The three S-ranks stood surrounded by thousands of divine statues—each one a silent sentinel, unmoving. The tension in the air was suffocating, every breath heavy with the weight of war yet to begin. Then, with a soul-shaking neigh, Thomas's warhorse reared up and charged forward, breaking the stillness like a hammer through glass.

The Abyssal Knight rode like a storm.

Statues sprang to life in his path, casting spears and blades of radiant light. The air filled with blinding streaks of gold—but they were nothing to him. His jagged lance tore through spells. His massive shield crushed every incoming strike. And his warhorse, cloaked in the black of shadow and steel, galloped over holy ground without slowing, hooves shattering stone and bone alike.

Farther back, specialized statues began channeling divine magic, golden glyphs forming above their heads. But before their spells could be unleashed, a frigid wind howled across the field. Clementia raised a single hand—ice bloomed in an instant, crystallizing the statues where they stood, then shattering them with a sharp crack. At the same time, dark tendrils slithered from the sky like serpents. Iralian giggled as the void twisted space, consuming distant enemies in silence and leaving nothing but dust in their place.

Yet the statues were endless. Every one that fell was replaced by two more. But Thomas never faltered. He thundered ahead, parting the tide with sheer force. Within moments, he reached the Pope, still hovering high in the air like a saintly warden.

The warhorse launched skyward in a supernatural leap. With a roar, Thomas hurled his lance forward.

Alister responded with serene grace. A slight raise of his hand summoned a staff of pure light. He spun it in a smooth arc, forming a golden shield around himself just as the black lance struck.

The impact was cataclysmic.

Light and shadow detonated outward, a shockwave so powerful it cracked the cathedral floor beneath them and vaporized the nearest statues. The divine protections woven into the Holy Cathedral groaned under the force but held fast, preventing the explosion that were coming from above, from tearing through the rest of the city.

Thomas landed with a heavy thud, skidding back, already bracing for another strike.

But Alister was faster. He flicked his hand, and from the remnants of fallen statues, divine fragments rose and wove together. Two towering constructs took shape—three meters tall, humanoid in frame, faceless, and adorned with massive golden wings. Silent and soulless, they descended like avenging angels, one each moving to block Clementia and Iralian.

Alister remained aloft, his gaze fixed on Thomas.

He raised his staff once more, and this time golden light began to gather at its tip, condensing into a burning point of divine energy. With a flick, he released it—a brilliant beam of raw holy power.

Thomas didn't flinch.

He raised his tower shield. The beam collided with its shadowed surface, and again the sky trembled. Shadow and light screamed as they met, shards of raw mana piercing through the air like divine shrapnel. Yet through it all, Thomas advanced, shield up, hooves grinding against the platform's stone as he pressed forward.

Then, with a surge of strength, he swiped his shield to the side, dispersing the beam entirely.

He lunged.

"Stop playing around, Alister!" he bellowed, his lance already a blur.

But Alister only chuckled.

"You don't even let an old man enjoy a little fun?" he said with a smirk.

And then his expression changed. His staff rose high above his head, glowing like a second sun.

In an instant, the heavens obeyed.

A massive orb of blinding light appeared above the battlefield, its radius nearly a quarter of the floating platform. Its presence distorted the air, dragging clouds in like a gravity well. Fire licked its edges, and arcs of divine lightning danced along its surface.

Alister brought his staff down.

"Blazing Sun."

The celestial sphere descended with godlike speed.

It hit the battlefield like a meteor. A blast of flame, wind, and pure holy energy erupted from the impact point, swallowing everything in its path. The light alone was enough to blind lesser beings.

At the battlefield's edge, Iralian and Clementia had only just begun to engage their golden-winged foes when they felt the world shift.

The wave of divine annihilation rushed toward them.

Without hesitation, Iralian summoned a churning vortex of void to encase herself while Clementia crossed her arms and whispered a single phrase—Frozen World—calling forth a dome of diamond-like ice that solidified around her in a blink.

In the seconds that followed, the aftershocks of the Blazing Sun rumbled across the battlefield like echoes of a divine verdict. Fire licked the edges of platform, smoke curled high into the sky, and holy wind swept across his domain—but the thousands of statues stood untouched. Not a single crack marred their surface. It was as if the storm of divine fury had passed through them like light through stained glass, leaving no trace.

The glimmering barriers surrounding Iralian and Clementia began to fade.

From behind her frozen citadel, Clementia Squinted her eyes. The frost still swirled at her feet, but the stillness in the air set her on edge.

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Iralian floated slightly higher, her eyes glowing violet, focused on the epicenter of the blast.

There, where the artificial sun had scorched the ground, a great crater simmered with residual heat. Smoke hissed up from molten cracks in the floor. Ash and steam clouded the air in thick, ghostly wisps. But slowly—step by step—the figure of the Abyssal Knight emerged from the heart of it.

His armor, though drenched in heat and caked in soot, was unmarred. Veins of red light pulsed faintly beneath the blackened metal. Steam rose from his pauldrons like breath from a war-beast.

Then he raised his head. A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

"You finally got serious," Thomas said, voice deep and calm, echoing like thunder through the broken sanctuary.

Above him, Alister said nothing—but the light around his body intensified. No longer was it the gentle warmth of divine grace. This was radiance honed into a weapon. Holy energy surged across his frame, wreathing him in glowing armor made of sheer light, his staff burning brighter than any star.

And across from him, Thomas moved as well—shadows swelling outward like a living storm, crawling up his limbs, whispering across his blackened steel. Darkness and heat radiated from him like the breath of the underworld.

The two forces launched toward each other with no more words. Light met shadow. Staff met lance.

When they clashed, the air cracked like breaking glass. The shockwave of their collision split the sky above, and a pillar of light and dark shot upward, spiraling into the heavens like a beacon of god and abyss locked in war.

Beneath them, the cathedral trembled—its foundations groaning beneath forces that no mortal plane was meant to contain. The statues stood still… for now.

…

Iralian hovered above the chaos, a crooked smile playing on her lips as she observed the battlefield—her eyes locked on Thomas's clash with the Pope. But her attention was drawn back as the Avatar of Light, the radiant entity Alister had conjured from the shattered remains of statues, suddenly surged toward her.

With a fluid motion, she raised her hand. A blade of pure void, jagged and pulsating with chaotic energy, materialized in her grip. It hummed with an otherworldly resonance, as though reality itself recoiled from its presence.

Before the avatar could close the distance, Iralian vanished from her position and reappeared mid-strike. Her blade arced downward in a violet flash, slicing clean through the avatar—and continuing on through a dozen statues behind it. The pieces fell apart midair, dissolving into ash before they hit the ground.

"You're too weak," she murmured, her voice calm, almost bored.

Rising higher into the air, she turned her gaze toward Thomas, ready to lend her power to the ongoing duel.

Then came a hissss. A sound like burning wind scraped at her ears. She twisted her head to look behind her…and froze.

The avatar still stood. Its body, though freshly destroyed, had reformed—the fragments of the ruined statues swirling into it, merging, restoring. Its glow grew brighter, almost blinding now, as if each death fed it more light. The divine presence it radiated had intensified. Its faceless head tilted toward her, and in one raised hand, a new sword of light shimmered into existence.

It struck. Their blades met in a ringing clash. Sparks of void and light exploded outward. Iralian parried with ease, her expression unchanged—then in a single fluid motion, she shattered its blade and bisected the avatar once more.

But there was no time to breathe. Dozens of nearby statues surged toward her, surrounding her from every direction.

In answer, her void blade crackled, transforming into a spear of lightning. She spun midair, unleashing a burst of violet fury. The storm struck the statues like the devil's judgment—turning them to dust and scattering their fragments across the sky.

Still, the broken pieces drifted through the air, called to the avatar once more.

It stood again—this time larger, with four massive golden wings unfurling behind it.

Iralian's eyes narrowed. "It seems I need to destroy you—and everything around you—all at once."

She extended her palm, and an orb of darkness began forming—dense, pulsing, almost alive. She launched it skyward, and high above her, the orb unfolded into a portal—a gaping wound in the sky. From it poured a torrent of void like liquid, cascading downward and flooding the platform below them.

Anything the void touched—stone, statue, light—was instantly consumed. Tentacles erupted from the pool, coiling around the statues and pulling them into oblivion. Beneath Iralian, the floor became a writhing garden of void-born limbs, devouring everything in reach. Hundreds of statues were gone in seconds.

She raised her finger and pointed at the reforming avatar, which was still drawing in pieces to rebuild.

From her fingertip, a focused beam of void—sharp as a needle and fast as light—fired across the battlefield and struck the avatar squarely in the chest. The blast exploded, swallowing the radiant figure in a bloom of violet annihilation. Smoke and dust churned.

Iralian hovered silently, watching. "Is it done?"

The dust fell… and through it, the avatar emerged again—now with eight glowing wings, its body a beacon of divine power. A faint face had formed across its head—emotionless, divine, and cold.

Without waiting, Iralian fired another beam, faster than the last—but the avatar swept four of its radiant wings in front of it. The void attack struck the wings, but rather than piercing them, it ricocheted, the beams careening wildly off in different directions.

Iralian's eyes narrowed. Her brow creased in irritation. "I don't have time for you."

And then—simultaneously—they both launched forward.

Light and void collided once more, sword to sword. The shock of their clash tore the air asunder.

…

Clementia suspended in the sky, her presence serene yet absolute. Around her, a vast sphere of frost pulsed in slow, rhythmic waves—a barrier of perfect cold, swirling with glimmering snowflakes and mist like a living storm frozen in time.

The Avatar of Light surged toward her, its sword raised, its golden glow blazing against the icy calm.

But the moment it entered the sphere, its form fractured—light cracking like glass—until its body shattered completely into dust. The same fate met every statue that dared cross the frozen threshold. None could survive her domain.

Yet the fragments, undeterred, floated just outside the sphere's edge. Slowly, steadily, they reassembled, piece by piece, building back the avatar again and again. Each resurrection brought greater radiance—until finally, it stood as a four-winged construct, divine and powerful.

Then, in a flash, the avatar's body converted fully into light. It bypassed the frost barrier entirely—passing through untouched, unscathed.

Clementia didn't flinch. She lifted her hand, and with it conjured a shield of glacial ice, intricate and shimmering. The avatar's blade of light struck it, and a resounding impact echoed through the air. Frost splintered from the edges, but the shield held.

As she held her ground, Clementia bit her lower lip—just enough to draw blood. Light was her one true weakness.

But this wasn't strong enough. Her sapphire eyes closed. A wave of mana burst from her core, rippling across the sphere. In an instant, the very air changed.

The world began to freeze. The platform below iced over in spreading webs of white, and every statue caught in her presence turned into brittle, crystalline sculptures of frost. A still graveyard of enemies.

The avatar pressed harder against her shield—but Clementia was more powerful. With one powerful motion, she forced the avatar back, hurling it from her presence.

It came again, faster this time—a streak of blinding gold, its sword aimed directly at her heart. But as it struck—she vanished.

Reappearing behind it in a breath of frost, Clementia now held a sword of ice, sharp and elegant as a snowflake under moonlight. She drove it clean through the avatar's chest.

"Ice Age," she whispered.

A thick rime spread across the avatar's body, locking it in place like an ancient relic sealed in glacial time.

"If I leave you intact," she murmured, her breath visible in the freezing air, "your evolution stops."

But even that wasn't enough. The frozen avatar shattered like porcelain. The shards flew beyond her sphere, and from them rose a new avatar—brighter, larger—now bearing eight burning wings.

Clementia narrowed her eyes. "So be it."

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