Chapter 391: Fall Of The Green Calamity (9)

For nearly five relentless minutes, Liam had been a hurricane of brutality—snapping bones, tearing limbs, digging through flesh, gouging eyes, pulling muscle from bone and plugging new holes into places that weren’t meant to bleed. Morenelle’s demonic form had been dismantled again and again until it no longer resembled anything born of nature or magic. And Liam—Liam no longer looked human.

His entire body was drenched in dark green gore—viscous, sticky, steaming in the dry wind. From the crown of his head to the soles of his feet, blood clung to him like a second skin. His eyes, once filled with fire, now stared ahead in glassy, mindless madness. Around them, the cracked wasteland had transformed into a gore-soaked crater—a ten-foot radius dyed in green and black. Blood. Bits of bark-flesh. Pieces of bone.

Morenelle was nearly unrecognizable.

Her once-vibrant demonic form now lay limp beneath Liam’s crouched figure. Her breaths came shallow and ragged. Her glowing emerald eyes had dulled to a faint, glassy moss. Her regenerative myst was faltering, slowed to a crawl—her reserves long since depleted, used over and over to mend the wreckage Liam had wrought.

Still, Liam didn’t stop.

His hand rose once again, fingers curled like claws, dripping with blood that slid off his knuckles like thick oil. He aimed for what was left of her face.

That’s when the voice came.

“Enough.”

Aesmirius’s tone wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was calm. Cold. And it cut through Liam’s frenzy like the wind cuts through smoke.

Liam froze—his hand mid-motion, suspended above Morenelle’s shattered brow. His fingers trembled ever so slightly, dark green ichor dripping in lazy streaks onto her unmoving body.

“You’ve done enough,” Aesmirius said again. “Now finish it. The more time you waste here, the less chance I have of killing Sylvathar. You’re burning through the window I have left to fully control this body.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Liam’s lips moved, quiet and distant.

“It’s funny… how you’re the one giving orders. In my body.”

Aesmirius’s reply came sharp and void of emotion. “And you forget… the strength, the magic, the power you’re wielding right now—all of it is mine. I allowed you to tear her apart. I allowed you to feel her bones break under your fingers. And you enjoyed it. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Liam blinked slowly, the red glow in his left eye flickering.

“And don’t forget… you agreed to this.”

Yes. That part hit.

Liam had offered Aesmirius full control—out of desperation, out of rage. And the only reason he’d managed to wrest partial control back was because his hatred for Morenelle had burned so bright it eclipsed Aesmirius’s. The Ancient being had known—only Liam could truly make her suffer. And so he’d stepped aside.

But now? Now Liam was sinking too deep into it. And even Aesmirius—cruel, ancient, and heartless—could see it.

Another long moment passed.

Then Liam sighed.

His hand slowly lowered, fingers unclenching. He rose to his feet, dark green blood trailing down his arms, dripping from his fingertips to the soaked soil below. He looked down at what remained of Morenelle—broken, twitching, shivering in the aftershocks of death that hadn’t arrived yet.

“Yeah,” Liam muttered, voice hoarse and detached. “Guess I got carried away.”

Then, after a pause, he nodded.

“She’s yours to finish.”

The red in his left eye dimmed. Flickered once. Then vanished.

Now only violet remained.

Aesmirius was fully in control once again.

He looked down at the mangled body of Sylvathar’s personal assistant with a look of revulsion, as if the very sight of her offended the fabric of his existence. Then, without a word, he raised a hand toward his own blood-slicked face, clenched his fist—and in an instant, all the gore evaporated from his skin, vanishing into glittering dust. The tattered remnants of his clothing still hung loose and open, exposing the sculpted muscle beneath.

Then, in a motion of disgust, he opened his palm over Morenelle like he were discarding garbage.

And suddenly, all the gore that had vanished from his body reappeared—dumped directly onto her in a slow, heavy rain.

Morenelle flinched, her face twitching beneath the thick coating of her own blood.

Aesmirius didn’t look back.

He turned, walking calmly away from her broken form, heading toward the sanctuary—toward the light cocoons where Mabel and Sheila still lay, untouched.

“Enjoy the afterlife,” he said, not even bothering to raise his voice. “If your kind even has one.”

Then the sky cracked—not with thunder, but with force.

From the heavens, a single lance of golden-violet lightning descended in perfect silence. It struck Morenelle dead-center, so precise it might as well have been divine.

Her eyes snapped open.

There was no time to scream or plead.

The bolt hit, causing her body to convulse once, twice—and then crumbled.

She was erased from existence.

Her soul, her form, her myst—obliterated at the molecular level.

Morenelle, hand of Sylvathar, Gaia Demoness—

Was gone.

Aesmirius blinked. One moment he stood in the waste land

The next, he stood between Mabel and Sheila.

The light cocoons still shimmered gently around them.

He looked down at them briefly.

Then flames began to rise—silent, subtle, and controlled. They spiraled outward from his feet in a perfect circle, catching root, bark, and vine as they spread. The sanctuary’s lush green glow dimmed, then flickered as fire swallowed it whole.

The once-sacred grove of Sylvathar, hidden in beauty and mystery—

Now burned.

Aesmirius didn’t speak again.

The flames rose higher, surrounding the three of them in a ring of dancing gold and violet.

Then they vanished.

***

Back within the ravaged expanse of the Solara Kingdom, the final remnants of threat from Zones 18 and 16 had been subdued—wiped clean through fire, steel, and sacrifice. Now, nearly all remaining forces had begun to converge on the smoldering wasteland that had once been Zone 17, bleeding into 16—where Sylvathar reigned supreme amidst ruin and ash.

Magnus and Mystica had done everything in their power to pin the monster down within Zone 17. But even their combined strength, unrelenting and ferocious, wasn’t enough to stop him. Sylvathar, in his human form alone, was an unstoppable engine of devastation. No matter how much force was thrown his way, he kept advancing—an avalanche of myst and wrath.

Now, alongside him in the battered trenches of Zone 16 stood the elite—Caelum, Sylas, Tharionson, Regulus, Varyn—all hammering at Sylvathar like blades upon stone, yet failing to crack his armor. It was a war of attrition, and he wasn’t the one tiring.

Meanwhile, back in Zone 15, the battle was far from over. Gaia demons and hybrids still poured through the broken streets, their bodies twisted and furious, driven by the chaos their master had sown. And in the heart of the city’s last defense stood three sovereigns, not in thrones, but on the battlefield—Queen Lucy, King Valemir, and King Tharion—leading their soldiers in blood and breath.

Lucy’s blade sliced through the air like judgment itself, cleaving through a hybrid’s shoulder and tricep, the edge bursting through its chest and core before exiting the other side in a spray of dark blood. She exhaled sharply, gripping her sword tighter as another wave approached.

“It’s like their numbers never shrink,” she muttered through gritted teeth.

“They don’t need to,” Valemir answered as he plunged his longsword into the chest of a towering Gaia demon, twisting it mercilessly until the creature crumbled into a pile of twisted limbs. “We just need to hold the line long enough. Buy them time to bring Sylvathar down.”

From behind, a fresh wave of demons came roaring in—snarling, stomping, screeching.

But they never reached them.

A wall of fire burst from the earth, roaring like a dragon’s breath, incinerating the horde in a flash. When the blaze cleared, Tharion stepped forward from the inferno, his armor scorched and gleaming, his eyes like twin furnaces.

“As monarchs, this… this is what we were born to do,” Tharion said solemnly. “Lead in battle. Defend our people. Bleed, if need be.”

Lucy took a deep breath and glanced skyward, eyes searching the heavens as the sunlight filtered through layers of smoke. Her lips parted just enough to whisper to the wind.

“Where the hell are you, Galen…?”

Then came Valemir’s voice—strong, clear, and unwavering.

“MEN!” he bellowed, his voice thundering across the field. “Keep pressing forward! The sharpest blades of our kingdoms—Caelum, Mystica, Magnus, Sylas—they’re up there, facing the nightmare itself. It’s our duty to clear the road behind them.”

He raised his blade high, its steel glinting with fury. “So lift your swords! Through pain! Through blood! Through fire and sweat! Because if we let fear silence us now… then we were never warriors to begin with.”

A war cry erupted from the soldiers behind them—hoarse, raw, and thunderous—as they surged forward once more.

Not for victory.

But for each other.

However, just as the united forces surged forward to meet the incoming horde of Sylvathar’s beasts, an unholy silence shattered the momentum. A sudden, crushing presence descended upon the battlefield like the weight of the heavens itself slamming into the earth.

Everyone—every knight, mage, and soldier—froze mid-step, locked in place as if their very bones had been chained to the ground by some unseen force.

Even the demons halted, snarling jaws frozen mid-snap, claws trembling in mid-air. The entire battlefield, for a fleeting and terrifying moment, became a still painting etched in fear and awe.

The three monarchs—Lucy, Valemir, and Tharion—couldn’t move either. Not even to breathe.

And there, standing alone in the heart of the broken road between the living tide of humanity and the demonic swarm, was a single figure.

A boy.

He stood no taller than 5’10″, clothed in a torn tunic and frayed pants, his form battered but eerily composed. His back faced the humans, while his gaze—unflinching, sharp, and distant—was turned toward the horde.

Dark hair, wild and tousled, floated slightly as if caught in a wind that didn’t exist. At the roots, streaks of red flared like molten veins, glowing faintly with mystic energy.

And beside him, suspended mid-air in shimmering cocoons of soft, radiant light, were two women.

One bore very dark brown hair, her body clad in the ragged remnants of the Tempest Royal Corps uniform. The other was younger, with long silver-white hair flowing like threads of moonlight, her form wrapped in the tattered black garb of the Dark Knight Academy.

Mabel and the Princess.

Cocooned, protected, and untouched by the ruin.

From where she stood, her body paralyzed beneath the sheer pressure in the air, Lucy’s eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat.

There was no mistaking the figure before them.

It was Liam.

But it wasn’t just Liam.

No… it was something else. Something more ancient.

Something terrifying.

Her heart raced.

’This presence… it’s not him. Not completely.’

A name rose unbidden in her mind, like a whisper echoing through time.

’Aesmirius…?’

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