While Dreadlord clashed steel and shadow with Varkos—two monsters locked in brutal ballet—Sylen's focus shifted.
His eyes, pale and sharp like blades dipped in silver, scanned the battlefield behind, and what he saw rattled him.
Cracks still pulsed across the shattered floor of the arena—lines of molten ember that glowed like veins of a dying world.
They shimred faintly, whispering the aftermath of sothing far beyond explosive.
No. This hadn't been re destruction.
This had been precision. A dissection.
A single attack from Alex, and entire legions of Sylen's summons had been obliterated.
Like brittle ash swept off glass.
His whole squads—mages, bestial shadows, armored death knights—gone.
What remained were fragnts. Survivors in the loosest sense. A beast without its lower jaw, twitching in confusion. A knight dragging a half-torso across the ruin, its blade clutched in a fingerless hand.
Others simply knelt where they had stood, as if their code of obedience couldn't process the loss of their limbs.
Sylen's throat tightened.
His army had been shredded. Not over ti.
Instantly.
His eyes darted toward the source—the line of Alex clones still intact, expressions unreadable, bodies poised in perfect symtry like mirrored specters.
Without hesitation Sylen raised his hand. Fingers curled inward with force, his aura flaring.
Then he growled:
"Return."
His voice echoed unnaturally across the ruined arena, not as a request but as a command.
Darkness surged from the base of his boots, coiling around him like an angry tide.
The very shadows warped, spiraling upward like serpents of void. A ring of blackened light pulsed beneath his feet—runes igniting one by one in fast succession.
And then—
Pain.
It slamd into him like a forge bellows igniting his bloodstream.
Mana burned like liquid fire inside him—each vein a conduit for agony. His bones felt hollowed, like sothing was chewing from the inside. His breath hitched. His fingers shook.
But he didn't stop.
He pushed harder.
He wasn't summoning a pair.
He was resummoning them all.
Dozens.
Black glyphs exploded across the battlefield like a plague, spinning glyphic circles of power that split the earth like blooming scars.
And from those runes—
They ca back.
Shadow lted into shape.
Fleshless hands clawed through the stone.
Twisted beasts with glowing eyes slithered into existence, and void-armored knights rose anew—silent, obedient, terrifying.
The dead returned.
His legion, reforged.
They stumbled at first—unstable, fractured, their bodies still knitting. But already, they moved with hunger. Already, they surged toward the clones like vultures returning to a feast.
Sylen's core scread.
He felt his mana dropping like a plumting star, pulled down by the weight of his resurrection.
His chest spasd. He staggered.
Knees dipped.
He bit down on a groan and grabbed his blade to stay upright. The hilt dug into his palm, grounding him through the storm of magic still pulsing from his spine.
But he couldn't collapse just yet.
Not until this monster the archfiend was put down.
He forced himself upright, every breath a declaration of defiance. Then, slowly, he turned his gaze back to the battlefield's core.
To Varkos.
The Archfiend had not fallen.
Dreadlord was still engaged—blades carving arcs of ruin, footsteps cracking the very ground they fought on. Every swing from his sword ca like a siege engine—relentless, colossal. And Varkos t each one with primal fury, his void lightning shrieking in defiance.
Their battle had grown faster.
Too fast.
Like watching a thunderstorm fight its reflection. Bolts of light. Chunks of stone lifted into the air. Ti itself felt staggered—skipping fras as tal clashed with void again and again.
Sylen's eyes narrowed.
Dreadlord was beginning to slow.
His strikes weren't sloppier—but the responses they t were sharper.
Varkos was no longer reacting.
He was anticipating.
He had adapted to Dreadlord attacks.
Sylen's pulse thudded painfully against his ribs.
If Dreadlord falls, he wouldn't be able to summon anything strong enough again.
His grip tightened.
"I have to end this," he muttered, the words more exhalation than thought.
Noctherion's enhancents still surged through his limbs—his stamina, his strength, everything magnified. His shadow cloak rippled around him like liquid ink, billowing with renewed force as he pushed off the ground.
Then, he ran.
Boots shredded through cracked stone, his figure blurring.
This was no ti for caution.
He was charging straight into the storm.
Straight at the Archfiend.
He had Noctherion as defense, so there was nothing to fear.
Dreadlord was mid-swing—his blade thundering down once more. Varkos ducked, responding with a lightning-coated elbow ant to crush armor.
Sylen didn't wait.
He slipped into the fray like a phantom blade—unseen, unheard—his movent precise.
He lunged.
His death-forged weapon cut upward in a wicked diagonal arc aid at the fiend's side.
But—
Varkos turned, reacting just in ti. The blade missed its mark—only barely—and the monster responded with a vicious, sparking backhand.
Lightning arced through the air.
Sylen ducked beneath it, rolled forward, pivoted around the Archfiend's back—
Then...
BOOOOM!!!
Dreadlord struck again.
His massive blade slamd down, catching Varkos in the shoulder and throwing him off balance for the briefest instant.
And that was all Sylen needed.
He twisted, spun in midair.
And ca down with a devastating, mana-infused overhead slash.
The strike crashed into Varkos' other shoulder and his flesh split.
Dark blood burst across the stone like spilled ink under moonlight, and the Archfiend let out a guttural roar, spinning in fury, his hand already charging with another blast of energy—
SLAAAAM!!!
A brutal knee from Dreadlord collided with Varkos' chest, staggering the monster backward, halting the retaliation mid-charge.
Sylen landed in a crouch. He was breathing heavily now. His blade humd with residual death energy, dark runes flaring faintly along its edge.
He didn't stop.
He struck again.
And again.
Each slash reckless.
But not wasted.
He targeted joints. Weak points. The spaces between armor. The eyes.
Every move counted.
Varkos evaded with monstrous grace, each dodge a brush with death, each block forcing him to give ground.
He didn't strike recklessly at Sylen anymore—not directly.
Because every hit might trigger Noctherion's automatic defense response. And that could cost him the fight.
So he split his attention—channeling half of his effort toward controlling Dreadlord's tempo, and the other toward baiting Sylens into missteps.
Noctherion. Dreadlord. Sylen.
It was 3 V 1
Varkos fought like a beast cornered. Not desperate—but furious.
The floor cracked.
The walls trembled.
Lightning danced like serpents around the Archfiend's limbs.
The Archfiend snarled, fury rippling through every inch of his war-forged form. Each step he gave up was carved from rage. But he gave them.
Because he was losing ground.
Then—
A flicker.
Dreadlord dished out an attack that Varkos' hadn't seen before, and he reacted unsteadily to it, which caused him to lose balance.
It was just a mont.
But Sylen pounced on it, his eyes wide with ferocity.
"Now!"
He muttered and lunged forward, blade poised for a killing thrust, aid straight for the Archfiend's heart.
But—
WHOOOOOOOM!!!
Varkos opened his mouth, and a violet cannon of condensed destruction erupted from his maw like a wrathful cot.
Sylen dove—barely clearing the blast.
The beam scread past, shaving the air by inches, then slamd into the ruined ground behind him.
KRAKOOM!!!
The earth detonated.
Shards of stone tore upward like shrapnel. A wall of dust and fire erupted behind Sylen, the shockwave lifting him mid-dive.
He hit the ground and rolled, coming up on one knee in a motion born of sheer instinct. His eyes flared with resolve.
Even through the pain.
Even through the heat blistering against his skin.
He moved.
A spear of solidified shadow ford in his palm mid-roll, and without pause, he launched it.
The bolt soared, and struck Varkos square in the chest. The explosion of black energy forced another stagger from the fiend.
Then...
SLASH!!!
Dread Lord was behind Varkos', and it's blade cleaved across the archfiend legs, forcing the monster lower—then the death knight drove the weapon straight into Varkos' back.
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