthinkable.
Impossible.
And yet, the proof was right before him, their weapons locked in a deadlock of sheer force, neither able to overpower the other.
This man… was dangerous.
No—beyond dangerous.
Vorgath had fought countless warriors, crushed countless foes beneath his axe, but never had he encountered something like this.
A swordsman with monstrous talent, a strategist, a man with unfathomable willpower who had defied every single expectation placed upon him.
And worse—he was still getting stronger.
Vorgath gritted his teeth.
'I can outlast him.'
That was the answer.
His molten gaze flicked to Rachel, standing just beyond the battle, her hands raised, golden light spilling from her palms as she healed Arthur's wounds and replenished his strength.
She was keeping him alive.
The only reason Arthur was able to sustain this impossible Unity was because of her.
But—she couldn't heal him forever.
Vorgath sneered, his mind racing.
Rachel Creighton. A Saintess.
Seraphina Zenith. A supreme swordsman.
Cecilia Slatemark. An archwitch.
They were standing together at Arthur's back, their magic, their might, their devotion all woven into his strength.
It was almost ridiculous.
The kind of legendary tale one told children before bed.
A swordsman blessed with the Saintess's light, the sword of the Mount Hua princess, and the arcane mastery of a Slatemark princess—standing against the First Calamity.
What was this?
A hero's tale?
Vorgath scoffed, but the thought burrowed into him, deep and unsettling.
'Then what does that make him? The hero of this world?'
His grip tightened on his axe.
No.
That didn't matter.
Arthur Nightingale was just a man.
And all men broke eventually.
Vorgath would make sure of it.