Even Arthas was thrown by the appearance of the Lunar Phantoms. He could feel them, a perfect extension of his will, as if he'd been controlling them his entire life.

The constant, escalating bullshit was finally too much for Clown. He watched as Arthas was suddenly wreathed in an invisible, shimmering flame—a fire of the mind, a perfect shield against psychic attacks and status effects.

"That goddamn bitch!" Clown roared. "When this is over, I'm turning you and your entire fucking city into my personal puppets!"

This was so cheap. A single blessing from Moonwell Demigod had layered Arthas in buffs: a Blade Ward, a Lunar Aegis, the two Lunar Phantoms, and now the fire of the mind. Arthas's power level was visibly spiking, a palpable aura of energy surging around him.

And the worst part? Moonwell Demigod had hit-and-run. She'd dropped her buffs and immediately warped to the next spatial fragment without ever joining the fight. It left Clown with a mouthful of curses and no target for his rage.

"Time, place, people… The perfect conditions for victory," Arthas's voice was low, resonant. He raised his blade with both hands. "How many of those do you actually command?"

With no flashy technique, just pure, focused intent, he brought the sword down. The strike locked onto Clown, making evasion impossible.

"God damn it!" Clown knew he was caught. He had to face it head-on.

He thrust his fists upward, launching spheres of raw, blood-red energy. The twin blades on his back slashed wildly, sending massive crimson arcs of their own, all attempting to grind down Arthas's attack. But it was useless. The descending sword was imbued with the combined divine power of Moonwell Demigod, Alexander, and Arthas himself.

The energy spheres and blood-arcs shattered on impact. The War Golem couldn't escape. It was consumed by the colossal blade of light.

For a split second, Clown felt the chassis of his War Golem being vaporized. But somehow, he held on.

When the light faded, the entire upper torso of the War Golem had been scoured away, leaving nothing but a skeletal frame of gleaming metal, eerily similar to Arthas's own true form.

"Heh… heh heh… Is that all you've got?" The War Golem's metal skull tilted back as Clown's unhinged laughter echoed through the space, his radical fanaticism on full display. "My turn!"

Another statue appeared in the War Golem's hand. Clown crushed it, and an even more mighty presence instantly flooded the entire Staghelm City zone.

It was the demigod phantom of one of the Cult of Four's Archbishops.

If Pontiffs like Clown were first-stage or second-tier demigods at best, then the Archbishops of the Cult of Four were, at a minimum, third-stage demigod powerhouses.

"All sins committed by the heretical shall be judged," a cold and imperious voice boomed, transcending the fragmented space to envelop every demigod present. Even Moonwell Demigod, secure in Staghelm City, was caught in its net. "Bear the weight of your responsibility and your fate. Walk to the guillotine and meet your heroic end. In the name of the War Marshal, I sentence you. Guilty!"

"In the name of the War Marshal…" Moonwell Demigod, Gima, whispered, the recognition dawning on her. "That's a divine calling… a fourth-stage demigod!" The peace in her eyes shattered, replaced by sheer, undiluted despair.

One of the Cult of Four's Archbishops had descended a phantom to execute them all.

***

In the void, Arthas found himself frozen. Two towering, spectral pillars materialized on either side of him, and countless chains erupted from the ether, binding both him and Alexander's Blade. Far in the distance, his two blademasters and Moonwell Demigod suffered the same fate.

Meanwhile, a colossal, shimmering blade began to coalesce directly above their heads, growing more solid by the second, ready to drop at any moment.

"See, Arthas? Alexander?" Clown's voice was hysterical, dripping with the arrogance of a petty tyrant who'd just been handed ultimate power. "A single healer can't carry the game. Unless your commander shows up today, nobody can save you! Hahaha!"

"You're just a pathetic insect," Arthas shot back, his contempt cutting through the fear in the air. "The louder you laugh, the more you betray how much you fear him. A traitor who still feels fear? Interesting."

Even pinned by a fourth-stage power, Arthas hadn't given up. He directed his two Lunar Phantoms to relentlessly strike the chains binding him. It was useless. The chains were forged from the Archbishop's own divine power and rules of existence; they couldn't be broken.

Changing tactics, Arthas sent the Lunar Phantoms hurtling toward the massive blade hanging overhead. They collided with it and were instantly annihilated.

"Pathetic!" Clown began to jeer again, but the words caught in his throat. A presence he knew all too well—one that still chilled him to the core—washed over the battlefield, making the very frame of his War Golem tremble.

"Sunder."

It was the voice of the Deputy Commander—ancient, powerful, like the roar of a primordial dragon.

A tear ripped open in the distant void, and from a mimetic magical formation, an incandescent blade flash erupted. Everywhere it passed, the fragments of space were crushed into dust. The holy phantom of the Archbishop that enveloped them was torn apart in an instant.

As the light dissipated, it revealed what was hidden inside: a single, massive eyeball. Within its pupil stood a lone figure, feet planted on an unseen floor, hands raised to the sky, unleashing a torrent of divine power that formed a golden barrier, desperately holding back the Deputy Commander's blade flash.

"Kill!"

Clown's shriek sliced through the epic confrontation, a sound that ripped across the battlefield. Ignoring the catastrophic damage to his War Golem, he wrapped himself in a shroud of blood-mist and charged Arthas, his bone hands and back-blades primed to strike.

His combat sense was impeccable. It was more than a battle cry; it was a signal. He was telling the Archbishop to drop the guillotine now, before it had reached its maximum charge.

The guillotine hanging over Arthas, Moonwell demigod, and the others began its thunderous descent.

At the critical moment, Arthas released his grip on Alexander's Blade, letting the sentient weapon struggle on its own. But even Alexander couldn't break free in time.

Just as Clown's charge and the guillotine's edge were about to converge on him, Alexander's Blade shuddered violently. A phantom of light split from the blade, intercepting Clown with the force of a thunderclap.

He froze mid-charge.

The guillotine, however, continued its descent.

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