Paragon Raizel turned to Northern with a deep frown, disbelief etching the lines of his face. He echoed the words under his breath:
"Cut it? And seal the rift?"
He exhaled slowly, rubbing his temple.
"I can understand cutting it… but sealing the rift? Is that even possible?"
Northern offered a smug smile.
"Usually? No. But I'm not usual. I can do things people normally can't."
Raizel swept his gaze across the battlefield—at the craters, the broken stone, the still-lingering stench of chaos—and sighed again.
"Fine. I believe you."
Of course he did. He'd be a fool not to after everything he'd just witnessed.
"But how exactly do we pull this off? Can we even cut the hand of a Leviathan?"
He paused, voice dropping an octave.
"I've never faced one before. Never even heard of anyone who has. And even if it's just the hand… I don't know how to feel about this. I doubt it's going to be easy."
Northern's smile widened, calm and confident—an eerie contrast to the tension clinging to the air.
"Well, it's certainly not going to be easy. But when has anything ever been?"
Raizel glanced at him again, and this time, he smiled too—nostalgic and resolved.
"You're right. Nothing has ever come easy. I had to claw my way out of the deepest pits just to stand here today."
He cracked his knuckles, lowered his stance, and grinned.
"So, yeah… I'm not stopping now."
With that, he launched into the air.
The force of his takeoff sent dust and debris scattering in all directions. The ground groaned beneath the weight of the impact.
Northern instinctively raised a shield of void force, eyes narrowing slightly.
"Such a graceless takeoff," he muttered.
Then he took flight—fluid and seamless, like a celestial leaf carried by the wind, yet with the ruthless velocity of a missile tearing through sky. He soared upwards until he hovered beside the Paragon, who now floated mid-air near the massive, pulsing rift.
Below them, others gathered—Abyss Tyrant, Nebulous Lord, and more of Northern's summons—rising slowly into the sky, their monstrous forms casting long, flickering shadows across the ruins.
All of them stared upward, fixated on the rift above.
It pulsed like a wound in the sky, its edges rippling with a darkness too deep to name. A cold dread bled from it—creeping into their bones, whispering threats that only their instincts could hear.
Northern scanned the group, then raised his voice, loud and clear across the sky:
"Well, it doesn't look like it's planning to spill anything else out, and getting in seems like the real fight now."
He paused, his tone shifting to mock-casual.
"Who wants to go first?"
He smirked, the grin not quite reaching his eyes.
"…Not that I expect anyone to actually be able to cut the hand of a Leviathan."
Sage Rhama's voice rang out from the rooftop of the city hall.
"I am willing to go first!"
Beside him stood a tall, ocean-blue-haired boy with freckles dusting his cheeks. His eyes were bright, lively, and bold—matching the armor he wore: a sleek blend of pale blue and shadowed black. Lithe muscles lined his frame, giving him the appearance of both a dancer and a warrior.
He turned toward his brother, voice low and sharp.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Rhama—Severed Waves, as he was called on the battlefield—grinned.
"Don't worry. I've got that ancient-grade battle axe Father gave me on my thirtieth birthday. I can manipulate the waves around it to amplify the impact. Leviathan or not… at the end of the day, it's just a hand. A stuck hand. Limited movement."
The younger brother winced, exhaling sharply.
"All right, brother. Whatever it is you want. But remember what Father always says about fame and glory—"
"Fame makes the fool, and glory digs the grave. Yes, yes. I know, Rover."
Rhama grinned wider, electric anticipation sparking behind his eyes.
"What are you even worried about? This is an ancient-grade weapon, one that can rip space apart. Do you know how rare those are?"
Without waiting for a reply, he launched into the air.
White sparks swirled around his arms like coiling serpents as he rocketed upward.
With a single, powerful leap, he covered a breathtaking distance—soaring from the city hall rooftop straight toward the black rift in the sky, where the Leviathan's arm still hung in unnatural stillness. The hand protruded up to the elbow, strangely humanlike in shape, but cloaked in skin the color of the night—drenched in an eerie, unmoving darkness.
At the peak of his flight, Rhama had summoned a massive war axe—its edge gleaming, humming with ancient essence. As he began his descent, the winds around him seemed to kneel to his will. The air, sound, and unseen currents aligned perfectly, forming a pathway of precision and control.
Momentum surged.
The force of his fall, the finesse of his manipulation, and the ancient power embedded in the weapon—all converged into one devastating strike.
The wind shivered. The sky tensed. Silence held its breath.
Even Northern's brow furrowed—his usual calm replaced by solemn anticipation.
And then—
Impact.
A shriek of metal tore through the dark heavens, a sound so harrowing it crawled down everyone's spine and buried goosebumps beneath their skin.
Rhama's eyes widened in disbelief as the axe met its target.
Everything—blade, shaft, wave-forged force—shattered.
The weapon splintered like fragile glass. Shards of pale light burst into the sky before vanishing, like dying stars.
He didn't even have time to react.
The waves he'd commanded turned on him, rebelling in a violent backlash. They screamed in chaotic turbulence, tossing him backward like a ragdoll.
He flew—slammed through the city hall window, crashed through a stone pillar, and finally blasted through one of the interior walls, vanishing into the structure with a dull, heavy thud.
Silence followed.
The Leviathan's hand hadn't moved. Hadn't flinched. Hadn't reacted at all.
It remained exactly as it had before—protruding from the rift, stagnant and cold. As if it hadn't even felt the attack.
Northern's face paled. He stared at the hand for a long moment, then let out a slow breath, curling a corner of his lips into a wry smile.
"…Okay. Maybe this is going to be harder than I thought."