BOOM!
A deafening explosion ripples through the battlefield as Ilúvëthar pivots, twisting mid-air to intercept the incoming force. His hands lock around the colossal blade, the sheer weight of it sending shockwaves through his limbs. The impact is violent—air splits, debris spirals, and the force radiates outward like a cascading tidal wave.
His silver-blue eyes flicker with an ethereal glow, the edges shifting into a dim golden-white hue. He doesn't hesitate. No wasted movement. No second thoughts. He slams the sword down and propels himself forward, sprinting up the ancient, blackened tree, his speed leaving only fleeting afterimages in his wake.
"You can't run from me, boy!"
Dúnadan's voice booms like a war drum, shaking the cavernous space as he launches himself into the air. His immense form defies gravity, the sheer momentum of his ascent causing the battlefield to quake beneath him. With a single flick of his wrist, the blade that had been stolen from him halts mid-air, reversing course as if bound by an unbreakable tether.
The blade returns to him instantly, his fingers curling around its hilt like a predator reclaiming its rightful prey.
"This is nothing personal," he grunts, muscles bulging as his form expands, towering above all below. The sacred inscriptions along his skin glow brilliant gold, shifting in pulsating patterns. "But you can't beat me. I am stronger, faster, and have overall more experience than you."
His voice resonates like thunder—an undeniable truth wrapped in inevitability.
"This is but a mere fraction of my original power."
BOOM!
The very bark of the ancient tree writhes, as if it, too, answers to his call. Vines shoot forth, preempting Ilúvëthar's movement. Without warning, they lurch outward like living spears, coiling around his limbs, wrapping, twisting—launching him away from the tree before he can react.
Dúnadan raises his weapon, and the battlefield answers him.
BOOOOM!
The blade comes down—unstoppable, absolute. A weight beyond comprehension. The moment it makes contact, golden inscriptions flare to life across the steel, divine energy crackling like a celestial wildfire. Waves of sacred power ripple from the impact, igniting the ground in a radiant, glowing inferno. The earth groans under the sheer pressure, fracturing outward, shattering into a spiraling abyss of destruction.
Ilúvëthar has no escape.
He clenches his jaw, arms crossing over his head as he takes the full brunt of the descending blade. The instant it makes contact—
A golden-white radiance erupts around him.
His entire body trembles beneath the overwhelming force. The sacred power surges through his very bones, scorching, searing, testing his limits. The ground beneath his feet yields, crumbling wider and wider, the crater swallowing everything around him.
His muscles tighten. His vision tunnels. His heartbeat slams against his ribs like a war drum.
And then—
"ILÚVËTHAR!"
A second presence enters the fray.
CORA.
She moves like a streak of black lightning—fluid, unstoppable, merciless. Her greatsword arcs through the air, a visible distortion cutting through space itself.
"STAY DOWN!"
The command is both a warning and an attack.
BOOM!
Her swing shatters the sound barrier, pressure exploding outward as her blade collides with Ilúvëthar's exposed torso.
But—
He catches it.
Gritting his teeth, Ilúvëthar locks his grip around the weapon, barehanded, stopping its momentum entirely. The impact sends violent tremors through his body, muscles ripping apart on contact, veins bulging, golden energy surging wildly from the sheer exertion. His nose bleeds instantly, a crimson trail running down his face, evaporating before it reaches his chin.
His golden bracelets crack.
Then—
They shatter.
The fragments disintegrate mid-air, their bindings undone, releasing a surge of untamed power that roars through his trembling form.
The battlefield erupts in silence.
Beneath him, the earth continues to break.
His feet sink deeper into the expanding crater, holding off both Dúnadan and Cora simultaneously. His exposed chest rises and falls with labored breaths, sweat sizzling into steam the moment it touches his overheated skin.
Cora's black sword quivers against his grip, the mana surrounding it still shifting like water, twisting, unrelenting.
Above him, Dúnadan's massive blade presses downward, unyielding, divine, inescapable.
And yet—
Ilúvëthar still stands.
"STOP THIS AT ONCE!"
Cora's roar cuts through the battlefield, her voice raw with fury and desperation. "YOU CANNOT FIGHT EVERYONE!"
Above them, amidst the chaos, a single green leaf drifts in the air, serene, unbothered. It floats lazily, twisting and turning as it sways toward the battlefield, carried by invisible currents. The world seems to hold its breath as it descends, slow and deliberate—a quiet contrast to the bloodshed below.
And then—
It lands.
Next to the flower.
For a moment—just a moment—Ilúvëthar grins.
A slow, measured smirk spreads across his lips, unreadable, unfazed. Then, his iris and pupils begin to shift, dilating unnaturally. The deep silver-blue color flickers, twisting and coiling like ink spreading through water.
Then—a shape emerges.
Where his pupil once was, a single silver-blue leaf takes form.
Cora's eyes widen in horror.
"NO, YOU CA—"
Her words never finish.
In an instant, Ilúvëthar vanishes.
In his place, the solitary green leaf erupts.
WHOOSH!
It transforms—splitting, multiplying, twisting, growing. Before anyone can react, a swarm of razor-sharp leaf spikes bursts outward in all directions, moving with precision and terrifying speed.
Cora barely has time to react.
She pivots, slamming her greatsword into the earth for balance, gritting her teeth as she leaps backward. The force sends her skidding across the ground, but—too slow.
A sharp, burning pain lances through her body.
"Guh—!"
She gasps, hand instinctively clutching her stomach as several spikes pierce through her armor. Dark red blooms across her torso, staining her clothes. The pain is sharp, ruthless, deep. Yet her grip never falters.
The battlefield stills for a moment, dust and debris swirling in the wake of Ilúvëthar's disappearance.
Then—
"I can, and will fight anyone in my way."
His voice echoes from above.
Cora's head snaps upward.
Perched high on the blackened, ancient tree, Ilúvëthar wipes the last traces of blood from his nose, completely unscathed. The golden cracks in his bracelets have vanished, his muscles no longer strained.
He looks down—not at them.
At the cocoon.
At the flower.
Below him, the monstrous vines react immediately.
They explode outward, snapping toward him like whips, their black-purple veins pulsing with raw energy. Each movement is violent, erratic, frantic.
But Ilúvëthar does not move.
He simply watches.
And then—
The vines stop.
Mid-air.
Frozen.
As if held by invisible strings, they tremble violently, straining to obey their instincts—but they cannot move.
Ilúvëthar exhales, his breath slow, measured. His control over plant life is absolute. He does not command them; he dominates them.
The vines twist and coil in mid-air, struggling against an unseen force.
But he doesn't let them.
He clenches his fist.
CRACK.
The sound is deafening.
The vines convulse violently, as if they are in pain. Black liquid seeps from their cores, dripping like thickened tar as they coil tighter around the flower's cocoon, their desperate attempt to keep it safe.
But Ilúvëthar does not hesitate.
His fingers tighten—his nails dig deep into the bark of the cocoon, piercing through the thick, pulsating surface. The veins lining the shell begin to pulse erratically, dark crimson spreading like wildfire. The vines snap backward, writhing in agony, but he does not stop.
"You belong to me."
His grip tightens—
And with a single, merciless rip—
The cocoon splits open.
A rush of energy explodes outward, so powerful that it forces the battlefield below into an eerie stillness. The mana surges, distorting the air like a heat mirage, causing the very ground to tremble. The ancient tree screams, its roots twisting as a deep, hollow groan echoes through the cavernous expanse.
Ilúvëthar remains unmoved.
From within the torn cocoon, the flower is revealed.
Small—delicate—unnatural.
Its petals are an impossible contrast: blacker than night at their base, yet streaked with a brilliant, almost blood-red glow along the edges. Its center, a swirling abyss of crimson black, pulses rhythmically, like a beating heart.
Ilúvëthar's silver-blue eyes gleam, the leaf-like shape in his pupils shimmering with silent triumph.
He lifts the flower gently from its shattered prison.
-
"Ugh... Fuck."
Baya grips her head, twisting it with a satisfying crack as she pops her stiff joints. A gust of wind from Ilúvëthar's battle roars past, whipping her soft ivory hair to the side like a flowing river of silk. Her golden-green eyes flick around the battlefield, absorbing the situation before her vein visibly throbs in sheer frustration.
"Oi, oi, oi—how dare you fucking trap me in an illusion when I could have been fighting!" she growls, her teeth gritted in annoyance.
She tilts her head slightly, catching the shifts in attention.
All eyes are on her now.
A slow, confident smirk stretches across her lips. "No wonder I feel so good." She rolls her shoulders, bouncing lightly on her feet, her body humming with an unfamiliar surge of power. Turning toward Rotû, her voice takes on a sharp edge.
"Oi, stupid goblin. Give it to me—all of it. I'll end this, even if I hate using his power."
Rotû sighs, flipping a card between his fingers as if contemplating the very idea. "Can't you be any nicer?" he mutters, but he doesn't hesitate.
He snaps his fingers.
The air around Baya distorts.
Power surges into her, and her skin begins to steam. A low, thrumming heat radiates from her body, pulsing in erratic waves as her muscles tighten, her veins burning with explosive energy. Her eyes shift, adjusting to the rapid intake of mana, and with every second, she feels lighter, stronger, faster.
Ithiona, sensing the shift, stiffens.
The monsters she commands slow, their movements jerking, unstable. The momentary paralysis isn't from Baya's power—it's from Dúnadan's sacred energy. The weight of his divine force lingers in the cave, unsettling Ithiona.
'What is going on? Why is He Who We Failed letting this go on?' she muses, rubbing her forehead, struggling to decipher the Fairy Prince's motives.
"Even with your attributes, you w—"
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Before she can finish, a barrage of explosions detonates in rapid succession.
"Oi, who gave you permission to speak?"
Baya's voice cuts through the smoke, a smirk tugging at her lips.
"You sure talk a lot for a damn monster."
As the dust settles, Ithiona's gaze sharpens. She observes Baya's stance, the unnatural lack of casting movement, the sheer instinctual nature of her attacks.
'His attribute allows him to link his teammates and transfer power… but what exactly is this?'
Something about Baya ticks at her instincts. An unease she cannot define.
BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!
Another flurry of detonations.
The shockwaves rattle the cave, tearing chunks of stone from the walls. Ithiona's shield holds—barely. The monsters behind her are not so lucky. The shockwave pulverizes them into nothingness.
'These explosions—this isn't normal magic.'
A flicker of understanding dawns in her eyes.
"I see."
She tilts her head, studying Baya with renewed interest.
"I underestimated you," she admits, dusting off the remnants of her shredded sleeves. "To think there exists someone who can cast without incantations or magic circles… But if I'm correct, that only applies to explosion magic, yes? A limited gift, but still—dangerous."
Baya rolls her eyes.
"I don't need your respect."
She steps forward, the ground beneath her cracking from the force of her mana.
"On the contrary, you should be seeking my respect."
A wave of explosions spreads outward, blasting everything within reach into shredded debris. In the blink of an eye, Baya disappears.
THOOM!
Her fist collides with Ithiona's gut, her knuckles glowing with a deep red aura. The instant they make contact—
KRA-KOOM!
An explosive blast erupts from the impact, shattering Ithiona's shield into fragments. The sheer force hurls Ithiona backward, sending her skidding violently across the battlefield.
Mid-air, Ithiona twists, forcing herself to halt. A sudden black magic circle manifests behind her, a deep, writhing chill suffocating the air.
Rotû's spine tenses.
A prickle of unease crawls up his back.
"Shit," he mutters under his breath.
The magic she's casting—it's choking the atmosphere, draining mana, eating away at the very energy within the cave.
Ithiona adjusts her sleeves.
"Let's play your game," she murmurs, lifting her hands.
"As you wish."
The whisper slides against her ear before Baya appears—again.
THOOM!
Another punch collides with Ithiona's stomach—but not alone.
A violent, thunderous shockwave follows.
BOOOOOOM!
A visible explosion of raw force—mixed with crackling electricity.
Invisible lightning surges through the impact, intertwining with the detonation, creating a devastating fusion of power.
The force is so immense that the roof of the cave splits open.
Cracks spread wildly, and before anyone can react—
Ithiona is launched upwards.
Blown straight through the dungeon floor.
The entire battlefield shakes, the cavern trembling from the force of the impact.
Baya exhales.
She rolls her shoulders, flexing her fingers as steam continues rising off her skin.
'Tsk. I hate using Itto's damn power.'