From the city, four figures rose into the sky.
One—a white skeleton clad in a clown mask, empty of any radiating power, yet his presence loomed like a shadow in the night.
The second—a Naga woman, her body adorned with purple scales shimmering under the crimson moonlight.
The third—an old humanoid dog, his fur a patchwork of faded brown and grey, his eyes gleaming with aged cunning.
The last—a small parrot, its feathers jet black, its gaze sharp with intelligence.
Unlike the Bone Clown, whose presence was eerily void, the other three pulsed with power, their auras rippling outward in waves.
Then, the parrot spoke, its voice carrying an unsettling amusement.
"Looks like the guests came prepared."
Beyond the city, ten figures emerged, encircling the nightmare-infested land.
Seven men. Three women.
Their skin tones varied, a representation of the world's diverse forces. Yet, what united them was the sheer force radiating from their bodies—equal to the three beings standing with the Bone Clown.
One of them, a man draped in a golden robe, spoke, his voice calm yet firm.
"The information was correct. You are truly conducting a blood sacrifice."
Below them, on the blood-red towers, nightmare creatures dragged humans and the corpses of their own kind toward the structures. Without hesitation, they tossed the living and dead into the depths of the towers.
From within, horrifying sounds erupted—chewing, bones snapping, flesh being torn apart.
The Naga woman smirked.
"You're too late. In just a few hours, the blood sacrifice will activate, and one of our leaders—the Puppeteer—will descend."
She spread her arms wide.
"There's still time. Surrender. Embrace the power of our Nightmare World. Become one with us."
The response?
A white arrow shot through the sky toward her.
She lifted a hand, catching it with ease.
For a moment, white fire erupted upon her purple-scaled palm, searing her flesh—
But in the next instant, it vanished.
Her hand remained unscathed.
The Naga woman smirked.
"Looks like you are not going to surrender."
Beside her, the old dog humanoid chuckled, his voice low and raspy.
"It's for the best that they refuse. We should kill some of them now and add them to the blood sacrifice formation. If we do, the third leader can descend as well—and end the world's resistance."
As he spoke, a wooden spear materialized in his grasp, lightning crackling along its rough surface.
With a flick of his wrist, he hurled the spear forward.
Mid-flight, the spear transformed—its tip splitting open into the gaping maw of a thunder dragon, roaring toward its target.
Its target—a bald man from the Athia continent.
Unfazed, the man drew his samurai sword and swung.
A black energy wave erupted from his blade, surging forth to meet the thunder dragon.
As the two attacks clashed—
They twisted unnaturally, writhing in the air like struggling beasts—
And then—
They both vanished without a trace.
The bald man shot forward, sword in hand, closing the distance between himself and the dog humanoid.
With each swing, dark crescent waves sliced through the air.
The dog, unafraid, conjured another wooden spear, its tip bursting with thunderbolts.
With every thrust, he sent out bolts of lightning to clash against the incoming dark waves.
And then—the two met in the air outside the city, exchanging furious blows.
As their battle rages, another warrior makes her move.
A woman in a white robe from the Golden Continent stepped forward.
Behind her, a bronze idol materialized—its two palms joined together in prayer, eyes shut in solemn meditation.
Then—
The idol's eyes snapped open.
Its hands parted.
One of its palms swung forward—slapping toward the parrot.
The parrot did not retreat.
Instead, it grew larger.
Two more heads emerged beside its original one.
With a shrill cry, the massive three-headed parrot collided with the bronze palm—
And their battle began.
Meanwhile—
The white-haired teenage boy, the same one who had shot the first arrow, lunged toward the Naga woman.
His twin rapiers erupted in white flame, the sheer heat distorting the air around them.
The Naga woman smirked.
Another pair of arms sprouted beneath her original ones.
Four swords materialized, one in each hand.
Dark grey liquid dripped from their blades, spreading a rancid stench into the night.
With graceful yet deadly precision, she met the boy's flaming strikes head-on.
The two clashed outside the city, fire and poison colliding in a deadly dance.
And above the city—
The remaining seven warriors charged forward.
Their target—
The Bone Clown.
A moment later, the melee erupted above the city as warriors and nightmare beings clashed beneath the crimson moon.
Below them, the city's blood-red towers pulsed, fueling the dark forces within, while the shattered remains of the grey energy dome flickered weakly in the night.
Above some distance from the city, two figures clashed—a man with a sword and a dog with a spear.
The dog's spear crackled with yellow lightning, each strike sending arcs of electricity surging through the air.
The man's samurai sword pulsed with black energy, absorbing the lightning before it could ever touch him.
Each attack sent ripples through the sky, distorting the air around them.
Yet—despite their relentless assault, neither could gain the upper hand.
For every lightning-infused thrust, the man's sword devoured the energy.
For every dark energy slash, the dog dodged or blocked with his spear's shaft.
And then—
They both stopped.
Floating midair, they studied each other in silence.
The dog grinned, revealing sharp fangs.
"Looks like the warm-up's over."
The man said nothing.
Instead, black energy erupted around him, spiraling upward like a living shadow.
The dark aura consumed him whole, and then—he vanished.
The dog scoffed, unfazed.
From behind him—
A new energy surged forth.
On his left, a bright yellow current of lightning crackled violently.
On his right, a rich green wave of wood elemental energy flowed like a river.
The two elements—one pure destruction, the other pure growth—began to twist toward each other, their opposing forces straining against one another.
Yet—slowly—they began to merge.
The moment they did—
The jade-colored energy surged into the dog's body.
His frail frame expanded instantly, his muscles bulging, his height rising to a massive 12 feet.
A jade-colored armor formed over his upper body, radiating a powerful elemental force.
At the same time—
The dark aura around the man faded.
And in his place—
A massive bird hovered in the air.
Its black wings stretched wide, its feathers pulsing with dark energy.
The bird let out a piercing screech—
And lunged forward.
The dog roared, his spear flashing as he met the oncoming attack head-on.
The moment their energies clashed—
A shockwave exploded outward.
The sheer force of it ripped deep gashes into the ground below.
On the battlefield—
Where the energy waves landed, the world tore apart.
Forests vanished in an instant.
Hills crumbled into dust.
If their attacks struck a town or city—whether it belonged to the invaders or the world's defenders—
And no Spirit King cultivator stood to shield it—
Only the Spirit Realm cultivators managed to flee—
The town and its people would be erased from existence.
The same devastation unfolded between the three-headed parrot and the woman battling it.
But unlike the others—
The woman had already undergone a profound transformation.
Her skin turned bronze.
Her body enlarged into a monolithic statue, sitting cross-legged in the air.
From her ten massive arms, giant bronze palms lashed out in all directions, seeking the parrot wherever it moved.
But the parrot was no easy prey.
In an instant, it would shrink to the size of a pebble, dodging the crushing blows.
Then, the next moment—
It would swell to the size of a mountain, its vast wings casting shadows over the battlefield.
With each transformation, the parrot unleashed deafening sound waves from its three beaks.
The air rippled violently—
Invisible waves of destruction spread out like a storm, distorting everything in their wake.
The bronze statue did not hesitate.
Its ten hands clapped together—
Releasing a countering sound wave to neutralize the attack.
Yet—
The clash between both sound waves was an indiscriminate calamity.
The battlefield was no longer a place for the weak.
Anything that could move fled.
Anything that could not—suffered.
For those too close to the battle, the sound waves alone were fatal.
Ants exploded into red mist.
Birds plummeted mid-flight, and their hearts ruptured.
Even the Spirit Realm cultivators had to focus entirely on defending themselves, unable to protect others.
Only Spirit Kings could extend their protection to a handful of people nearby.
But for the rest—
Blood poured from their ears.
Their hearts pounded erratically, unable to keep up with the pressure—until they burst inside their chests.
For some, it was the brain that succumbed first, the vibrations scrambling their thoughts before reducing their minds to nothingness.
It did not matter if they were allies or enemies.
It did not matter if they were nightmare creatures or humans.
Only one truth existed here—
If they could not endure, they would perish.
While chaos erupted in the sky and the battlefield trembled under the clash of titans—
Another duel unfolded in a storm of swords.
The Naga woman and the white-haired youth fought with relentless precision, their blades flashing like falling stars.
Each strike was a test of talent.
Each clash—a battle of mastery.
White flames rained from the boy's twin rapiers, burning with a heat so intense that the very air shimmered.
Wherever a single ember landed, the world suffered.
Forests ignited instantly.
Towns crumbled into infernos.
Even water, the natural enemy of fire, turned to vapor before it could touch the flames.
Yet, the Naga's blades dripped with something far worse.
A thick, grey liquid oozed from her swords—unnatural, reeking of decay.
Wherever a drop fell—
It did not just destroy.
It corrupted.
The ground hissed and rotted, spreading outward in a disease-like pattern.
Buildings melted, stone turning to sludge.
And when the grey liquid touched a living being—
It was not death that followed.
It was enslavement.
A guard who had strayed too close screamed as his flesh twisted.
His eyes turned milky white—his veins blackened.
His armor clattered as his body contorted unnaturally, his hands reaching toward his allies—to kill.
For he was no longer himself.
He was a zombie, his mind erased, his only purpose to spread the corruption further.
As the boy and the Naga dueled fiercely, the battlefield suffered under the echoes of their talent.
The world itself burned and decayed in their wake.
And above the city, far beyond the reach of its crumbling ruins, a battle raged in the clouds—
Where seven warriors clashed against a single entity draped in the guise of a clown.
The Bone Clown moved with eerie precision, a black sickle in his grip—a weapon that exuded the unmistakable scent of death itself.
The seven surrounded him, moving in perfect synchronization, their figures darting through the stormy night sky like celestial hunters.
Yet, none dared to allow the black sickle to touch them.
They had seen its effects firsthand.
The Bone Clown's Grey Sickle was a weapon whose dreaded name had long since spread across the world.
It was first witnessed decades ago when the Bone Clown descended upon this world for the first time.
That day, an entire kingdom vanished.
Not in fire. Not in ruin.
But in silence.
The kingdom's people—its warriors, its mages, its rulers—all turned to withered husks the moment the Grey Sickle sliced through the air.
Not a single corpse rotted.
Not a single soul lingered.
The land itself became barren.
Fertile soil turned to ash.
Lush forests became graveyards of twisted, dead trees.
The rivers that once flowed with clear water became pools of stagnant filth.
Life had been erased.
And from the heart of that devastation, the Bone Clown had stood untouched, his laughter echoing through the hollowed remains of a fallen kingdom.
It was then that the world learned—
The Grey Sickle does not merely kill.
It devours.
It consumes not just the body but the essence of all living things.
And now, in the skies above the blood-red city, the sickle danced once more.
The warriors knew what they were facing.
So they fought with caution, chipping away at the Clown's defense while ensuring they never got too close.
Blades clashed. Spells erupted.
The sky was a canvas of flashing colors—
Golden light from a spear-wielding man, whose attacks burned through the sky like a falling sun.
Silver chains from a masked woman, weaving a deadly web meant to restrict the Clown's movements.
A storm of ice shards from a blue-haired mage, his frost seeking to freeze the Clown in place.
And yet—
The Clown laughed.
It was not the laughter of amusement.
Nor was it the laughter of arrogance.
It was something deeper, something older, as though the very concept of life and death was merely a fleeting joke to him.
He parried. He evaded. He countered.
With movements both erratic and graceful, he weaved through their combined assault, the black sickle an extension of his body.
A swipe of his blade sent a wave of dark energy outward—
The warriors barely managed to scatter, and where the energy passed, the very air turned stale, lifeless.
A moment later, the Clown blurred forward.
His target— the injured warrior.
The crimson-robed man cursed, stepping back, but the Clown was already there.
The sickle swung—
A spear intercepted.
The golden-robed man had closed the distance, his spear colliding with the black sickle in a burst of golden sparks.
The force of the clash shattered the clouds, momentarily parting the sky, revealing the crimson moon high above them.
"You're stalling," the golden-robed warrior growled, pressing against the Clown.
"You all are," the Clown whispered, voice full of something that sounded almost... delighted.
Then, the black sickle moved like a shadow—twisting, shifting—
And for a moment, it was not a weapon but a living thing, a claw of darkness reaching for the golden warrior's throat.
A blade intercepted.
A white-haired woman swung her sword, forcing the Clown to retreat, her silver blade radiating divine energy that burned against his form.
"Tch," the Clown clicked his tongue, spinning away, but he was already on the defensive.
The seven warriors pressed forward, sensing an opportunity.
The sky became a maelstrom of attacks, flashing streaks of power illuminating the battlefield above the city.
Slowly—bit by bit,
They forced the Clown back.
For even he, with all his power, could not withstand the combined might of seven warriors determined to see him fall.
And though he still laughed,
There was now a hint of something else in his voice.
Something that sounded an awful lot like anticipation.
The Bone Clown should have been far stronger than the seven warriors who opposed him.
Among the nightmare creatures, he was a 2nd-tier existence, while the warriors, though mighty in their own right, were only 1st-tier beings.
Had they fought on neutral ground, or worse, in the nightmare world itself, the outcome would have been certain.
The Clown would have won.
At best, the seven warriors could have made him expend some effort—perhaps even wounded him slightly—but in the end, their defeat would have been inevitable.
But this was not neutral ground.
This was not the nightmare world.
This was a world hostile to the invaders.
A world that saw the Bone Clown as a disease.
And the seven warriors?
They were the cure.
This world itself rejected the Bone Clown, suppressing his power, limiting his strength.
While the seven warriors were not only unhindered, they were empowered.
The difference was slight—barely noticeable at first—but as time passed, it became clearer.
The battle, which had been evenly matched at the beginning, started to shift.
The Grey Sickle still swung with deathly precision, but the warriors grew bolder, attacking in tighter coordination.
A golden-robed warrior—one of the strongest among them—moved with sudden speed, his palm surging with golden radiance.
The Bone Clown barely had time to react before—
CRACK!
A palm strike slammed into his ribs.
The force sent the Bone Clown flying, his skeletal form crashing into the city below with a thunderous impact.
For a brief moment, the battle paused.
Then—
Three warriors, including the golden-robed man, dived down in pursuit, determined to end the Bone Clown before he could rise again.
But as they chased him into the city, something changed.
The blood towers that loomed over the nightmare-infested streets began to shine with a sinister glow.
Then—
A blood-red dome expanded from the towers, covering the entire city.
Up above, beyond the dome's reach, four figures stood calmly in the sky—Spirit King cultivators.
One of them, Eleywn, narrowed his sharp silver eyes and said,
"Our prediction was right. This is a trap set by the Bone Clown."
Beside him, a man wearing samurai armor placed a hand on his sword's hilt.
"Now comes the final moment."
They looked down, observing the crimson energy shield that now encased the entire city.
Trapped inside the dome, the golden-robed warrior and his two companions landed amidst the shattered ruins where the Bone Clown had crashed.
The debris shifted.
Then, slowly and unnaturally, the Clown floated out of the wreckage, his eerie clown mask still grinning.
The first thing he said was,
"How did you all find out it was a trap?"
His tone was light, almost amused—but his empty black eye sockets gleamed with something else.
The Clown had realized the truth.
The moment only three warriors had entered the city while the rest held back—
They had already seen through his plan.
The woman among them, dressed in a sky-blue robe with silvery hair and eyes, smiled faintly.
"Mr. Clown, how could a mere spirit realm beast escape from you, resist your infection, and still deliver crucial information?"
The Bone Clown chuckled, his bony fingers tightening around his Grey Sickle.
"So that's how it is."
His skeletal body suddenly began to radiate an aura of death, thick and suffocating, pressing down on the three warriors like an invisible weight.
The Clown says," Looks like I have to make do with you three."
The golden-robed man exhaled slowly and stepped forward.
"We will see."
In an instant, their own auras erupted, colliding against the Clown's with a force that cracked the very ground beneath them.
But the moment their power flared, something else happened—
Their bodies began to wither.
Wrinkles deepened, hair paled, skin thinned.
They were burning their own lifespans to force their strength to the peak of quasi 2nd-tier.
The Bone Clown let out a hollow laugh.
"Oh? To kill me, you're willing to sacrifice your remaining years?"
The woman, unfazed, said coldly,
"We have lived for over 200 years. We only had a little over a decade left. Rather than dying of old age, taking you down with us would be an honor."
The Clown's grin widened, his hollow sockets glinting with something dark.
"I don't think you three can earn that honor."
His voice grew heavier, dripping with malice.
"Even if you burn your lifespans, you're only quasi 2nd-tier. But even with my power suppressed to quasi 2nd-tier, my energy level is still firmly at level 2."
For a moment, a sliver of hesitation flickered across the warriors' faces.
Then—
One of them, a scarred man, suddenly snarled,
"He's stalling for time!"
And without hesitation, he lunged.
The other two followed instantly, their resolve unshaken.
They had only a few hours left to live.
Before that time ran out—
The Bone Clown had to die.
The city beneath the crimson moon trembled.
Within the confines of the blood-red dome, four figures clashed in a battle that turned the world into ruin.
The Bone Clown, floating midair, his skeletal form untouched by time, swung his Grey Sickle, and each arc of its blade carried the scent of death and decay.
Facing him, the three warriors burned away their remaining lifespans, their bodies withering, but their power erupting to the very peak of what a Spirit Realm cultivator could reach.
But it was still not enough.
Not against a 2nd-tier creature.
Even weakened by the world's suppression, the Clown remained a calamity incarnate.
The first exchange of attacks shattered entire blocks of the city.
The golden-robed warrior, with a single palm strike, sent golden waves of light surging forward. The light twisted reality itself, turning air into molten gold, rushing toward the Bone Clown like an unstoppable tide.
The Clown laughed.
"Not bad—but not enough."
His Grey Sickle slashed downward, and the very air collapsed under its weight.
Where the golden wave met the sickle's deathly energy—
Space itself trembled.
The surrounding buildings crumbled under the force, their stone and metal reduced to dust.
The sky-blue-robed woman, silvery hair gleaming in the blood-drenched light, stepped forward.
She twisted her fingers, and the wind screamed in response.
From her outstretched hands, spears of silver wind formed—so sharp they cut through reality itself.
She hurled them at the Clown.
The spears whistled through the air, so fast that they pierced through entire buildings before reaching their target.
The Bone Clown merely tilted his head.
Then—
With an almost casual wave of his hand, a black vortex formed before him.
The moment the wind spears touched the vortex—
They were devoured.
Gone.
As if they had never existed.
The Clown let out a hollow chuckle.
The third warrior—a scarred man wielding twin axes—charged.
He did not waste words.
His body ignited, wrapped in blazing purple flames that melted the very air.
Each step left deep craters in the stone.
Then—
He swung.
His axes descended like falling stars, shattering the streets, causing a tremor so great that the entire city quaked.
The Bone Clown raised his sickle in response.
The instant the weapons met—
The entire block was obliterated.
A wave of black and purple fire ripped through buildings, reducing them to ash and molten rubble.
The ground cracked open, swallowing whatever remained.
Yet—
The Blood Towers stood untouched.
Even as debris rained down, even as the entire city collapsed, the Blood Towers remained standing, radiating a sinister glow.
Every time a building fell, the Blood Towers absorbed the energy from the destruction, sending scarlet veins of power pulsing through the streets.
Even the nightmare creatures—the wretched abominations that had once called this city home—were not spared.
They screamed as their bodies were reduced to nothing.
If they were flesh and blood, the ground itself absorbed them, drinking their essence like a hungry beast.
If they were puppet creatures, their energy cores shattered, and the power within them rushed toward the Blood Towers like blood returning to a heart.
It was a battlefield where only the strong could stand.
For an hour, the battle rages on.
The three warriors attacked relentlessly, burning away everything they had left.
They fought with absolute desperation—
Knowing they were doomed.
But still—
They could not kill the Clown.
His Grey Sickle absorbed every strike that touched it.
His body, even when shattered into pieces, would reassemble as if time itself refused to acknowledge his death.
His laughter never ceased.
Then—
The golden-robed man suddenly stopped.
His breath was ragged.
His hands shook.
His body had aged decades in the last hour alone.
He looked at the other two.
Their faces were grim.
Their lifeforce was almost gone.
They had less than an hour left before their very souls burned out.
And still—
The Bone Clown stood before them, grinning.
Untouched.
The golden-robed man exhaled.
Then, he spoke three words.
"We end this."
The others nodded.
Their bodies ceased attacking.
Instead—
They focused all their remaining power inward.
The air twisted around them.
Their bodies began to glow.
The Clown's grin faltered.
He knew what they were doing.
"You suicidal bastards—!"
The three warriors closed their eyes.
And then—
Their bodies detonated.
The city, already reduced to rubble, was suddenly bathed in light.
Three miniature suns—each burning with the full power of a Spirit king cultivator's final explosion—
ignited within the Blood Dome.
A golden sun.
A silver-white sun.
A purple sun.
The light was so intense that it burned away the darkness itself.
The Blood Towers shook violently, their energy reserves strained as they tried to counteract the sheer force of the explosions.
The Blood Dome trembled, its stability wobbling under the unimaginable force.
And at the heart of the destruction—
The Bone Clown cursed.
His sickle spun around him, unleashing black waves of death, but it was too late.
The three warriors had given up their lives—
And in doing so, they had forced him to defend with everything he had left.
With one last flicker of energy, the Clown wrapped himself in an egg-shaped cocoon of death energy, trying to endure the explosion.
Then—
The three suns collapsed inward—
And then erupted.
The city, the dome, the very fabric of space within it—
Vanished into blinding, all-consuming light.
### The Question That Echoed Across the World
The four Spirit Kings floated in the sky, their gazes locked on the blood-colored dome that had swallowed the city.
For the past hour, they had seen flashes of battle and felt the tremors of powerful attacks shaking the very fabric of the land.
But they could not see inside.
The Blood Fog and Blood Shield blocked all sight, all senses.
And then—
Three lights appeared.
---
It was not an ordinary light.
It pierced the Blood Fog like divine spears, its radiance so pure and absolute that even the corrupt energy of the Blood Towers could not suppress it.
For a brief moment, the fog lifted, and through the gaps in the shifting blood mist, they saw—
Three miniature suns.
Their spirits trembled.
Their bodies stiffened.
Their breath caught in their throats.
And the higher their cultivation, the clearer the truth became—
Death.
It was not just an explosion.
It was the feeling of life being erased.
Even though they were outside the city, they could smell death in the air, an overwhelming presence that coiled around their souls like a viper, waiting to devour them.
Their hearts stopped for a moment.
Their instincts screamed at them.
There was no hesitation.
The four moved as one.
Without speaking, without exchanging a single glance, they vanished, streaking toward the sky with blinding speed.
Higher—
Higher—
Beyond the clouds.
Far away from the city.
And then—
It happened.
A brilliant sphere of destruction erupted from the city.
The Blood Shield shattered instantly, breaking apart like fragile glass before being devoured by the expanding light.
A pillar of fire and radiance shot into the heavens, turning the night into blinding day.
The shockwave roared outward.
The continent trembled.
The sky shook.
For the first time in the war—
All battles ceased.
Every fighter, human or nightmare, turned their heads toward the Sacred Continent, eyes wide with disbelief.
And then—
The earth itself responded.
Mountains cracked.
Rivers changed course.
Volcanoes erupted, spewing ash into the sky.
Avalanches thundered down the slopes of distant peaks.
And when the shockwave reached the ocean, waves rose like walls, carrying tsunamis toward distant shores.
The energy fluctuations were so vast—
So absolute—
That they could be felt across the entire world.
In the three continents, those who understood what had happened lowered their heads.
Some fell to their knees.
Tears silently slid down the faces of the wise.
They knew.
They knew what had happened.
And they knew what it had cost.
For a long moment, the world was silent.
When the explosion finally ended, the sky returned to crimson darkness under the Blood Moon.
The four Spirit Kings hovered far above the land, looking down at where the city had once stood.
There was nothing left.
Where the city had been, there was now only a vast ravine, as if the land itself had been carved open by an invisible blade.
The Blood Towers were gone.
The Blood Fog had vanished.
The entire city… erased.
The four remained silent.
Then—
Three more figures approached.
The warriors who had been fighting the Naga, the Dog, and the Parrot arrived, their clothes torn, their bodies still burning with residual power from their battle.
Their gazes swept across the ruins.
And then—
Silence hung in the air.
The seven warriors stood above the massive ravine where the city once stood. Their gazes were locked onto the empty void, waiting for an answer to the question that had gripped their hearts.
"Is the Clown dead?"
A voice responded.
"No, he is not dead."
Their bodies tensed.
They whipped their heads around, scanning the horizon. Who had spoken? None of them had.
Yet, when they met each other's gazes—
Each warrior shook their head in silent denial.
It was not any of them.
Then the voice came again.
"Look behind."
Their bodies stiffened further, but they obeyed.
They turned.
And what they saw left them speechless.
Before them stood Micheal, the golden-robed man—
The warrior who had sacrificed himself inside the city.
The man who should have been erased by his own self-destruction.
Yet here he stood.
Or rather—
A spirit stood in his place.
Micheal's form was translucent, his golden robe faded, his features slightly blurred, as though he were caught between two worlds.
The seven warriors tried to speak, but their voices caught in their throats.
They stuttered, yet no words came.
Micheal offered a small, knowing smile.
"I know what you're going to ask." His voice was calm but carried the weight of something beyond life itself.
"I will say it clearly—
I am dead."
Elewyn narrowed her eyes.
"Then how?"
Micheal raised a hand, halting further questions.
"Let me speak first. I have only a few minutes before I pass on."
The seven warriors nodded silently, their expressions solemn.
Micheal took a breath—not that he needed to, not anymore.
"The Clown is not dead."
The warriors stiffened.
"But," Micheal continued, "he is seriously injured. You will not need to worry about him for at least a decade."
A sigh of relief passed through the group, but the tension did not fully ease.
Micheal, however, was not finished.
"I am in my spirit form because… when I sacrificed my life, my spirit advanced—"
The seven warriors listened intently.
Micheal's eyes gleamed.
"I advanced from Tier 1 to quasi-Tier 2… for a moment. That brief moment allowed my spirit to escape destruction."
Gasps.
The warriors exchanged glances, their minds racing.
A Tier 1 advancing to quasi-Tier 2 at the moment of death?
The implications were staggering.
Micheal smiled faintly at their stunned expressions.
"And in that moment," he continued, "I saw something… something important."
The seven warriors leaned in slightly, sensing that this was the true reason Micheal had appeared before them.
His voice was quiet, yet reverberated through their spirits—
"I figured out… how to break through to the 2nd Tier or one of the steps."
The world stood still.
Seven warriors, all standing at the peak of the Spirit King realm, warriors who had spent centuries seeking the elusive, stepped forward and felt their hearts pound violently.
Micheal had discovered it.
The path.
The secret they had all been searching for. And the answers to end the invasion.
Micheal's spirit began to flicker, fading faster now.
But he did not hesitate.
His final words—
His last gift to the world—
"After forming 100 runes in your spiritual space, merge them into a single rune."
"The runes can be of any element."
"That… is the step."
And then—
"Goodbye."
Micheal's spirit vanished.
The seven warriors remained in the air, unmoving.
The wind howled.
The land beneath them—scarred, changed forever—offered no answers.
Only the crimson glow of the Blood Moon remained above them.
They did not speak.
For several minutes, they simply floated there, gazing at the place where Micheal had disappeared.
Each of them lost in thought.
Each of them realizing—
That they had just received a key to the unknown.
And yet—
The war is not over.
And the path forward—
Has only just begun.