BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

Knowing they stood no chance against the raw power of a fourth-stage demigod, Arthas and his two blademasters made their final choice. Before the blade could fall, they detonated their own demigod phantoms.

For a demigod, this was a catastrophic loss. The act of self-destruction—a violent shattering of their own manifested rules—would plunge them into a deep, comatose state. The resulting explosions of chaotic power tore the fabric of the dimension apart, annihilating the fragmented space.

When reality finally stitched itself back together, only two figures remained standing: Moonwell Demigod and the Cult of Four's Konak.

Technically, Clown and Alexander were still alive, too.

The War Golem had been blasted to smithereens, but a gruesome skull of coagulated blood-mist hung in the air, a crimson core pulsing weakly within. As for Alexander, in that final, critical moment, he had played a unmastered trump card.

The phantom that had split from his blade was the embodiment of his Blade of the Mind, a technique fueled by pure psychic energy. With no other options, Alexander had become the sword, diving headfirst into Clown's sea of consciousness for a final, all-or-nothing duel.

If Alexander won, he would obliterate Clown's demigod phantom and avatar from the inside out. He might even be able to claim the War Golem for himself and restore its formidable power. If he failed, Clown would not only absorb the immense power of the Blade of the Mind but would also regain full control of his shattered war machine.

The victor would be the one who walked out of the War Golem's core.

Alexander's Blade itself was gone, obliterated by the combined force of the guillotine's strike and Arthas's suicidal detonation.

***

"YOU MUST DIE!"

Inside the War Golem's sea of consciousness, Alexander's Blade of the Mind was a lone swordfish in an ocean of nightmares. He endlessly tore through the bizarre puppet-like figures that swarmed from the psychic depths.

Each one was Clown.

"We'll break you!"

"We'll break you!"

Countless voices of Clown screamed in unison as the puppets swarmed him like psychic piranhas. They had both reached the point of no return. One would not survive.

Back in Staghelm City, Moonwell demigod manifested her physical avatar, a woman of ageless grace. Clad in a simple white robe, she gazed down at the waters of her Moonwell, now diminished by more than half, and let out a sigh that was equal parts sorrow and relief.

Unlike the others, her true body resided within the city itself, granting her the vast reserves of divine power needed to endure the fourth-stage demigod's area-of-effect assault.

Her gaze lifted, peering into the void outside Staghelm City. There, the fading demigod phantom of Konak, master of the southern Black Tower, lingered—the battle's only other survivor. Like her, he remained motionless. Both were transfixed by the standoff between the brilliant blade flash and the great, watching eyeball. The entire war hinged on the outcome of that single confrontation.

"Detonate," Edward's voice suddenly thundered.

Realizing they were locked in a stalemate, he had made a decisive choice. He detonated his own attack. Caught at point-blank range, the eyeball was instantly annihilated. It was an incredible sacrifice—a trump card gifted to him by the commander, expended without a moment's hesitation.

"Is it over?" Moonwell demigod whispered, a surge of elation rising within her.

Her hope turned to ash on her tongue.

"Hahahaha… You're all going to die!"

The voice belonged to the weakened Konak. His demigod phantom was nearly gone, ravaged by one of the blademaster's detonations, but his eyes gleamed with the triumphant leer of a hunter whose true trap has just been sprung.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

The sky tore open. A monstrous Black Tower ripped through the wound in reality, descending with crushing force upon the magical formation where the Deputy Commander was concealed. The sheer pressure wave it generated shattered the remaining pocket dimensions, forcing the fractured space back into a single, brutal reality.

Staghelm bore the brunt of the aftermath.

With a sound like shattering glass, the defensive ward protecting the city popped. The residual force of the Black Tower's descent slammed into the city, leveling its tall spires and ancient walls in an instant. It was a catastrophe. Countless plant guardians and city defenders were reduced to pulp.

Within the collapsing mimetic formation, a figure had appeared beside Edward.

It was the commander, Thresh.

"A familiar scent," the commander mused, his voice calm amidst the chaos. "The same Archbishop who tried to ambush me before, I'd wager. Hiding in that tower, the Cult of Four's final gambit to control the board."

As the formation crumbled around them, neither man showed a flicker of panic.

"Edward," the commander said, glancing at his subordinate. "You're a glass cannon. Formations aren't everything. In the end, every battle comes down to two people, face to face. You really need to work on your melee game."

He let out a lazy yawn and placed his right hand on the hilt of his sword.

"I could teach you the blade," he offered. "I'm useless at most things, but I know how to swing one of these. Like this."

Shhhinnng.

It was the sound of a blade scraping against its sheath. By the time the sword was fully drawn, the sparks and whispers of wind from its drawing had already coalesced upon its edge.

In a single, fluid motion, the commander slashed upward. The attack carried the force of two colliding worlds, a microcosm of fire and wind forged on the edge of the blade, and slammed into the descending Black Tower.

The colossal structure froze.

Then, it disintegrated into dust.

The Archbishop of the Cult of Four hidden within, the one who had once ambushed the commander, was annihilated without making a sound.

"They're too weak," the commander said, sheathing his sword. He gave the Deputy Commander a final look. "Think about my offer. Find me at Blade's Edge Peak when you've made up your mind."

And with that, he was gone. He didn't teleport or warp; he simply ceased to be, leaving no trace, no ripple in the fabric of reality for even the Deputy Commander to perceive.

"Learn the blade…?" Edward murmured. He shook himself from his stupor and his eyes locked onto Konak, who was already surrounded by the swirling energies of a teleportation spell.

"Halt," he commanded, his voice laced with cold authority. "Trying to teleport in front of me? Do I look like a joke to you?"

The Deputy Commander raised his staff, and the space around Konak collapsed, snuffing out the portal.

"Die."

With that final, merciless word, the remnants of the magical formation converged, channeling their last dregs of divine power into a single, devastating Worldbreaker's Edge that utterly erased Konak's phantom from existence.

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