Boom!
The divine firebird and the ice crystal citadel clashed for a breathless moment—then shattered together.
A wild storm of wind, fire, and frost tore across the battlefield, leveling distant mountains and reducing countless monsters to ash in its wake.
"This can't be happening... oh gods... my almighty gods!"
"The seraphim are the very arms of the God of Light! And yet, a single mortal has destroyed their divine feather!?"
In that moment, the last remnants of faith within the cultists crumbled.
To them, the gods were infallible. Untouchable. Invincible.
But the adventurers had shattered that illusion—crushed it underfoot.
Hurricane Spear!
With a sharp cry, the wind-elemental goddess summoned the divine lance once more, hurtling it toward the now-frantic Pope Bilsatz.
"Protect His Holiness! Shield the bishops!"
The last remaining knights charged forward, raising their tower shields to form a living wall around their leaders.
Awakening: Dark Surge Execution!
Orson's expression darkened. He swung the Supreme Arcane Blade, and a chaotic six-pointed star appeared beneath his feet.
A low rumble echoed.
A massive black orb surged into existence, swirling with shadowy liquid that quickly expanded outward.
Lightning cracked. Thunder roared. Within a one-kilometer radius, the very air trembled.
Bilsatz and the cultist NPCs were swallowed by the orb's eerie glow.
They panicked.
Inside, there was only endless blackness.
No light. No exit. No direction.
Even their finely honed senses failed them. One by one, they began to drown in the dark.
Dark Surge Execution, Level 10 Awakening Skill.
What once caused 50% movement debuff, 30% attack speed reduction, and 20% attack power loss…
Now came with Sensory Deprivation.
Four of the five senses stripped away.
Only pain remained.
And on top of that?
The skill dealt 10% of the caster's max HP in true damage per second, for 30 seconds.
For most, the drawback made the skill barely usable.
But Orson?
With over 7 million HP, that trade-off became not a weakness—but a terrifying weapon.
"Form up! Protect the pope at all costs!"
A Lord-ranked knight roared—yet no one could hear him.
Inside the black orb, Bilsatz and his clergy thrashed like blind rats in a flood, trying to break free.
But then—
The orb twitched.
As if it sensed their desperation.
Hundreds of razor-sharp black spikes jutted out from the surface, forcing back any NPC who dared approach.
Beneath the knees, shadowy water churned.
Splutch.
Leeches of pure darkness slithered up spines and pierced through flesh, latching onto the cultists.
Screams erupted.
Bleed – 650,000!
Bleed – 620,000!
Orson frowned slightly. "Shame I can't see inside."
The orb, while devastating, cut off the caster's line of sight.
Still, in a battlefield this chaotic, blind-casting AoEs was still effective enough.
Thirty seconds passed.
The darkness faded.
"Is this the coming of darkness… in Infinite Dimensions…?"
Bilsatz stood in place, muttering to himself, hair matted with sweat and blood. His priestly robes were shredded.
Around him lay dozens of skeletons—completely drained, nothing left but loot.
"No Saint's Sigil Stones?"
Orson sighed, disappointed.
Twelve bishops, dead.
But the Daughters of Nakah were a fringe sect within the Holy Light Church—not the main line like the Radiant Faith.
Their resources were limited.
To seal the ancient teleportation array, he still needed all twelve Saint Sigils. This was just a start.
"Let me be blunt—you are the darkness. And you're in my way."
He raised a hand. Hurricane Spear.
Boom.
Bilsatz's head exploded like a melon.
The leader of the Daughters of Nakah—dead.
"Triple Crown Winner! Unstoppable!"
"The Arcane God of Infinite Dimensions—who can match him?!"
The crowd roared.
Faces lit with excitement, even awe.
They might not be able to fight beside him…
But witnessing this was enough.
A mortal standing firm against heaven's wrath.
Defying divine flame.
Mocking the will of angels.
This wasn't just battle. It was myth in the making.
The rest of the fight became a formality.
With player armies pouring in, the remaining high-level NPCs were overwhelmed one by one.
Orson whistled, summoning the Crimson Lizard King.
Amid the cheers, she swooped down and scooped up the best loot from the fallen cultists.
Even a god-tier troll had standards.
He'd help others ascend to divinity—but tolls must be paid.
Celestial Sight.
Orson's pupils glowed.
He activated the guild's map-wide vision skill, surveying the empire's regions.
Dozens of massive fleets and legions appeared on the horizon.
All races, all creeds—united for one reason.
For the first time since the ancient God-Emperor Gaedashiram Rebellion, they had gathered…
To bring down one man.
"Huh? Nakah's cult is surrounded—so why aren't they sending reinforcements?"
Then he saw it.
Near Saint Maiden City, a hundred kilometers away, multiple NPC legions—each numbering close to ten thousand—were converging.
All under the Holy Light Church.
All had received Nakah's call for help.
And yet… they hadn't moved.
Instead, they'd rerouted.
Headed straight for Riftrock City.
Their original plan had been to rendezvous with the Nakah cult, then advance together.
But Orson's appearance had ruined that plan.
"Hah. So they chose to cut off the limb to save the body? Bold. But can they really take Riftrock?"
He smirked, amused.
The Crimson Lizard King snapped her tail and let out a sonic boom—but instead of flying to Riftrock, they turned toward Golden City.
"You… what are you?"
A voice echoed.
Orson's eyes narrowed, looking toward a distant ridge.
There, beams of divine light began to fall, slowly coalescing into a humanoid figure.
Wings shimmered into view—four pairs, forming an intricate lattice of glowing patterns.
A presence of overwhelming divinity took shape.
Orson tried to scan her.
Nothing.
The Crimson Lizard King growled low, scales flaring—fully on alert.
"Orgod. Trial-taker, Orgod."
Orson's gaze fell on the feather drifting in the wind, its divine glow fading.
He already knew who this was.
The residual soul of Xinala, the Eight-Winged Seraph of the Polar Radiance Pantheon.
A remnant.
Tied to the divine item.
"No… you're not him."
"Your eyes… you're just BlazeKing's puppet."
The seraph's voice trembled, her form flickering into existence before him.
She looked like a goddess.
Flawless.
Legs like porcelain, body bathed in holy fire, her presence beyond mortal comprehension.
She reached out gently. Orson didn't flinch.
Warmth touched his cheek.
"He still hasn't given up, has he?"
Her soft voice echoed by his ear. The Crimson Lizard King snarled in fury behind him, but she ignored it.
"You are the blade of the gods."
"You were never meant to turn on us."
Her beauty was suffocating.
Her lips brushed his forehead.
"You should aim that sharpness at the Heaven Demons—not my followers. You're tired. Rest. Stop fighting."
Warmth flooded Orson's chest.
It was the comfort of a warm bed on a winter night.
Safety. Peace. Sleep.
Orson showed no emotion. He stared at her.
"Are you done talking?"
His smirk curled.
"If so, kindly—fuck off."
"You… ungrateful wretch!"
Her charm shattered. Her face twisted in hate.
"If not for Infinite Dimensions' rules—I'd crush your heretic shell right now!"
"You were a player once, weren't you?"
Orson's voice was calm.
"Like the Goddess of Love. You were once mortal. Xinala—Eight-Winged Seraph, First of the Angels."
"You gave up your family. Your friends. Everything… just to live."
"Was it worth it?"
She froze.
His words struck like thunder.
She couldn't speak.
"You'll regret this," she finally whispered.
"I don't need gods to judge my regrets."
Orson waved a hand.
Snatched the now powerless feather.
And crushed it into dust.