Part 2
"Attack! Don't let it get any closer!" Harlem roared from atop the wall, legendary staff raised high, as the colossal dragon marched toward the city like an inevitable judgment.
Mortem didn't charge.
He didn't roar again.
He didn't need to.
His advance was a sentence—slow, deliberate, inescapable.
On the front line, a stocky dwarf with a braided beard and scars from decades of battle hefted a cannon over his shoulder like it was a beloved instrument.
"I'll blast you to dust, you sack of bones!" bellowed Grung, the fortress gunner of Fjorn-Hall, famous for having taken down Tarkann's iron wall with a single shot.
He clenched his jaw.
The cannon began to glow—deep crimson light swelling like a heart set aflame.
"Magic support! Damn it, this isn't a fireworks show!"
A young mage, barely past her teens, dashed up beside him—her hands glowing with a vibrant violet aura.
"Heroic Boost! Your shot will have triple the penetration, Mister Grung!"
"Thanks, kid… but you really shouldn't be in a place this dangerous," the dwarf muttered without looking back.
The girl gave a shy smile. But she didn't run.
The cannon hummed.
The air around it warped from the heat.
"EAT THIS, YOU WALKING TRASH PILE! WAR CANNON!!"
A steel shell cloaked in elemental energy burst from the barrel.
Its trajectory tore across the sky, leaving behind a blazing trail.
It was aimed dead center—straight for Mortem's exposed chest, where ribs splayed like shattered wings.
"Support Grung's shot!" Harlem called out, voice sharp and commanding, like a general who knew the value of momentum.
From the wall, a symphony of magic and arrows filled the air.
"Hunter Arrow!"
"Inferno Fire Blast!"
"Rock Blast!"
"Phoenix Shoot!"
"Blizzard!!"
Elemental lights painted the sky like a stained-glass window set ablaze.
Arrows ignited as they passed through magical barriers, enhanced by ancient runes.
Every mage, every archer, every shooter poured everything they had into that first strike.
The goal wasn't to win. It was to stop him. To break the momentum of fate.
Grung's shell struck first.
The impact shattered the air.
A blast.
A shockwave.
And smoke.
A suffocating, heavy fog of destruction.
Adventurers held their breath. Some soldiers began to cheer, hopeful.
But then…
The smoke cleared.
Mortem still stood.
No cracks. No missing pieces.
Just the same grinning skull, now dusted with a dull layer of ash.
The young mage dropped to her knees.
"Impossible…"
Grung spat on the ground. The look in his eyes was that of a warrior who'd just thrown down his best card—only to realize it couldn't even scratch the table.
"…This can't be happening."
"Brace yourselves!" Harlem shouted, voice cutting through the dread, his staff raised once more.
"He's going to retaliate!"
Mortem lifted a claw.
Magic around him twisted, cracked, and collapsed. Reality itself recoiled from his presence. As if the world saw him not as an intruder…
…but as its rightful owner. Or its final mistake.
And then, his voice returned.
Not as an echo. But as a sentence.
"DON'T MAKE ME LAUGH…"
"YOU COULDN'T EVEN BREAK A SIMPLE BARRIER."
"I WARNED YOU, BALLIARD…"
The dragon's skull tilted ever so slightly toward the command tower of Arkenfel.
"NOW YOUR PRIDE WILL BURY THESE YOUNG ONES ALIVE."
It wasn't a threat.
It was a pre-written epitaph.
The younger adventurers felt a chill crawl down their spines. There was no scream, no roar, no savage howl.
Just a voice.
And yet, it cut like a blade to the soul.
"Don't let it shake you!" Harlem shouted. "Let your names ring louder than your fear!"
The elf struck the ground with his staff.
"Elfic Garden."
A green pulse radiated outward in concentric waves. Where shattered stone once lay, glowing grass now bloomed. Golden-hued flowers shimmered, and roots wrapped gently around their feet like an ancestral embrace.
The air filled with floating lights, like mana fireflies dancing in a holy wind.
"What… is this feeling?" a lancer murmured, his weapon trembling slightly in his grip.
"It's Harlem's skill," said Grung, his voice softer. "He's turned the battlefield into elfic ground."
Their bodies grew lighter.
Minor wounds closed.
Weapons gleamed sharper.
Barriers felt steadier.
But then…
Mortem laughed.
A laugh with no throat.
A hollow, empty laugh that echoed from inside each of them.
"PRETTY. BUT USELESS."
His wings unfurled fully. Black cathedrals etched with curses.
Magic circles began spinning across his bony feathers.
One. Two. Twenty. Fifty.
All locked onto the defensive line.
"DEATH RAIN."
It wasn't rain.
It was a massacre.
Thousands of black needles fell from the sky like a deluge of damnation.
Each one vibrated with dead mana—like they'd been forged from the soul of a fallen god.
"Magical defenses!" Harlem commanded, raising his staff as a massive barrier formed to shield the adventurers.
"Prism Barrier!"
"Elemental Fortification!"
"Mana Guard!"
Domes. Walls. Shields.
They all rose in an instant, reflexes honed by warriors who knew that a single second meant the difference between survival… and vaporization.
But it wasn't enough.
The first second, the shields held.
The second, they began to crack.
And then… They shattered.
Not with explosions. But with the sound of breaking glass under fire.
One by one, the magical defenses collapsed.
Each needle that pierced flesh did so like there was no resistance.
Even A-rank, even S-rank adventurers dropped in silence.
No scream.
Just a dull thud.
Bodies impaled.
Blood sprayed.
Choked cries.
"Hold formation!" Harlem shouted, retreating toward the second line. "Anyone still breathing, fall back to me!"
But the sky kept bleeding needles.
And Mortem… hadn't even taken a single step.
"Die in silence, you damn lizard!" shouted Ideo. "Enjoy my ultimate technique!"
"Ideo, don't be reckless!" Harlem warned—but it was already too late.
"Nova Drill!"
A blazing drill of magical fire erupted from Ideo's spear, spinning violently as compact flames tore through the air. The impact struck Mortem's bony torso with a deafening clash—each rotation sending out heatwaves hot enough to melt steel.
Mortem made a sound.
Not a roar.
A groan. Of pain...
That instantly twisted into pure, seething hatred.
"DIE, YOU DAMN FOOL!"
His left claw rose slowly, almost savoring the moment—
And then came down like divine judgment.
Ideo never even had time to scream.
All that remained was a crater.
A pool of blood.
And his spear, broken in two.
The adventurers froze.
The silence wasn't respect.
It was fear.
Harlem clenched his jaw.
"You'll pay for that, Mortem…"
The dragon turned its skull toward him, grinning without muscles, yet somehow still smiling.
"TELL THAT TO YOUR IDIOT REGENT, HARLEM…"
"IF BALLIARD HAD SURRENDERED WHEN I OFFERED… I WOULDN'T BE DOING THIS."
Harlem narrowed his eyes.
"Then why not go straight for him?"
Mortem looked up at the overcast sky.
A long pause.
And then, calmly:
"I SUPPOSE… SINCE NONE OF YOU WILL LEAVE HERE ALIVE… I COULD TELL YOU."
The air grew heavy.
All around, adventurers swallowed in unison.
And then he said it:
"I'M JUST FOLLOWING ORDERS."
It wasn't a secret.
It was a verdict.
Harlem turned pale.
His staff trembled slightly in his grip.
"Is there really someone out there who can give orders… to one of the Four Dragons of the Apocalypse?"
He recalled the old texts.
The forbidden scrolls.
The legends.
"It's true Mortem alone isn't a global threat… not without his siblings… but if someone's controlling him."
"Since when does a destroyer like you follow anyone?" Harlem asked, his voice laced with grim respect.
"SINCE I WAS FREED FROM MY PRISON… AND GIVEN PURPOSE."
"I MAY NOT HAVE REGAINED ALL MY POWER…"
The air turned red.
"BUT DON'T THINK THAT WHILE I'M TALKING… YOU CAN SHIFT THE BATTLE IN YOUR FAVOR."
Mortem opened his jaw.
A sphere of swirling red and black energy began to charge in his throat, spinning like an inverted galaxy, fed by ancient hatred.
"Damn it! He figured me out!" cursed Grung from the western flank.
The dwarf was hidden beneath magically reinforced roots.
His massive cannon sat atop an enchanted metal pedestal.
"Alya! Gerard! Finish the energy transfer! Now!"
Two mages—robes torn, faces exhausted—channeled raw mana through glowing threads into the cannon's core.
"Just ten more seconds!"
But Mortem… wasn't going to give them the time.
The red and black sphere swirled in his throat, on the verge of unleashing total annihilation.
Grung's finger hovered over the trigger.
Alya and Gerard poured every last ounce of mana into the cannon. Time slipped through their hands like warm blood.
And then, a whisper swept across the battlefield.
"Sacred Arrow."
A white breeze, like the breath of a forgotten god, drifted across the sky with flawless grace.
A holy arrow soared through the air without resistance.
It didn't burn.
It didn't scream.
It simply flowed.
And it struck.
Mortem raised his head just as the arrow pierced him… right between the eyes.
His breath veered skyward, the massive energy sphere spiraling out of control until it crashed into a distant mountain.
The explosion lit the horizon like a second dawn.
And from the hidden flank—Grung roared:
"Devastation Molten!"
The cannon fired its final shot.
A lethal, condensed blast, amplified by the desperate magic of both mages.
The projectile slammed into Mortem's side like a meteor born of hopeless resolve.
Mortem fell.
His wings folded in.
His massive body crashed into the earth, sending up a storm of dust, ash, and bone shards.
The defense line shook.
The walls groaned.
And for one breathless moment… the world stood still.
From a raised platform between the towers, bathed in golden light like a savior returned.
Junya Mori.
Standing tall.
Bow still warm.
His expression serene.
At his sides, two women held him up with interlocked hands: a paladin and a cleric. Aira and Judith. Or at least, that's how the world saw them.
"Don't lose focus," he said calmly, his voice unwavering.
"This isn't over."
From below, soldiers cheered.
Adventurers found renewed strength.
Some even cried.
The Hero of the Bow had returned.
The Savior.
The Hope.
And none of them… knew they were embracing the Void.
Because within the rising smoke, the sound of cracking bones echoed again.
Mortem was rising once more.
Slower.
Stronger.
More brutal than before.
And Yamato simply watched… like a conductor opening the curtain on the second act of his bloody opera.