“This... what is this.”
“My God.”
The Holy Crusaders stared at the rising fortress of Galaharad, their jaws slack, unable to close.
The sight of the enormous white citadel lifting itself from the ground was almost unnatural.
Could this even be possible? It wasn’t an airship—an entire castle was ascending into the sky.
A floating island like Isla Machina might exist in reality, but this was something entirely different.
Objects float on the sea because of buoyancy.
Isla Machina had been built layer upon layer atop that buoyancy—it did not defy physical law.
But Galaharad Fortress was different.
For a fortress that had stood like an ancient tree for over a thousand years to rise from the ground—this went far beyond any law of physics.
“E-Everyone, fall back!”
“You’ll be caught in it!”
As the fortress rose into the air, the surrounding ground twisted and buckled, and localized earthquakes erupted.
KWA-KWA-KWA-KWA-KWAANG!
The fortress rose, scattering countless fragments of earth like a hailstorm.
But if normal hail was the size of a child’s fist, these “stones” were the size of entire houses.
Even the strongest knight or paladin would be flattened like dried fish if crushed by one.
Those who had failed to enter the fortress retreated in haste, watching in stunned silence as it ascended.
The fortress lifted through a cloud of dust, revealing what had been hidden beneath it.
“What is that?”
“Is that... another castle?”
Beneath the ascending Galaharad Fortress stood another, one that contrasted sharply against it.
Its spires thrust downward into the depths, as if burrowing into the earth—a perfect inverted reflection of Galaharad itself.
It was like two sides of the same coin.
Those who saw the vast structures joined at their bases finally realized the truth.
That lower citadel wasn’t a mere annex.
Nor had it been dug out after Galaharad was built.
In fact, Galaharad had been constructed as a reversed imitation of the structure buried below.
“My God...”
“What in the world is that?”
Its sheer majesty could be seen even from the coastline where battleships were stationed.
A softly glowing white fortress hung in the sky, and beneath it dangled a rusted, ancient citadel—an impossible, mesmerizing sight.
For something so colossal to rise into the air—one would have to be blind not to see it.
“Heh. I’ve lived long enough to see even castles fly now.”
Lutus gazed upward at the ascending fortress with awe.
“How dare you look away while we’re fighting?”
A voice sharp enough to bite through bone reached his ears, but Lutus didn’t even glance at its source.
He could tell that, for all the murderous tone, the speaker was in no condition to act on it.
“It would be best not to strain that body too much. It’s not even yours to begin with, is it?”
All around him, the enthralled soldiers who had surrounded him now lay collapsed.
Even though the enemy had enslaved a Master-class warrior and commanded all of them to focus their assault on Lutus, he remained unscathed.
Perhaps a bit winded, but there wasn’t a single wound one could call fatal.
“You bastard!”
“If you’re so angry, why don’t you come find me yourself?”
Lutus’s sharp gaze pierced Maximilian like a blade.
Or rather, it pierced the being controlling him from beyond.
“You can’t, can you? Because you’re afraid of me.”
Lutus smirked faintly.
“Well, I suppose that’s fortunate for you. You’ve just found a convenient excuse to avoid fighting me.”
“Y-You...”
“You should be grateful.”
His voice dropped low, rumbling like a growl.
“To toy with the spirits of knights, to abuse the bodies forged through their effort and faith—and still keep your own life intact... you should thank your god for that.”
“......”
“In this battle, you’d better stay out of my sight. Otherwise, I may just take your head myself.”
The Cardinal who controlled Maximilian’s body could not utter a word.
Even though he was only observing through a mind-enslaved vessel, terror crawled down his spine.
“How pathetic. Not a trace of that confidence you flaunted before.”
Lutus tore his gaze away from Maximilian and looked again at the fortress, now even higher above the ground.
“Everyone’s working hard... very hard.”
Golden light surged skyward toward Galaharad Fortress.
Within that light soared °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° the enthralled priests and holy knights, their minds seized by divine power.
Golden wings spread behind them, carrying them through the sky.
Wherever their wings passed, trails of divine radiance lingered.
The inverted fortress above and the star-like figures rising toward it—
It was as if the heavens and earth had switched places, a world turned upside down.
* * *
As Galaharad Fortress rose, the chaotic battle raging across the field briefly fell into a lull.
“Commander Tarian.”
Cardinal Sartolome Bielantino, speaking through the body of a mage, broke the silence.
“We cannot let this battle drag on any longer.”
“I agree.”
Tarian used divine power to evaporate the sweat running down his forehead.
How long had it been since his body was driven this far to its limits?
No battle had ever thrilled him; they all ended blandly, leaving him bored.
But Hans and Krabat were different.
Even fighting alongside a Cardinal, he hadn’t been able to defeat them yet.
They were strong—indeed, fitting of servants of the Demon King—and worse, they were resilient.
Most enemies would have retreated or surrendered by now, but those two fought with fierce resolve to the end.
Enemies with conviction were always troublesome.
Conviction had a way of awakening power beyond one’s given limits.
“Commander Tarian, we’re running out of time. We can’t afford to waste our strength here.”
“Right. Fortunately, they’re exhausted too.”
Hans and Krabat were indeed in no better shape.
Especially Hans—he had taken most of the blows to shield Krabat, whose body was frail.
He could regenerate from almost any wound, so he’d thrown himself in front of attacks again and again.
But divine power from a Paladin Commander and a Cardinal was no small matter.
To Hans, that holy energy was poison.
It clung to his wounds, eroding his flesh and slowing his regeneration.
‘Disgusting power.’
Hans grumbled inwardly.
Ironically, Cardinal Sartolome and Commander Tarian felt the same about him.
They, too, regarded Hans’s cryptids and Krabat’s ancient curses as abhorrent.
Ordinary black magic disintegrated on contact with divine power—but theirs endured, even matched it.
One moment of carelessness, and that power could consume them instead.
Thus, their battle had devolved into a weary stalemate—no decisive blow, only attrition.
But that ended now.
The moment they saw Galaharad Fortress rise, they all thought the same thing.
It was time to finish this.
“I’ll invoke a High-Rank Sacred Art. Buy me some time.”
“Understood.”
Sartolome closed his eyes and began to pray.
The mage’s body he possessed became engulfed in light, his form growing indistinct.
Sensing the danger, Hans moved to stop him—but Tarian blocked his path.
“You will not pass me.”
Cloaked in blazing divine power, Tarian lunged at Hans relentlessly.
Hans retreated a few steps, putting distance between them.
“This won’t do. If they’re preparing a finishing strike, we need one too.”
At Krabat’s approach, Hans asked,
[What are you planning?]
“I’ll force out every ounce of power we have left. Even if it means pushing it into overdrive.”
[Is that another kind of curse?]
“You could say that.”
[Then cast it on me. My body’s the toughest here.]
Krabat hesitated briefly.
“Being tough isn’t enough. This is a curse in every sense. It will drive your power into berserk overflow—and when it ends, the weakened body is devoured by the curse. Even your monstrous vitality might not survive it.”
[If we fail, we die anyway. Then it’s worth trying.]
In the past, Hans would never have suggested such a thing.
He might have thought it, but never acted.
Yet now—even he could feel how much he’d changed.
After living alongside Ludger and enduring countless ordeals, Hans too had grown.
“...Fine. It’ll hurt like hell, but hold on. It won’t last long.”
[Got it.]
Krabat focused and cast the curse into Hans’s body.
Dark, murky energy seeped into him, creeping through the gaps in his armor.
[Kh-uh!]
Hans clenched his teeth.
His body, used to pain, still found this agony beyond comprehension.
But he endured, as Krabat had asked.
If he’d been human, he’d have been sobbing by now.
Luckily, this body had no tears left to shed.
Thump.
His heart beat hard. The pulse quickened, and the energy within surged.
Veins bulged, muscles swelled, his entire frame expanding.
Crack.
Black fur sprouted through the cracks in his armor as Hans’s body grew one and a half times larger.
He had always been huge, but now the pressure he exuded was overwhelming.
The shadow cloak trailing behind him whipped wildly, and his stone sword turned pitch-black, dyed by the curse.
The hand gripping it trembled.
The power was too much—his body no longer obeyed him.
At that moment, Sartolome’s sacred art reached completion.
“There’s only one chance.”
Krabat’s voice echoed clearly in Hans’s mind.
Through flickering vision and blinding pain, Hans clenched his jaw and followed it.
“Pour everything into it.”
[Grrrhhh...]
A beast’s growl escaped Hans’s throat.
What held his fading consciousness together was pure animal instinct.
That instinct knew exactly how to wield this uncontrollable force.
Following it, Hans gathered strength into both arms gripping his sword.
Across from him, the radiant Cardinal—now little more than light itself—spoke in a voice like thunder.
“Descend—Authority of the Sun.”
High-Rank Sacred Art.
[Hymn of the Noble Sun]
Light exploded.
The heat was like the sun itself brought down to earth.
Even before it touched him, Hans felt his armor melting, his whole body burning.
His instincts screamed for him to run.
Grrrk!
Hans ground his teeth.
[I am not... a beast!]
He tightened his grip, lifting the blackened stone sword that seemed to swallow the very air around it.
It was a human decision—a human act of will.
Facing that wave of deadly heat, Hans gathered every shred of power and swung.
A strike born from ancient curse, driving his potential into complete overdrive.
In the blinding white world, a single black dot appeared.
As small as an ink drop falling into a vast bowl of milk.
But that dot spread, and soon black consumed the canvas.
‘What... is that?’
Tarian, braced for any counterattack, froze as the darkness devoured everything.
He poured all his divine power into defense, but—
He didn’t know.
That darkness couldn’t be blocked or parried.
The moment one saw it, the only way to live was to evade with everything you had.
Slice.
“Huh?”
He realized too late. The black slash passed through him, and his body vanished like a sketch erased by rubber.
His vaunted divine power, his burning shield, even the wings of light on his back—gone.
“H-How...”
Tarian’s eyes went wide as he crumbled where he stood.
His holy regeneration could restore severed limbs—but not this.
The erased parts would not return.
Even his divine power was being devoured.
As his body rolled lifelessly to the ground, his fading vision caught sight of Cardinal Sartolome—his radiant form swallowed by the same blackness.
The Sun’s authority was consumed by the dark.
In the sky, it looked as though a gigantic wolf had bitten and swallowed the blazing sun.
Like a solar eclipse.
The light disappeared.
The victor—the survivor—was Hans.
But his condition was dire.
He had poured out everything in that one strike.
Panting heavily, he used his sword as a crutch to stay upright.
[We... did it.]
The black power he unleashed had taken shape as a massive wolf that devoured everything before it.
Feeling grim satisfaction, Hans’s vision began to fade.
[No... not yet... I can’t fall... yet...]
He tried to speak, but his body—pushed far beyond its limit—no longer obeyed.
He collapsed forward.
Silence.
Then his shadow began to writhe—
—and swallowed his body whole.
Thump!
Hans’s body, consumed by the black shadow, convulsed violently.