The clash escalates beyond reason.

Kore's spear thrusts again and again, faster than the eye can follow—her body a puppet of divine instinct, moving with no hesitation, no thought, only the command to destroy. Each blow carves rifts in the air, her strikes ripping open seams of pure mana. Her cracked flesh glows faintly, the white light bleeding from inside her like a star burning through paper.

Mhazul meets her with savage joy, every swing of his axes fueled by his monstrous vitality. Sparks and molten shards spray as his weapons grind against her spear, their collision birthing endless shockwaves. His laughter echoes over the battlefield even as blood runs down his arms, even as bone shows through torn flesh.

"Hahaha! This is it! Break yourself on me!"

Kore doesn't respond. Her jaw is slack, her breathing ragged, eyes glowing void-white. Her voice is gone—only the storm inside her speaks.

Her next strike pierces through his guard. The spear tip carves across his chest, splitting through steel-hard flesh and sending a spray of blood into the rain.

Mhazul staggers back a step—then throws his head back and roars with exhilaration. His wound steams, flesh knitting around it almost instantly. "Good! Again! AGAIN!"

But her body can't take it.

With every movement, Kore's skin splits wider, fractures racing across her arms and shoulders like shattered porcelain. Blood gushes, sizzling into steam against her burning aura. Her ribs strain, cracking under the unnatural surge of borrowed divinity.

A soldier on the wall cries out in horror, voice shaking: "Her body—she's tearing herself apart!"

Still, she pushes forward.

Her spear surges, a tidal wave condensed into a blade of light. The strike lands—a decisive blow that hammers into Mhazul's side, sending him crashing to one knee, the stone beneath him fracturing under the force.

For a heartbeat, silence.

Then—he laughs.

The wound is deep, bone-deep, but his chains coil and his axes blaze, his aura swelling like a furnace that refuses to die. His smile is manic, eyes burning brighter than ever.

Kore's body shudders violently. Her skin fissures, light spilling from the cracks, her blood no longer red but glowing azure. She stumbles, barely catching herself with her spear. Her breath rattles, her chest rising and falling as if she is drowning in her own power.

Her last fragments of humanity flicker—then fade. Her body moves again, spear rising for another strike, the afterimage of a warrior who has already passed.

The dead fighting the living.

Her body is moments from collapse—yet that unknown instinct surging through her refuses to yield. It senses the end, senses the vessel crumbling, and in that fleeting moment decides—if death is inevitable, then let it be with everything.

Her spear trembles, glowing violently. The waters gathering around her no longer flow like rivers—they rise like an entire ocean, pressing down from above, swallowing the sky itself. The clouds blacken, thunder cracks, and the heavens bow under the weight of a storm no mortal body should wield.

Mhazul's grin falters for the first time, crimson eyes widening—not with fear, but with savage delight.

"Oh? A final struggle?!"

The chains coiled around his body ignite, blazing red as molten light courses through them, as though they drink straight from his veins. He slams both axes together, the sound like thunder cracking the sky, and his roar ripples across the battlefield.

"Good! Then I'll answer with mine—my strongest!"

Kore's spear fractures in her hands, not from weakness—but from transformation. The weapon sings, reshaping as torrents of water spiral around it, forming a colossal lance made of pure oceanic force.

Her body cracks further, glowing fissures racing across her flesh. She has seconds—perhaps less—before her vessel gives out. And in those seconds, that unknown instinct commands her to release it all.

Her voice tears from her throat, broken yet divine:

"Tier 6 Skill—Abyssal Deluge!"

The sky collapses.

A hole opens above the battlefield, a vast churning vortex of water and storm. It isn't rain—it's an ocean, inverted and crashing downward, an abyss descending from the heavens. The spear in her hands swells into a tidal spear, every thrust dragging the entire sea with it, as if the world itself is drowning.

The walls of Watervale quake as the incoming tide eclipses sight itself, a wall of crushing weight blotting out moon and stars. Soldiers can only stare, mouths open in awe and terror.

And Mhazul?

His chains rattle wildly, his body shaking not from fear—but from ecstasy. He slams his axes into the ground, lava surging outward, veins of molten light spiderwebbing across the battlefield. He lifts his weapons, both now burning like twin suns. His voice booms, a proclamation of ruin.

"Tier 6 Skill—Hellforged Annihilation!"

The ground ruptures.

Columns of fire burst upward, thousands of flaming spires lancing skyward like the world's bones tearing free. His axes, cloaked in molten flame and infernal steel, carve arcs that drag whole continents of fire with them. Chains blaze like serpents of molten iron, lashing through the sky, binding it in a cage of fire.

Then—ocean and inferno meet.

The Abyssal Deluge crashes downward, an endless tide of crushing water, while Hellforged Annihilation surges upward, an inferno bent on consuming heaven itself.

The collision is beyond sound.

The world seems to end in silence before erupting in a deafening roar that tears eardrums.

Steam, flame, and water engulf everything.

The battlefield shakes as if the land itself is screaming, mountains in the distance fracturing, rivers reversing their flow. The sky tears open, black clouds shredded apart, exposing the raw void beyond.

Soldiers are hurled from the walls, monsters incinerated or drowned in the backlash. Stone fortifications vanish as though they were sand. The sea and the fire do not simply cancel—they devour, clash, consume, and explode endlessly.

The sky clears slowly.

The black clouds torn apart by clash of sea and fire drift away, revealing faint light above. Smoke and steam roll over the battlefield, carrying the acrid scent of charred stone and scorched water.

When the haze thins—two figures remain, floating in the broken air.

Mhazul hangs upright, his axes still in his hands, but his body is battered beyond recognition. His chest is carved open in deep wounds, blood dripping freely down his torso, his armor in tatters. Even so, his aura still burns—unbroken, defiant.

Kore stands opposite him. Or what's left of her.

Her body is breaking apart piece by piece, glowing fragments flaking into the wind. Her legs are already gone below the knees, dissolving into streams of azure light. Her face is calm, but empty—like a statue crumbling in silence.

hush falls over Watervale. Soldiers on the walls and in the streets stare upward, their breaths caught in their throats.

"L-lady Kore…" someone whispers, voice trembling.

The disintegration quickens. Her spear fades first, the oceanic lance unraveling into spray. Her arms follow, cracks racing through them until they collapse into dust. She doesn't cry out, doesn't resist—it's as if she accepts it.

And then, in the final flicker of her light—she is gone.

Nothing remains. No body, no weapon. Only motes of shimmering water drifting on the air, before the wind scatters them across the ruined city.

A wave of despair crushes the Watervale warriors. Some fall to their knees, others grip their weapons with shaking hands. Their leader, the pillar they fought beside, has vanished before their eyes.

"No…" a veteran mutters, tears streaking through soot on his face. "Not Lady Kore… Not like this…"

"Clan leader!" another voice cries, breaking into sobs.

Even the proudest warriors cannot hold back their grief. For a moment, it seems the spirit of Watervale dies with her.

Then—Mhazul descends.

Slow, deliberate, his massive frame bleeding yet unbowed. His boots strike the cracked stone with weight enough to silence the cries. His axes drag beside him, leaving scorched lines as he plants himself before the broken gates of the city.

His voice, rough yet steady, rolls over them like thunder.

"As a respect… for your clan leader," he says, each word heavy. "I will give you a second chance to surrender."

The soldiers stiffen. None dare speak.

"Surrendering," he continues, raising his head to meet their gazes, "does not mean slavery. You will live. You will keep your homes. But you will kneel, as subjects under my king."

Murmurs ripple through the ranks. Hope and shame battle in their voices. Some glare at him with hatred, others stare at the ground, trembling with fear.

Time stretches, the silence unbearable.

Finally, one man steps forward—a weathered Tier 5 warrior, his armor dented and soaked in blood. His sword arm hangs limp, but his eyes are steady. He bows his head, voice cracking.

"…I surrender. My family still needs me."

The words shatter the silence like a stone through glass.

At first, only silence answers him. Dozens of eyes turn toward him—some filled with contempt, others with envy, others with weary understanding. He kneels, his blade clattering to the broken stones, and presses his forehead to the ground.

Then—another follows.

A young soldier, barely more than a boy, grips his spear with shaking hands. His lips tremble, but his voice comes out clear enough to reach the walls.

"…I surrender too. My mother… she's waiting for me at home."

One by one, voices rise.

"I can't throw my life away—not after everything she sacrificed to raise me."

"And my children… they won't grow up without a father."

"…Besides, I'm certain Lady Kore would want us to keep living. Who are we to waste the life she fought for?"

The words spread like sparks on dry tinder. In moments, dozens throw down their weapons. Then hundreds. The sound of steel hitting stone fills the air, a chorus of surrender that rolls across the ruined city.