How the Devilish Belial had torn Night Terror's three arms off remained a mystery, even minutes later. There was nothing—nothing!—capable of escaping Northern's gaze, so he was certain it was not by conventional means.
Something the creature did was tied to its bounded hands.
And now, it wielded Night Terror's Cleave, using it on a terrifying scale. In one devastating motion, the center of the city transformed into a chaos of destruction—debris and massive chunks of stone scattered everywhere, water from the fountain flooding certain areas while people scrambled desperately to save themselves.
Yet none of this affected the stability of the rift that stood before the fountain. Even when water thrashed against it, the liquid simply flowed through as though nothing existed there.
The battle on the ground raged on, indifferent and negligent to the horrific level of disaster being wrought around it.
Paragon Raizel lunged back at the monster, meeting it in a vicious clash. The Paragon threw blows with wicked speed, many landing on the Devil and forcing it to stagger backward. Despite this barrage, his attacks yielded no visible results.
The Paragon understood his position. Facing a Belial already exceeded his capabilities, let alone confronting a Devilish Belial. His limit stopped at a Catastrophic Behemoth; perhaps due to the nature of his ability, he could handle more—he could attempt fighting a Devilish Behemoth, or even an Abysmal one.
But he couldn't predict the outcome. He might die, but at least he would take them with him.
The air itself seemed to recoil as Paragon Raizel and the Devilish Belial collided.
Each strike Raizel unleashed was a symphony of devastation—fists blurring into afterimages, shockwaves tearing through the earth like serrated teeth.
Yet the creature moved, its charred body shifting with impossible grace, blackened joints bending backward, sideways, in ways that defied bone and sinew. Night Terror's three hands had become an inherent part of its body, burnt like the rest of its hideous form.
The creature appeared to grow more accustomed to the hand with every fleeting second.
Raizel's fist smashed into its chest with a thunderclap, cratering the ground beneath them... but the Belial's grin only widened, its jaw unhinging further, as if drinking in the violence like a man savoring fine wine.
Crack.
A sound like splitting stone. Raizel's eyes flicked down. The creature's clawed hand—Night Terror's former appendage—had speared through the space where his ribs had been a millisecond earlier.
He'd twisted aside just enough, but the tip still grazed his side, slicing through it as though it were parchment. The Paragon lunged back, but the Belial pursued relentlessly, its limbs elongating like dark taffy, fingers stretching into jagged talons that raked the air. Each swipe left afterimages of darkness, trails of sinister black smoke that hissed and corroded the ground beneath them.
Raizel's boot slammed down, anchoring his fixed point. The world warped around him as he launched forward, a comet of pure wrath. His elbow crashed into the creature's throat—
Crunch
—but the Belial's head merely lolled, neck bending like a snapped reed. Its free hand lashed out, palm slamming into Raizel's sternum.
The Paragon's breath exploded from his lungs. He skidded backward, heels carving deep trenches through tiled ground, but not fast enough. The Belial was already there, its body reassembling mid-leap, limbs snapping back into place with wet, popping sounds. All three arms rose like blackened branches, descending in a storm of obsidian spikes.
Raizel weaved, his movements a blur of precision, but the creature anticipated him. A fist clipped his shoulder, and the impact resonated through his bones like a tuning fork. He staggered — and the Belial's maw yawned open, rows of teeth glinting. A guttural shriek erupted, not sound but pressure, a concentrated beam of distortion that vaporized the air in its path.
The Paragon crossed his arms, anchoring himself. The beam struck causing the ground beneath him to vanish, reduced to a smoking canyon. But Raizel stood suspended, unharmed, his fixed point holding him aloft in the eye of the storm. Sweat dripped down his temple as he glared at the creature.
He exhaled heavily and sighed.
"Oh well. I think I have done enough test run."
As he spoke, a silver and glittering armor began to form around his body, carried by crawling white sparks that raced across his skin, carving intricate paths for the armor to materialize.
Standing suspended in the air was some sort of knight. His presence alone commanded the space around him. Polished silver armor gleamed beneath the pale light that managed to escape through the Veil of darkness. Each plate was sculpted to perfection, a masterwork of both form and function. The armor clung to his powerful frame, layered in overlapping segments that whispered with the faintest motion, reflecting a haunting shimmer that spoke of both glory and inevitable ruin.
Golden embellishments traced the edges of his armor, clawing like talons from the shoulders and wrists—sharp, elegant, and regal. They caught the light like fire frozen in metal, framing his silhouette with a harsh, uncompromising aura. A white scarf wrapped around his neck, trailing down his chest in stark contrast to the armor's unyielding brilliance, fluttering as if disturbed by a ghostly breeze only he could feel.
A flowing blue tabard spilled from his waist, hanging like a curtain of twilight against the harsh silver of his armor, rippling with every subtle movement. Beneath it, chainmail glinted from the shadows of his legs, each link meticulously woven to defend without hindering movement. His greaves were fashioned with sharp contours, forged to endure crushing blows while maintaining the deadly mobility of a predator stalking its prey.
His helm was the epitome of dominance, sweeping back like the horns of a mythical beast—golden crests arcing upward from the sides, framing the narrow visor like the crown of a fallen monarch. Shadows veiled his face, rendering his features unknowable—an enigma wrapped in steel and resolute silence.
In his hands, he wielded two blades. Their darkened metal stood stark against the gleam of his armor—one a viciously long sword resting against his shoulder, the other strapped to his waist, still sleeping in its ornate scabbard.
Their crossguards mirrored the golden accents of his armor, wickedly pointed and poised to strike. Despite the weight of his armaments, he stood with perfect poise—immovable as a mountain, like a sentinel from a bygone age, forever etched in the memory of those who dared to gaze upon his terrible splendor.
Paragon Raizel glared down at the monster, a single orb of green light igniting in the dark depths of his visor.
"Come!"