Low-Fantasy Occultist Isekai-Chapter 123 - 118

A hush settled over the battlefield, almost more terrifying than the chaos that had preceded it. Even the swirling inferno around Marthas seemed to slow for one tense moment. The Daughter of Fate stood opposite him, radiating with newly siphoned power. The air thrummed with potential, and Nick, now half a mile away behind a ridge of scorched earth, couldn't suppress the wonder churning in his gut.

I might die just watching them go at it, but what a way to go.

Then the Daughter's presence rippled out. The charred husk of the Guardian abruptly shuddered and rose. His silver armor was now little more than scorched and twisted metal fused to flesh, and his eyes glowed with an unhinged malevolence. He didn't turn back to his uninjured state this time. Whether that was because of the fae's choice or because Marthas had done something to affect her power, it wasn't clear, but Nick knew that was little more than a weapon now. Little to nothing remained of the leader that had led the fae.

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Reality itself flickered around the broken creature, and he reappeared in random places, skipping frames like a puppet caught in a broken reel of film. Each time, the Guardian's limbs twitched with unnatural speed, and each time, Marthas's flames wasted no time in reducing him to cinders anew.

Yet it was never for long. The Daughter's power extended beyond conventional mortality, and with each flicker, the Guardian emerged again, looking more animalistic. His proud posture slouched as though corrupted by multiple false revivals. His jaw hung open in a silent scream; the battered edges of his soul must have shriveled with every forced return, leaving only unthinking rage.

Each reappearance tested the boundaries of Marthas' patience. But, inexorably, the Prelate dispatched him each time.

Trees that had never existed sprouted in the battlefield's center—oak, ash, elm, all at once—shaking off embers like raindrops. They rose taller than castle spires in seconds, only to be engulfed in molten tongues of golden flame. Nick's eyes darted between spreading fires and spontaneously blooming flora, unable to tell where the boundary of the real world ended, and the Daughter's illusions began.

Worst of all, the spirits of the dead fae soldiers rose en masse. Ghostly outlines flickered into being, moaning or shrieking in hollow unison, forming an immense spectral legion. Some bared ethereal swords; others howled at the sky. They descended upon Marthas all at once, but the Prelate only lifted his arms, runic script glowing across the corded muscles of his shoulders and chest. His voice thundered over the battlefield.

"By the seal of flame and circle of ash,

I invoke you, Sashara, radiant and eternal,

Whose blaze binds and whose embers purify.

Spirits of shadow, twisted by darkness,

I brand thee with the mark of the Ever-Burning,

A sigil of fire that cannot be quenched.

Flee now, or face annihilation in holy flame.

By the ashen rites, by sacred smoke and glowing word,

Sashara, burn away this evil forevermore."

Power crackled around him, raw and uncompromising. Behind him, his flames took the shape of Sashara's brand, the golden hearth. A second later, the fire spiraled outward, lashing at the approaching spirits.

The shrieking legion of restless souls contorted, twisting in agony as the exorcising fires consumed their incorporeal forms. For the first time, Nick thought he saw a flicker of alarm in the Daughter's luminous eyes. Where she had previously stood with an air of serene certainty, a subtle tension now curved her perfect mouth.

Still, the Guardian refused to stay dead. He reappeared over and over, each time more bestial, less coherent. After one more revival, the monstrous champion came at Marthas on all fours, slobbering and shrieking a war cry that seemed more demonic in origin. Marthas pivoted gracefully, smashing his glowing fists into the Guardian's skull. There was a flash of golden fire, and the half-melted helm caved in. In an instant, the Guardian was reduced to a smoldering mass once more.

Marthas hissed something under his breath, though the Guardian did not heed him. Another flicker, another ephemeral reconstitution—this time missing half his face, bits of bone gleaming black amid sizzling gore. It attacked like a rabid dog, only to be incinerated again. A particularly powerful gout of flames exploded in Nick's direction, obliterating the packed earth and forcing him to cast a [Force Barrier] with the last of his mana.

When it passed, and he was able to drop the spell, he felt agonizing pain all over. His body felt raw, and the glowing blue lines carved by his mana were now imprinted on his flesh as angry welts. Any more usage, and he'd risk permanently injuring himself.

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A veil of dust coated his hair and face while his outer coat turned to cinders. The surge of stolen vitality from the fae knights had kept him going, but that wellspring was gone; the Daughter had dissolved her remaining subjects into motes of soul energy to nourish herself. He had no more resources to sustain reckless spellwork.

Yet, determined to protect his companions, he tried to gather mana for another layer of [Force Barrier]. Pain speared his chest, so sudden and potent that he dropped to one knee. A raw scream tore from his lips. The glowing blue lines beneath his skin smoked ominously.

Eugene appeared at his side, hooking an arm under Nick's shoulders before he could collapse entirely. "Stop!" He barked in paternal fury. "You'll kill yourself if you keep channeling."

"I have to—" Nick gritted his teeth, only to hiss when a spasm of pain threatened to make him pass out. Eugene tightened his grip, gently pulling him back. Nearby, Arthur spared a single backward glance before settling in to stand watch as a barely visible field of lightning spread around him.

"We'll protect you," Eugene said firmly. "We have just finished gathering the men, so we can take it over from here. You just—rest."

Nick swallowed, struggling to comply, half-delirious from agony and the monstrous pressure saturating the air. Eventually, he relented, settling down with a groan.

If I can't intervene, I at least want to learn as much as I can.

Through the swirls of heated wind, he saw the climax of the fight. The Daughter raised both hands overhead, forming a complicated sigil, funneling more magic in one second than Nick had channeled in his entire rampage. He felt it pressing on his lungs, making each breath an effort.

With a scornful laugh that rang like crystal chimes, she turned her attention away from Marthas. Even before she did it, Nick could tell that she aimed to absorb the last remaining fae forces, a mixture of knights, the Hunt leader, and scattered mage-types who had survived thus far and hadn't needed to be resurrected by her powers.

The sigil exploded in a pulse of light, passing through the fiery constructs and leaving them unscathed. They weren't her target.

One by one, the last remaining fae collapsed into dust or shards of light as though peeled away by invisible claws. More than a hundred of them cried out in pain and betrayal, and then they were gone, their life siphoned as effortlessly as one might scoop water from a pond. Even the weakened Hunt leader had barely enough time for a single word in their language before his armor fell into a neat pile, and the occupant dissolved.

A great, shimmering vortex of energy spiraled into the Daughter's outstretched hand. Her eyes glowed with triumphant, near-mad exultation.

"You craven tyrant! You would kill your own people simply to feed your power? I will excise your taint from this world." Marthas thundered.

She responded with a melodic, condescending laugh. "I can remake them whenever I please. Is that not the nature of a Court? Their purpose is to serve me, the Queen. Learn your place, mortal."

Nick had long since abandoned his physical senses and was relying entirely on what the winds were telling him, despite knowing that even such a passive usage would continue to worsen his state. The Daughter's aura had become a blinding kaleidoscope, swirling with pastel greens, golds, and pinks. At times, her form flickered into multiple overlapping images, as though she existed in more than one place at once—another dimension or timeline, perhaps. But she wasn't using the power she had just gathered.

Her plants kept losing ground to Marthas' flames, and she did nothing to change the rhythm. He closed in, wave after wave of scorching power swirling around him, unstoppable. Nick could sense the fury etched into the lines of his face, the unwavering belief that he would triumph.

And yet, he was sure there had to be one last gambit yet to come.

At last, she let out a scream that reverberated across senses beyond mortal hearing. Nick felt it thrum through his mind like nails on glass. Arthur caught a portion of its effect with his sword as crackling arcs of lightning fanned around him to absorb the intangible mental assault—but even he couldn't get it all. Dozens of men crumpled, moaning in terror, clasping their hands over their ears.

Nick's vision blurred as a wave of unimaginable pressure bore down on them. The Daughter's arms extended, and a jagged rift carved itself in midair: a gash in reality, shimmering with prismatic edges.

Nick peered into the rift and saw a swirling nexus of indescribably vibrant light. The dungeon core…That has to be the core. It's so beautiful.

The ephemeral swirling energies surrounding it hammered his senses like a tidal wave. The air was so saturated with mana that it was hard to discern anything.

Though the Daughter didn't have the courtesy of explaining herself, Nick was able to feel how her power surrounded the core, beginning to infiltrate its structure slowly. Whatever she was trying to do, he was confident that she shouldn't be allowed to finish.

Marthas, too, sensed her attempt, and luckily, he had much more agency to stop her. His voice, at once thunderous and reverent, rose in prayer.

"She Who Renders All To Ash! In your holy name, let these primordial flames reduce the false dominion to cinders."

In that instant, Nick witnessed the peak of the Prelate's power. The golden flames erupted outward in a tempest that dwarfed everything he had displayed thus far. They formed into flame lances the size of a watchtower, exploding into an inferno capable of laying a city to waste.

The daughter's scream flared once more, but the roar of the uncontrollable fire drowned it out. The rift containing the dungeon core became the battleground for that cataclysmic energy, seething and screeching. In Nick's mind, he heard the core—the true essence of the dungeon—recoiling in a desperate bid for self-preservation.

It was too late. The righteous fire hammered it with such intensity that Nick's vision whitened, and a noise like a thousand roaring dragons assaulted his ears. All was flame, all was light, suffocating and purifying. Through his blurred senses, he caught a flash, a single image of a large crystalline sphere fracturing along hidden fault lines. Then came a cracking sound.

It's done. He broke it. The dungeon is dead.

A shockwave of power rolled outward from the sundered core. Nick felt it slam him in the chest, stuttering his heart. He tried to hold onto consciousness, but the magical pressure tore his breath away and collapsed the battered protections that Eugene and Arthur had raised.

Most men were already gone, but the few who'd resisted so far lost their fight as their senses were overwhelmed.

Something warm and metallic filled his mouth, and Nick barely had the presence of mind to realize it was likely his own blood. The last thing he noted was the unstoppable wave of raw power spreading across the battlefield, accompanied by the distant sounds of men and fae alike screaming or collapsing from the aftershock.

His thoughts scattered like ashes in a gale, leaving behind only silence and the fading echo of Marthas' final prayer.

Then, darkness.