The battle between Lieutenant Dante and Northern raged on, a clash of titanic force like two serpents locked in mortal combat. They tore across the ruined landscape, their movements weaving intricate, devastating patterns, leaving only wreckage in their wake.
The ground, already flattened, sank even deeper beneath their fury. Craters pockmarked the terrain, turning it into a jagged wasteland, yet neither fighter faltered. The uneven earth should have disrupted their rhythm, but they moved as if it were nothing—fluid, unstoppable.
Northern's spatial awareness wasn't a talent. It was an extension of his very being, woven into his five senses to form a sixth. Now, with his body further evolved, he wielded it with growing mastery, each strike and dodge sharpening his control.
There was another way to sense his surroundings—through motion. He suspected this was how Paragon Raizel had detected people when he was alive. It explained how the Paragon had sensed him walking the halls even behind closed windows at a time.
Movement registered strangely in his awareness. Not just people—the wind's violent howl as it tore through the atmosphere, stones trembling as they were hurled aside, the distant groan of what remained of the ancient walls buckling. Even the unnatural decay in the air, the way the wind itself seemed to recoil from them. Koll's sudden charge. Bairan fussing over his new beard hair, barely sparing a glance for the monstrous threat before him.
All of it flooded into his mind, seamless and overwhelming. The sheer volume of information made it hard to filter, to focus—especially when every second counted against Lieutenant Dante's relentless assault.
If even one of those blows slipped past his guard, he'd be sent flying—skidding across kilometers before finally crashing to a stop.
But the mental strain was crushing. The only reason he could endure it at all was thanks to Verulania. Had he not pushed himself with Omniform, controlling two clones at once, this sensory onslaught would have overwhelmed him. He might not have lost outright, but the cost would have been severe.
A punch from Lieutenant Dante sliced toward him. Northern jerked his head aside, his gaze icy and unflinching as the fist whistled past his shoulder.
Like a serpent, his hands blurred and coiled around the Lieutenant's wrist in an unnatural grip—but the man's figure vanished like smoke.
A scowl twisted Northern's face as he disappeared too, reappearing behind. Yet mirrors crystallized from empty air, multiplying his image. Dozens of reflections spilled from the glass, lunging at him. Northern simply raised a hand, fingers fused into a single blade.
He slashed downward. A violent shockwave split the air, followed by a thin white light that flashed across every mirror. The reflections shattered like glass, dissolving before they could reach him.
Northern was already moving, his body flowing into the next motion. Momentum honed his movements into a razor's edge—his bare hand now deadlier than any sword. Having trained under one of history's greatest swordsmen, his technique bordered on flawless. And as he purged the last remnants of Chaos Heritage from his style, that flawlessness grew nearer with every strike.
The two collided again in a tidal wave of force, their impact sending shockwaves rippling outward. From a distance, all that could be seen were terrifying bursts of energy and the earth itself buckling under the pressure.
Meanwhile...
Four figures sat rigid around a circular table, its surface split cleanly by what must have been a thunderous strike. The windows had long since shattered, glass scattered like ice crystals across the floor. The relentless roar of battle outside swallowed all other sound—even the rhythm of their breathing seemed to disappear beneath it.
Among them sat a grey-haired man with eyes like shadowed pits, swirling with something between remorse and raw anguish. He looked like someone who could pat a child's head with one hand while still warm from slaughtering their parents.
Yet for all his darkness, there was a fragility to him—something that marked him as merely human, and as old as he appeared.
When he spoke, his voice cut through the chaos, cold and measured.
"Any word from the Governor General?"
"Not yet. The shockwaves from their battle are disrupting the atmospheric essence index. Communications remain down for now."
The reply came in a shaky voice from a portly man with a thin mustache. At first glance, he might have been mistaken for some gluttonous bureaucrat—if not for the sharp glint in his eyes that defied the stereotype, though subdued now.
"Give it time. Reinforcements will come."
The old man's voice cut through again, steady as stone.
The other two occupants of the room looked far worse for wear—faces pale, clothes disheveled—as the devastation outside rattled the very walls.
One finally burst out:
"How did it come to this? How does some nameless nowhere brat become powerful enough to tear the government apart from the inside?"
The old man didn't glance at the speaker. His eyes stayed locked on the table's shattered edge, fingers idly tracing the splinters like they were pieces of a child's puzzle.
Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:
"Because monsters never come with warnings. They don't rise from thrones, they crawl from graves we dig with our own good intentions. And when they stand, we're too busy admiring crowns to notice the knives."
A slight turn of his head caught the light just so, something dark and unreadable flashing in his gaze.
"You saw a nobody. I saw still air before the hurricane. I warned you all, but you let him keep his fangs."
His breath left him in a slow exhale — weariness, not scorn.
"Now you want to curse him for learning how to use them?"
The fat man's voice came flat and measured.
"Frankly, none of us predicted this. Dante and Raizel were friends since their cadet days. They served under my command, and while I recognized their potential, I never imagined one would bring us to ruin."
The last silent member spoke—a pale man with frost-grey eyes.
"The government wasn't wrong to cultivate a strong Drifter. He's the most powerful we've produced in decades. Few Drifters choose government service when private citadels and kingdoms offer greater privileges. Dante is genuine quality. What we should examine is our stubborn refusal to accept the truths he speaks."
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him.
The old man spoke first, his voice a serpent's whisper.
"I shouldn't be surprised such filth drips from your lips. You and Salmaldell were practically raised from the same trough."
The grey-eyed man's gaze kindled with quiet fury.
"Speak my friend's name with respect. He was the greatest shield this military has ever known."
The old man's green eyes glistened like poison. His fingers curled, nails scoring grooves into the table.
"Are you... challenging me, Gordon?"
"No, Veiled Light. Merely reminding you—"
The door burst open. A woman stood framed in the doorway—lithe, radiant, heavy with child—yet her presence filled the chamber like a storm.