The Pope stood in silence by the tall arched window of his private chambers, hands folded behind his back. The view stretched across the entire capital. From this height, the winding streets looked like veins, pulsing with the early light of morning. The Holy Cathedral, known as The Seat of Grace, sat at the city's heart like a golden crown. A narrow river encircled it, and a single stone bridge served as the only path to its sanctum.

The Cathedral was the largest in the world. Four towering spires reached toward the sky, piercing the clouds like watchful spears. Its walls, covered in etched gold and polished stone, reflected sunlight in all directions—visible from every corner of the capital. It was both a sanctuary and a symbol, revered by millions.

The Pope often stood at this very spot, overlooking the city he swore to protect.

A knock broke the stillness.

"Come in," he said calmly.

The heavy door creaked open, and a young attendant stepped in, bowing.

"Your Holiness, Sir Nikolaus Graf is waiting for you in the Great Hall."

The Pope raised an eyebrow, then slowly lowered it again. As if this meeting was expected… or inevitable.

"Then let us not keep him waiting."

He turned from the window and followed the attendant through the corridors of marble and stained glass. After several turns, they arrived. The Great Hall was vast—its ceiling lost in shadows, upheld by massive columns of pale stone. Shafts of golden light filtered through high windows, falling in quiet patterns across the floor.

Nikolaus stood at the center, waiting. He bowed respectfully as the Pope entered.

"Your Holiness," he said. "I come seeking your blessing—and a contingent of soldiers. I wish to pursue the enemy. They strike our towns and murder our people. We cannot afford to remain still."

The Pope regarded him with a calm, almost mournful expression. "I have told you, Nikolaus. If you leave now, you draw their eyes to the capital. The very heart of the kingdom will be exposed."

Nikolaus's jaw tightened. But before he could answer, a new voice echoed through the hall.

"Then I must tell you, our eyes are already on you."

The voice came from everywhere at once, resonating from stone and air alike. The torches lining the walls flickered, and a low hum filled the chamber.

A portal split open in the space in front of them, the edges jagged with shadow and mana. From within stepped a towering figure clad in obsidian armor—the Black Knight. His presence alone seemed to steal warmth from the air. He stepped forward, sword drawn, eyes burning with a silent, merciless purpose.

The Pope didn't move. His eyes met the knight's, steady and solemn.

"So… it begins."

Two more portals tore through the fabric of the Great Hall—one a swirling vortex of crimson and shadow, elegant in its menace; the other pulsing with a pale, glacial light that chilled the air.

From the crimson rift stepped Iralian Desimus, the Void Caller, his presence radiating a suffocating emptiness, like the silence between stars.

And from the icy breach emerged Clementia Lindsey, the Icethrone Empress, each step trailing frost across the marble floor as her silver-blue gown shimmered with frozen mist.

The Pope's gaze moved slowly across the room, settling at last on the armored knight before him.

A faint smile curled on his lips. "Three S-Ranks," he said, voice calm, almost amused. "You honor me, Thomas."

The Black Knight raised a gauntleted hand and made a slow gesture across his face. His helmet dissolved into smoke. Beneath it was the youthful face of a man with golden-blond hair—and eyes as black as the void.

"Actually…" Thomas said quietly.

In the same instant, a blade—wreathed in a pulsing blue aura—exploded through the Pope's chest from behind. It pierced his robes and flesh with horrifying precision.

The Pope looked down at the blade, then slowly turned his head. Behind him stood Nikolaus, hand firm on the sword's hilt. His expression was cold and resolute.

"This," Nikolaus said, "is The Space Cutter. An S-Rank item. Not even s rank defensive spells can stop it."

A small bead of blood ran down the Pope's chin. And yet… he smiled. Before anyone could speak, his form shimmered—and shattered like glass. A moment later, another figure appeared midair behind them all, hovering gently above the hall's central dais.

It was the Pope—his robes untouched, his expression unreadable.

"I was wondering when you'd finally show your true face, Nikolaus," he said, voice echoing with restrained power.

Iralian narrowed his eyes. "How did he survive that?"

"He's the strongest man in the Three Kingdoms," Clementia replied. "The strongest S-Rank alive."

Nikolaus slowly turned to face the Pope. "You stand in the way of the god's light, Alister."

Alister's eyes narrowed slightly. "And you already know what that light does to our people."

"If we're meant to become one with Him," Nikolaus said firmly, "then so be it."

Alister's gaze was sharp now—ancient and resolute.

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"Then come," he said. "Let the truth be tested in light."

From the moment the four S-Ranks released their mana, the world seemed to shake at its core. A deafening pulse of raw power burst outward, strong enough to crack the marble beneath their feet and send tremors through the cathedral's massive foundation. Dust rained down from the ceiling like falling ash.

Nikolaus became engulfed in a storm of brilliant blue aura, his armor glowing with arcs of spatial energy. Mana twisted around him in rapid bursts, warping the air as if even reality struggled to contain him.

Near Clementia, thick frost bloomed across the stone floor. The ground cracked and split as jagged spears of ice erupted around her feet, snaking upward like crystalline serpents. Each breath she exhaled frosted the air; her long silver cloak began to flutter, untouched by any wind.

Thomas, the Black Knight, let his sword fall into both hands. As he raised it, a darkness deeper than black coiled around the blade. It pulsed with malicious hunger—almost alive. The shadows didn't reflect light; they consumed it.

From Iralian's fingers, writhing void tendrils slithered into the air. They moved like sentient things—unpredictable, coiling and twitching, hungry for flesh and magic alike. His eyes burned with unnatural purple fire as he chanted in a tongue older than the kingdoms themselves.

"You won't be calling for help," Thomas said, voice low, deliberate. "Every path to this place has been sealed. There's no way out."

He leveled his greatsword toward Alister.

But the Pope only smiled. "I was hoping for that."

Alister raised his arms, palms open. Then a sudden surge of blinding light exploded from beneath his feet—a pillar of divine radiance shooting up through the cathedral. The light expanded in an instant, illuminating every crack and corner. It surged upward like a geyser, and with it came a whirlwind of divine mana. Loose debris and dust spiraled into the sky like they were caught in a storm.

The ceiling cracked, fractured, then shattered completely, the shards of ancient stone and stained glass dissolving into the wind.

And above them, in the sky, something emerged.

A massive cross-shaped platform floated high in the sky—ethereal, luminous, and colossal. Holding it aloft were thousands of statues, their faces serene, their arms raised, carved in the image of saints and angels. They formed an impossible pillar of support—their bodies emerging from the underside of the platform, arms outstretched to hold it aloft, as if carved directly from the divine foundation itself.

Nikolaus's expression hardened. "He's summoning his Domain."

Without another word, he launched forward—a streak of blue light, faster than the eye could follow. His sword cut through the air, aiming straight for Alister's heart.

But just as the blade neared its mark, a second sword appeared from the void, blocking Nikolaus mid-swing. Sparks exploded on impact, mana clashing with mana.

The air in front of him sliced open like parchment, revealing a rippling rift. From within it stepped Timon, cloaked in the elegant robes of the Spatial Path, eyes calm but firm.

"Hello, Nikolaus," he said.

Nikolaus's teeth clenched. "Timon…"

Before Nikolaus could recover, Timon raised his hand, and space warped violently. The two of them vanished—swallowed into a fracture of reality, leaving no trace behind.

Alister lowered his arms, the divine light now stabilizing overhead.

"See?" he said, almost cheerfully. "I told you—only three S-Ranks."

Thomas didn't flinch. "Get ready."

But before any of the three remaining enemies could move, space twisted again—not in distortion, but in divine design.

In a flash, the battlefield changed. The ornate hall they had once stood in was gone. Now, they were surrounded by towering statues—countless rows of guardians, each holding different weapons. High above, the massive Holy Cathedral loomed in the sky, inverted, glowing with sacred energy, suspended as if heaven itself had descended.

Clementia turned, scanning the new space. "What just happened?"

Iralian's grin widened as he extended a hand and felt the subtle resistance in the air. "He just bent space," he said with amusement, almost a giggle. "We're inside his Domain now…"

And all three of them realized it at once—within this sanctified realm, the rules of battle would no longer favor them.

They were fighting Alister—the most powerful S-Rank in the world, in his own domain.

Thomas stepped forward and drove his greatsword into the stone floor with a solid clang. From the point of impact, a thick liquid shadow began to seep outward, flowing like oil across the ground. It spread quickly, pooling into a wide, swirling basin of pure darkness. The shadows churned for a heartbeat—then surged upward, wrapping around him like a cocoon.

In the blink of an eye, the darkness congealed into jagged armor that clung to his body like living steel. From the shadows beneath him, a colossal warhorse took shape, its body forged from the void itself. Now mounted, Thomas was a towering figure of dread, cloaked in black steel from head to toe. His jagged armor, dark as scorched obsidian, clung to his body like a second skin. The plates were sharp, angular—more grown than forged—like the fossilized remains of some ancient beast.

A pulsing crimson gem beat steadily in the center of his breastplate, neither bright nor dim, but alive—throbbing with each breath he took.

In his left hand, he held a tower shield almost as tall as himself. Its surface was lined with sharp ridges that converged in white, bone-like veins leading toward another red gem near the top. The shield resembled a fortress gate—unyielding and absolute, built to halt any advance.

But it was the weapon in his right hand that demanded all attention: a brutal lance, crude and jagged like a dragon's fang. Coiled red cords wrapped tightly around its base, disappearing into the gauntlet encasing his arm. They pulsed and twitched with his every movement, as if alive. He was no longer merely a man—he had become a mythic engine of war. Larger than even the surrounding statues, his domain now fully summoned, he was the Abyssal Knight.

At the same moment, Iralian and Clementia each unleashed the force of their domains.

Above Iralian, the very sky cracked like splintered glass. Through those fractures descended the void—cold, infinite, and alive. He hovered in midair, suspended by forces unseen, surrounded by flickering tendrils of violet lightning. His fingers, now clawed and wreathed in dark energy, pulsed with power. From His back stretched vast, leathery wings—crimson-veined and immense—casting a shadow that devoured the light.

His rough skin smoothed into a dark, polished sheen—flawless, almost glasslike under the stormlight. His frame narrowed, limbs reshaping with a strange elegance. A soft rise formed on his chest, swelling into the unmistakable curve of breasts. The change moved fast but fluid, as though his very essence was being rewritten.

His jawline softened, hair flared into long strands of crimson, and the last trace of his old form vanished.

What once had been a man was now something else entirely—reborn as a woman of terrible beauty and power, her form sculpted by chaos.

Stones floated around her in slow orbit, crumbling to dust under the pressure of her presence. Her skin gleamed like polished obsidian, her hair burned red like wildfire, and curved horns crowned her brow. Her eyes glowed with a madness born of knowledge far beyond mortal reach.

She was no longer simply Iralian—she was the Void Caller, herald of oblivion.

On the ground below, Clementia stood poised in icy silence, a living statue of winter's wrath. Her presence radiated cold that made the very air shimmer. Silver-white hair flowed down her back like frozen silk, glowing faintly with a pale light. Her skin was porcelain, her eyes icy blue and unyielding.

She wore a flowing gown of layered frost and woven crystal, each fold shimmering as though made of living snow. The patterns across her bodice pulsed with elemental power, delicate and deadly. Her movements stirred a perpetual flurry of snow around her, the flakes never touching the ground, orbiting her in a slow, ethereal dance.

Mist curled at her feet and drifted behind her like trailing fog, and with every step she took, the air itself bowed to her will—silencing sound, freezing space. She was grace and destruction in one breath, the Ice Throne Empress given form.

And in front of them all stood the Pope—Alister—bathed in radiant golden light. Behind him, thousands of statues lined the vast ground of his domain, each one ready to fight at a word.

The battlefield was set. The heavens above shattered. Domains had been summoned. Power, raw and absolute, hung heavy in the air.

And the war had only just begun.

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