Chapter : 1321

The fight between the four powerful spirits was a beautiful, world-ending work of art. It was a war of basic forces. It painted the dark, evening-like sky with colors of shadow, lightning, stone, and cursed blood. The city of Bethelham, and the unaware guests at the wedding below, were safe from the destruction. They were protected only by the quiet, shimmering shield of the Royal Palace's old defenses. The shield flickered and groaned under the pressure of the powerful energies being used above.

Roy Ferrum stood like a statue of cold, northern anger in the middle of his own personal hurricane. The power of Magog flowed through him, and the air itself crackled with his controlled rage. He was a storm god, getting ready to deliver a punishment that would wash the skies clean.

Across from him, Beelzebub let out a soft, dramatic sigh. It was a sound of deep and very insulting boredom. “All this… work,” he mumbled. His voice was a pleasant whisper that could be heard easily over the loud chaos. “All this roaring and crashing. It is so… simple. So very… loud.”

He looked at Roy, and his smile was full of pity and condescension. “You people from the North,” he said, shaking his head sadly. “You think power is about force, about being loud and angry. A hammer to break your enemies. But you are wrong. True power,” he added, his voice becoming a secret-sharing purr, “is not a storm. It is a silence. A beautiful, perfect, and total silence that simply… erases things.”

Then, as easily as a man taking off a heavy coat on a warm day, he let go of his human form.

The change was not violent or ugly. It was a quiet, creepy, and very disturbing process. His body didn't twist; it grew longer, becoming impossibly graceful and looking like both a man and a woman. His skin lost all color, becoming a perfect, polished white, like old, flawless china. Two huge, sharp horns of pure black stone that absorbed all light grew from his head. They didn't burst out with power but grew silently and steadily, like a crystal. His eyes, which had been a beautiful, sharp blue, became empty black holes, two perfect circles of complete nothingness. His lips and the long, elegant nails on his fingers turned the same starless, midnight black.

This was his true form. A representative of the Abyss. A being of scary, contradictory beauty. He was not a monster of flesh and blood. He was an idea. He was the living form of emptiness, a demon chief of despair.

He raised a hand, his movements slow and careful, like a conductor about to lead a silent orchestra. As he did, the very idea of hope in the area around him began to weaken and die.

Roy felt it. A cold, creeping feeling of total despair, a mental poison that got past his shields, his anger, and his very will to fight. It was a whisper in his soul that said, 'Give up. It's useless. You've already lost.'

The Arch Duke of Ferrum, one of the ten strongest people on the continent, a man whose will was like a force of nature, stumbled in the air. A hint of doubt appeared in his storm-grey eyes. The physical fight was a tie. But the real war, the war of ideas, had just started. And Beelzebub had made the first, destructive move without even moving a muscle.

Seeing this weakness in his enemy, Beelzebub's black lips curved into a slow, beautiful, and completely terrifying smile. The silence was about to fall.

But Roy Ferrum was not just a fighter. He was a king. And the king of the North does not bow down.

With a roar that wasn't a sound, but a show of pure, stubborn will, he fought back. He didn't try to fight the despair. He accepted it. He let the cold, empty feeling wash over him. He found the core of steel in his own soul, the solid belief in who and what he was. He was a father. He was a lord. He was the shield of the North. And he would not break.

The despair pulled back, unable to get a hold on his strong will. Roy’s eyes became clear again. The storm returned to them, stronger and more focused than before. He had survived the first attack on his mind.

He raised his own hand, and the power of Gog, the living mountain, flowed into him. The air around him didn't just get heavy; it became solid. He became an anchor, a point of total, unmovable reality in a sky that was being erased by the void.

Chapter : 1322

“Your silence is a cheap trick, devil,” Roy declared, his voice like the grinding of the earth's plates. “Now, let me show you the true meaning of substance.”

He and his two spirits became extensions of his own unbeatable will. They became a single, combined force. A mountain and a storm, united against the approaching, beautiful, and terrible emptiness. The sky above the capital became the setting for a war between creation and destruction, between the raw, chaotic power of the world and the cold, elegant silence of the Abyss. The wedding below went on, a tiny, fragile island of joy in a sea of huge, world-ending war. The fate of everything was uncertain, decided in a secret battle fought in a place where the rules of reality were being rewritten with every hit.

The war in the skies grew into a kind of mental violence that humans could not understand. It was no longer a simple fight of power against power. It was a battle of beliefs made real.

Beelzebub, in his true form as the representative of the void, was a terrifying sight of quiet attack. He did not attack in a normal way. He just… existed. His presence was an active, damaging force that tried to unmake the world around him. The clouds that Magog controlled would just disappear if they got too close to him. Their moisture and energy were erased from existence. The very light of the sky seemed to bend and twist around him, as if the world itself was pulling away from his complete nothingness.

His two evil spirits fought with a similar terrible grace. The Black Dragon didn't just breathe shadow; it breathed a wave of mental decay. When its breath touched Gog’s stone body, the ancient rock didn't crumble; it aged a million years in a second, turning to weak, lifeless dust. The Crimson Oni’s cursed lightning was not just a bolt of energy; it carried a kind of spiritual decay. Every strike that hit, no matter how small, didn't just damage Gog’s physical body. It also put a quiet, creeping poison into his spiritual core.

Against this beautiful, elegant, and horrifying attack, Roy Ferrum and his spirits were a fortress of raw, stubborn, and wonderfully chaotic reality. They were the world fighting back.

Roy, now a perfect mix of his own will and the power of his two guardians, became a force of nature. He was no longer just a man; he was a living storm attached to an unmovable mountain. He met Beelzebub's mental erasing with a huge wave of pure, unfiltered creation.

He reached out and made a thousand spears of pure, solid lightning from the empty air. Each one hummed with the power of a thunderclap, and he sent them flying towards the Black Dragon. He stamped his foot on the empty sky, and a mountain range of sharp, black spikes shot up from nothingness. It was a cage of solid earth made to stab the Crimson Oni.

Gog, following his master’s command, stopped trying to fight the Oni directly. Instead, he became a master of earth warfare. He opened his mouth, and a river of melted, liquid rock erupted, not to burn, but to trap. The magma cooled instantly into a shell of black rock, covering the Oni’s legs and pinning the fast creature to the spot.

Magog, at the same time, stopped its direct attack on the dragon. It became a vortex, a spinning, chaotic engine of air pressure. It didn't attack the dragon directly; it attacked the very air around it. It created small vacuums that tore at the dragon's skeleton wings, messing up its flight and sending it tumbling through the sky like a broken toy.

The battle was a stunning, terrifying, and amazing tie. It was a perfect, beautiful dance between two opposite and equal forces. The quiet, creeping decay of the Abyss against the loud, chaotic, and unbeatable will of the North.

Beelzebub watched the show. His black, empty eyes held a flicker of something that could have been surprise, or maybe respect. He had expected a rough, direct attack. He had not expected this. This was not the clumsy anger of a northern brute. This was the disciplined, creative, and scarily adaptable art of a true master.

“Impressive,” Beelzebub whispered, his voice a smooth thread in the middle of the storm. “You have made the world your weapon. A simple choice, but an effective one.”

“This world is my home,” Roy roared back, his voice the thunder of a thousand storms. “And I will not let it be unmade by a ghost from the dark.”