Chapter 145: The Power Atop This World's Peak

However, the Master of Hermetica, in whom Amy had placed high hopes, made no move at all.

Even though Gladys's psychic network had been entirely severed by the recent shockwave, leaving Duke Galsworthy much like a normal person suddenly struck blind and deaf—while not entirely blind to Hydra's movements, his grasp on the battle had undoubtedly plunged to freezing point at this moment.

Strangely enough, he seemed neither surprised nor moved by this.

He remained as calm as a pool of unrippleable stagnant water, his handsome face utterly devoid of panic.

He merely stood quietly beside the windowsill, allowing the cool breeze from outside to stir his flowing long hair. His expression did not change in the slightest from start to finish, resembling an ancient Greek marble sculpture. Motion and stillness achieved a perfect unity within him; though his body remained motionless, he carried an air akin to a leopard about to spring for its prey, naturally radiating a suffocating and awe-inspiring oppressiveness.

Following his gaze, one could see... the mythological creature from the eternal, dark, and silent depths of the ocean, along with its pair of tyrannical, crimson eyes.

"Hydra, is it?"

The silver-haired, black-eyed Scion of Glory slightly lowered his eyelids and murmured thoughtfully.

Duke Galsworthy did not dare to harbor the slightest bit of carelessness toward an ancient evil entity capable of breaching the City of Silver, even in its semi-abandoned state. Although he had made the worst-case estimations regarding the destruction it might cause, when the mythological creature crossed from fantasy and descended into reality, he realized that... the Ancient Ones, who had participated in that grand and epoch-making epic before the dawn of order, were far more terrifying than he—or anyone else—had imagined.

He had no certainty.

No certainty of a kill with a single blow.

The City of Gold indeed possessed a boundless, god-like might, but... as the Lord of Hermetica, he lacked the authority to channel its power directly. All he could do was crudely detonate this force that transcended the mortal realm—as for whether it could kill Hydra, who was wreaking havoc upon the ruins of Hermetica? Perhaps it could, perhaps it couldn't. He had no underlying confidence, let alone certainty.

He did not dare to gamble.

Therefore, all he could do was wait.

Waiting for a "guest" who was bound to arrive.

Then... quite naturally, he—the old man who ruled over the Hermetica Cult—had arrived.

"You really know how to hold your nerve." The Prelate of the Cult gazed at the descendant of glory before him, who still maintained the exact appearance of a youth, the corners of his mouth curving slightly. "Weren't you afraid I would betray the pact?"

"Afraid," Duke Galsworthy answered bluntly. "But—or perhaps I should say we have no choice."

"Hah—"

Brandon Onions gave a low laugh. He knew very well that the Cult and the Scions of Glory had never walked the same path. They had not in the past, they were not now, and they never would be in the future. Yet, both belonging to the faction of order, when faced with the greater and more profound evil of dark chaos, they frequently lacked room for choices. For the sake of survival, they were forced to lay aside their divergent paths and long-standing prejudices and animosities to jointly resist the enemy—which was far from uncommon.

"Indeed, no choice."

"I have no certainty," said the Lord of Hermetica, his pitch-black eyes resembling black holes, swallowing up all superfluous emotions. "I need your help."

"What am I supposed to say to that?" The Cult's Prelate in Hermetica shrugged his eyebrows like a mischievous child, then let out a light laugh. "An honor—"

"If you like." Duke Galsworthy remained unmoved, replying only with cold words.

"Then let's skip it," Brandon Onions shook his head. "Contrary to what many people suspect, I harbor no actual hatred toward Hermetica—or toward the Scions of Glory."

He paused. "What I despise are the Precursors—only the Precursors."

"That is hardly surprising," the silver-haired, black-eyed Scion of Glory lowered his eyelids slightly. "When they chose to carve out a domain of order in this abyss of despair at the bottom of the world, they were destined to be loathed and hated by mortals."

"Perhaps."

The old man clearly had no intention of dwelling further on this subject. Dismissing it with a noncommittal remark, he took a deep look at the Master of Hermetica before him. "But—Duke Galsworthy, have you ever considered this question: since the outside world is so wonderful, why must we struggle in this sinful abyss, making efforts destined to be in vain?"

Without giving the Scion of Glory a chance to retort, he turned and walked away, disappearing into the brilliance outside the door.

"Of course I have considered it," after a long while, the Scion of Glory—who maintained the appearance of a young man—whispered to himself. "Yet what use is it to think of such things?"

"After all... this is still our home."

"We cannot escape—"

"This is the duty and mission that the Scions of Glory must bear."

Speaking in disjointed fragments, he gently closed his eyes, waiting for the majesty of Augustus to descend here.

Augustus.

He was the living God of the Cult, and the only person to ascend to the supreme throne since the concealment of the Precursors.

If nothing else, the mere fact that he was able to single-handedly found the Cult during the Era of Ancient Kings, and step by step grow it until it could rival—and even surpass—the Scions of Glory and the Knights, forced one to acknowledge that this immortal entity, who still existed in the world today, was truly qualified to be regarded as the sole true God upon the earth.

Even among the Chosen, a qualitative gap still existed between them and him.

So much so that many believed this great figure, who had profoundly influenced a dark millennium, was actually a Precursor who had survived from the very dawn of order.

—Only thus could one explain his magnificent power that transcended the mortal realm.

As the Prelate who replaced Augustus in suppressing a domain and shepherding the masses on behalf of the Lord, Brandon Onions was sealed with a fragment of this great entity's power—a transcendent force far surpassing mortals.

This was the sole and greatest trump card of the Hermetica Cult.

Precisely because they knew of this trump card's existence, the successive Lords of Hermetica had never erupted into large-scale conflicts with the Cult. No one was confident they could withstand the ultimate strike that transcended the mortal realm, not even the Chosen within the Knights; it was a power beyond comprehension or understanding.

Therefore, while waiting, Duke was also filled with anticipation.

—Anticipating, with the mindset of a combatant, the descent of the world's most formidable power.

On the other side.

Duland knew his anticipation all too well. After all, he was not the only one harboring such expectations. As the Prelate who sat in Hermetica on behalf of Augustus—a traveler who had once crossed the greater part of the Deep Night to reach the mysterious and unfathomable Black Zone—he actually held an identical curiosity toward this supreme power resting at the pinnacle of the world.

There was simply no need to show it.

At the boundary line between darkness and light, the old man who once bore the surname Onions halted his steps.

Raising his head, his crimson gaze met those bloodshot eyes.

Hydra, which had been frantically slaughtering the undying beings, abruptly stopped its movements. Within its tyrannical eyes, a rare trace of sanity and calm returned.

It sensed a threat. Although it could not be called a true threat, the tiny human before it indeed possessed an extraordinary power; if it continued to play around, there was a strong possibility it would be wounded as a result.

Therefore—

Kill him!

Chaotic murderous intent overflowed, and a serious Hydra possessed the divine majesty in every gesture.

If it were a one-on-one battle—no, in a one-on-one situation, he would never have thought of fighting a monster of this magnitude. At the very least, he would need to drag several peak powerhouses who had climbed to the limits of mortality alongside him, just to be qualified to attempt the folly of a mantis trying to stop a chariot before it.

But now, this was not a one-on-one fight.

Augustus was with him!

Raising the staff in his hand, the Prelate of the Hermetica Cult strode forward to meet the howling gale, meeting the giant palm of Hydra that seemed to crush the entire world down with it.

"Kaj la Sinjoro diris: Estu lumo."

Unsealing the power with the very first sentence written in the sacred scriptures, the boundless might originating from the God upon the earth manifested in the world.

—!!!

In just a fraction of a second, the world was torn apart.

Accompanying the torrential blood-red rain was Hydra's colossal head, nearly the size of the municipal hall.

Its crimson eyes remained unclosed from beginning to end.

Was it unable to accept the destiny of its own demise, or was it unable to comprehend the grand and transcendent majesty that defied common sense?

No one knew the answer.

Just as no one knew what had just happened.

Yes, neither Duke Galsworthy the Lord of Hermetica, nor Brandon Onions the wielder of this power, nor the many people who had witnessed with their own eyes the life of Hydra come to an end, had seen what transpired in that decisive split second of life and death.

All they saw was a beam of light—a blinding yet utterly captivating light.

Then... amidst the pattering sound of the falling rain, Hydra's head plunged downward into the earth, falling straight into that abyss known as death.

It was dead.

It died like a filthy bug crushed casually underfoot.

Its massive body, devoid of vitality and vigor, crashed to the ground, and dozens of Scions of Glory who were still plunged in terror inadvertently became its burial companions.

The deafening roar that followed echoed across the entire world like a funeral bell.

—

"What on earth just happened—" Even the Death Crow, ranked among the Dark Ministers, could not help but change his expression as he witnessed this astonishing and world-shaking spectacle. He turned his gaze toward Alfred, the black wizard who had always been at odds with him. "Did you see clearly?"

"No," the noble youth with heterochromatic eyes wore a solemn expression. He had provoked the sword-wielder and the Scions of Glory of Hermetica more than once, and at this moment, a lingering fear welled up within him. Thank goodness he had never truly triggered the bottom line of the city's rulers; otherwise, he would have had zero confidence in surviving this world-shaking strike. "I saw nothing at all."

Except for the light.

Yet, beyond the conversation between the two, a third voice intervened.

"Actually, it's not all that remarkable of a power," a slightly immature, even childish girl's voice sounded from behind them. "It's merely a deep-level application of the Precursors' power."

—Who is there!

They hadn't sensed anyone approaching at all!

The two battle-hardened Dark Ministers reacted simultaneously, turning around to face the direction the voice came from.

Then, at the same time, their eyes widened—

Reflected in their pupils was... a fifteen or sixteen-year-old—no? A tiny girl of twelve or thirteen.

A tiny girl with black hair and black eyes.

—The Witch Gasu.

This was the designation she had left for Amy.