Chapter 150: Hopes Pinned on a Miracle

The situation was far worse than anyone could possibly imagine.

Only Duke Galsworthy understood this with absolute clarity.

When Dagon’s arm, measuring at least tens of meters in length, crashed down into the earth, and the ensuing shockwave dealt yet another blow to the battle-scarred city, while a tangible pall of dust obscured most of the firmament, the Glorified Ones and Sword-bearers—having gradually adapted to the terrifying, oppressive might of a being beyond human comprehension—felt a spark of hope reignite within their nearly despairing minds, accompanied by a natural longing for victory.

Although their eyesight was far too limited to discern the specifics of the situation or the tactical developments, and they could not even clearly make out what enemies the colossal, mountain-like merman before them was fighting, it was precisely due to Dagon’s immense physical stature that everyone within Hermetica could infer the extent of the monster's injuries from the descending rain of blood.

And this time, the severed arm falling in the utterly ruined expanse of Hermetica was exceptionally clear to all.

—The enemy has lost an arm!

Such a natural association brought a barely containable jubilation to everyone's face.

Except for Duke Galsworthy and Brandon Onions.

The former still wore a deadpan expression. On the one hand, he had not let his guard down despite the enemy's wounds; on the other hand, it stemmed from... the increasingly surging power within his own body.

It was already beyond his control!

His frail physical vessel had been reduced to a shackle, and his minuscule willpower had become a prison.

As this unimaginable power fermented further, pushing onward toward the ultimate domain known as infinity, the silver-haired, black-eyed Lord of Hermetica increasingly felt the estrangement between his will and his flesh. Every movement of his steps, every shift of his gaze, every twitch of his fingers, and every swing of his arm consumed an amount of energy and mental fortitude no less than a fierce battle against a formidable foe. That very strike which had just severed Dagon's arm was the absolute limit of what he could achieve.

It was not that he was incapable of executing a second strike.

It was simply that... the enemy would never give him the opportunity to do so.

The act of swinging a sword—for an ordinary person, it took roughly the blink of an eye, and skilled swordsmen could even command their weapons as if they were extensions of their own limbs, unleashing a blade almost the moment a thought crossed their mind.

Duke’s realm was only superior to theirs; cleaving the atmosphere, severing sound, and slicing through steel were mere effortless tasks for him. Enhanced by his abilities, the speed of his sword-draw could even surpass the ultimate limits of human sight. Many high-tier fiends who had perished under his blade had not even seen how he drew his sword.

It was just that... the present state of the Lord of Hermetica was exceedingly delicate.

Swinging the sword—

Much like using puppet strings to manipulate every single muscle in his body, the movements of the silver-haired, black-eyed Glorified One were sluggish and rigid. His pathetic performance was even worse than that of a beginner who had just picked up a heavy iron sword.

Earlier, it was because the deep-sea deity had miscalculated the boundless, unimaginably surging vitality within him. After landing three consecutive direct punches, the deity had lowered its guard, thereby granting Duke his window of opportunity.

Now, the enemy would obviously not commit such a low-level mistake twice.

It was difficult for him—or rather, impossible—to find an opportunity to execute a second strike.

Duke Galsworthy possessed this self-awareness. Yet, the Glorified One—whose every shift of gaze threatened to further drain his dwindling energy—did not know that the loss of a single arm was actually of little consequence to an ancient evil that had survived ancient battlefields.

It was regenerating.

Brandon Onions, the Prelate of the Cult, gazed at the scene before him, a mounting bitterness welling up from the depths of his heart.

—It had only taken a few breaths of time.

He let out a soft sigh. In merely a few breaths, a completely undamaged arm grew directly out of the severed stump, showing no discernible difference from the original.

Super-high-speed regeneration.

The ability possessed by Dagon truly made him experience profound despair.

Through the recent exchange of blows, he had already anticipated the defensive power of the dark green scales covering the deep-sea deity before him. Although his all-out strike could pierce them and tear open a sizable wound, what, after all, did a wound roughly the size of a single human matter on a gargantuan merman standing two to three hundred meters tall? It would perhaps bleed a little, cause a slight sting?

Therefore, the only place to repose any hope was Duke Galsworthy.

All that he could do was to draw Dagon's attention away for the silver-haired, black-eyed Lord of Hermetica, helping him buy the time needed to unleash a second strike.

If... he was even capable of executing a second strike.

That terrifying power which transcended the mortal realm was by no means something one could meddle with lightly. Even for those like them who walked at the very end of the mortal path and were qualified to be called powerhouses across the entire domain of order, touching upon it demanded an extraordinarily heavy price—be it the consumption of a vast amount of lifespan, the endurance of horrific backlash, the severing of the foundation of one's own power, or wagering one's very life upon the roulette wheel of fate.

Because of this, he did not know whether Galsworthy could manage a second strike.

Yet he had no choice.

He could only gamble, placing all his hopes upon that second strike yet to be unleashed.

Only by doing so could he persuade himself not to tremble, not to cower, not to be pessimistic, and not to despair.

Thus, the Cult Prelate stationed within Hermetica sprang into action.

Flitting around the deep-sea deity—whose height rivaled the vault of heaven—like a mere housefly, he harbored no illusions that his meager offensive maneuvers could inflict heavy damage upon the enemy. His sole purpose was to draw Dagon’s attention entirely onto himself.

Unfortunately...

Such tricks had no effect on Dagon.

This ancient retainer returning from the mythical battlefields of antiquity completely ignored Brandon's existence. Only when Brandon ventured into vulnerable areas lacking scale protection, such as the eyes, nose, or ears, would the creature impatiently wave its hand as though swatting away a pesky mosquito, forcing the old man aside.

Reflected within those twin crimson pupils was only a single figure.

That figure was Duke Galsworthy.

No, to be more precise, it was the Ouroboros—the serpent of eternity biting its own tail—along with the placenta that nurtured it.

Therefore, it swung the trident in its hand, which plunged directly from the heavens like a blue bolt of lightning. Countless dancing silver serpents illuminated the endless night, plunging the entirety of Hermetica into a storm of thunder and lightning, as if the apocalypse were at hand.

Move, move, move!

The crisis of death caused the power within him—which had been teetering on the brink of total loss of control—to achieve a rare moment of stability. The silver-haired, black-eyed Lord of Hermetica gritted his teeth fiercely. Knowing there was no time to dodge, he met the gleaming, biting chill of the trident head-on and unleashed his second strike—which was also likely to be his final one.

Unexpectedly, the two completely distinct powers that transcended the mortal realm did not collide with one another.

They passed straight through each other, as if reaching some secretive yet malicious accord, and hurtled instead toward each other's respective masters.

The Sea King’s trident crushed the lower half of Duke Galsworthy’s body into a pulpy mess of flesh. No spray of blood rose into the air; the searing lightning directly vaporized everything in its path, leaving behind only the Lord of Hermetica—clinging to his final half-breath of life—upon a ground scorched black and stained with dark crimson.

On the other side, a flash of piercing sword-light that defied human comprehension cleaved the atmosphere, severed the lightning, and sliced right through the mighty deity hailing from the deepest abysses.

—Dagon, lacking the time to evade, had the greater part of its neck cleanly and directly severed. Its head lolled sideways, held to its shoulders by barely a few remaining strands of tendon, dangling precariously as though it might tumble to the earth at any moment amidst the howling, frenzied winds, transforming into yet another pair of wide, unblinking eyes gazing into death.

Yet, being close was still just being close; there were no "ifs," and certainly no "onlys."

Bloody granulation tissue sprouted at a visible rate. The surviving ancient retainer reached up with one hand to adjust its wobbling head, pushing it back into place, while continuing to swat at the pesky fly that had tried to meddle in its affairs.

Then, merely dozens of seconds later, the wound around its neck had completely vanished. The deep-sea deity cast its gaze upon the little fly that had been causing it trouble from the very beginning.

"Clap!"

It brought its massive palms together in a crushing motion, but the blow struck empty air.

Then came the second strike, the third, the fourth... Seventeen consecutive attempts. Perhaps to Dagon, this was merely a trivial matter akin to swatting a fly, but in the eyes of Brandon Onions, each instance represented an unadulterated life-or-death crisis. He managed to evade the first sixteen... but regrettably, on the seventeenth, drained of breath and stamina, he failed to escape the range of the blow in time and was cleanly and decisively slapped to his death.

Blood splattered across the giant merman’s closing palms, leaving behind only a few negligible crimson flecks.

This was the final trace the Cult Prelate left upon this world.

Without any exception or surprise, he was dead.

The Glorified Ones, Sword-bearers, mortals who had miraculously survived within the collapsing ruins of Hermetica, and the small fraction of fiends and high-tier fiends who had poured forth from the deepest night were evidently unable to perceive the humble demise transpiring within the giant's palms. Yet, when they saw Dagon resume its stride, beheld those crimson eyes brimming with tyrannical malice, they naturally and instinctively realized...

Hope no longer existed in this world.

Only destruction awaited them.

This was not an enemy that beings of their tier could hope to resist. Great Sword-bearers, high-tier fiends—perhaps in the eyes of mortals they symbolized the zenith of worldly power, but compared to the pinnacles walking at the absolute end of the mortal path, they were so green, so fragile, and so utterly vulnerable.

The deity from the deep sea merely waved a hand, and an overconfident Great Sword-bearer was instantly beaten into a billowing mist of blood across the sky.

What should they do next?

What should they do next??

What should they do next!!!

Everyone's minds were consumed by panic and anxiety, and every single soul lost their direction.

Because—

Their lives were rapidly approaching a less-than-harmonious period.

They were going to die.

What could they do? What else could possibly be done?

They could only pin their hopes upon a miracle—when all efforts culminated in failure, perhaps only a miracle could dispel the looming shadow of death overhead.

Wait, and harbor your hopes.

The massive fish-like mouth of Dagon, which occupied most of its face, slowly parted, curving into a faint, subtle arc.

Because only thus—

Could I truly savor your despair, laden with agonizing pain!