No one answered.
Hundreds of thousands of soldiers stood frozen, watching in disbelief as Richard and the others were instantly obliterated right before their eyes. None of them had processed what had just happened.
It wasn't just them—even Fursa and the rest were visibly shaken by the sheer decisiveness and brutality Dusk had just unleashed.
This was Medici, after all—the commander of Clinton Empire's most elite military force.
And yet, he was annihilated in a single strike.
Witnessing that in real time was every bit as earth-shattering as the moment they first learned of the divine descent.
"What's wrong? Is that fear I see?" Dusk stood atop the bronze Divine Idol, his expression icy and disdainful.
Prince Richard had never been so thoroughly humiliated in his life. Dusk's arrogant provocation sent blood rushing to his face. Grinding his teeth, he barked furiously, "Don't get cocky, bastard. You really think I can't take you down?!"
As he spoke, a crimson flash lit up in his hand. The air instantly grew scorching hot.
A searing red light surged upward into the sky, and within it, a gleaming pearl-like orb shimmered with intensity.
Fursa's voice dropped low. "Tier-2 Tiered Sealing Relic—Skyburn Pearl!"
Wells and Witt both visibly tensed the moment he said it.
Wells's eyes narrowed as he murmured, "Why would he have that?"
The Skyburn Pearl was a legendary artifact of the Clinton Royal Family. Calling it a national treasure would be no exaggeration. It was usually held by the king himself—rarely, if ever, entrusted to anyone else.
Yet here it was, in Prince Richard's hands. The implications were staggering.
Neither Wells nor Witt were fools. Instinctively, they both took a few steps away from Richard.
Richard, of course, paid them no mind.
He looked down at Dusk, cold hatred written across his face. "You damnable heretics. I don't care what it costs me—today, none of you are walking away from here alive!"
As soon as the words left his mouth, fire erupted across the sky. A blazing inferno consumed the clouds above, turning the entire heavens crimson.
From the heart of that firestorm, a massive dragon made of pure flame unfurled its wings. It stretched nearly a hundred meters long and dove toward the earth, streaking directly for Dusk and the others.
The heatwave it carried was suffocating. Many onlookers could barely breathe.
"Your Majesty!!" Fursa cried out, and in a blink, he threw himself in front of Dusk without hesitation.
The others were a split-second slower, but they rushed forward too, shielding Dusk without a second thought.
Dusk was momentarily caught off guard by their loyalty.
He hadn't expected this ragtag cult to actually risk their lives for him. Apparently, they were even dumber—and more endearing—than he'd assumed.
He'd have to rethink his relationship with them.
Even as those thoughts crossed his mind, his hands moved in fluid precision. The crystal embedded in the Scepter of the End pulsed with dark red light.
A concentrated orb of raw destruction formed in the air—dense, volatile, brimming with annihilating force—and shot forward to meet the oncoming fire dragon.
The collision was instant.
Flames and destruction clashed in a deafening explosion.
The sky dimmed. The air itself warped and trembled.
At the point of impact, two immense forces tangled, merged—and then detonated in a cataclysmic burst.
BOOM!
Thunder crashed down, the earth erupted, and shockwaves tore across the grasslands like a hurricane.
The blinding flash forced everyone to instinctively shut their eyes.
Both Dusk and Richard vanished into the heart of the blast.
Kaiwei—the commander of the Royal Family's secret guard and Richard's personal protector—had been lying in wait, concealed in the shadows. The moment the explosion hit, a sharp instinct told him something was wrong.
Without hesitation, he charged into the blinding light.
A second deafening explosion rang out the moment he entered.
One after another, the blasts thundered through the air, splitting eardrums.
When the dust finally began to settle, blurry shapes emerged from the haze.
One figure stood tall, clutching a dark crimson staff.
His white robes rippled in the wind. A massive bronze hand arched protectively over him, shielding him completely.
The other hand of the bronze Divine Idol was buried deep into the earth.
Prince Richard of the Clinton Empire… and Kaiwei, commander of the royal guards… were gone.
In their place, a crater.
The battlefield was drowned in silence once more. Only the wind remained, whistling through the stillness.
When reality finally sank in, chaos erupted. Even Bishop Wells and Witt were visibly shaken.
"Long live His Majesty!" Fursa shouted, his face flushed with exhilaration. You'd think he had landed the killing blow himself with how proud he looked.
Nara, on the other hand, was practically starry-eyed. For the first time in her life, she looked upon someone with unreserved awe and admiration.
While the Cult of the End erupted in cheers and celebration, the Cult of the Dawn stood frozen, like mourners at a funeral. Faces pale. Souls gutted.
The battle had barely begun, and already half of the Empire's top elites were dead.
Meanwhile, Dusk hadn't even been scratched.
What the hell were they even fighting for now?
Dusk stood with his hands clasped behind his back, calm and composed, not a flicker of emotion on his face—
—though inside, he was a nervous wreck.
That fireball?
He genuinely thought it was over. If he hadn't reacted fast enough to activate the Divine Phantom Mask, he'd have been a charred corpse by now.
But on the outside? Not a crack in his expression.
To anyone watching, it looked like he'd casually taken out two of the Empire's most powerful defenders without so much as breaking a sweat.
He even had the audacity to scoff, "Transcendents? Pathetic."
"…This bastard…" Bishop Wells felt his scalp crawl.
At this point, he didn't need any more convincing—this mysterious bastard was no ordinary cult leader.
And just then, Dusk looked directly at him.
His lips curled into a cold smirk.
"Tell that insect you call a goddess—Dawn—I'll be paying her a visit myself. She'd better have that divine body scrubbed clean and ready."
To any follower of the Cult of the Dawn, those words were the vilest blasphemy imaginable.
Wells's brows twitched violently, his face contorted with rage. He wanted to lash out, to condemn this filthy heretic for insulting the divine.
But the moment Dusk raised the Scepter of the End, his hand trembled.
Teeth clenched, face twitching, Wells spun around and barked, "All troops—fall back! Now!"
The Cult of the Dawn Knights and Clinton Empire soldiers, who had been ready to fight to the death, froze in place, thinking they must've heard wrong.
"Retreat?! Bishop Wells, have you lost your damn mind?!" Witt looked completely stunned. The battle had just begun—and if they retreated now, wouldn't Richard and Medici have died for nothing?
How the hell were they supposed to explain this to the followers of the Cult of the Dawn? And what about the Clinton Royal Family? More importantly—he had just defected from the Cult of the End. If Fursa and the others recovered, they'd definitely come after him.
"I'll say it again—retreat!" Wells wasn't even listening to Witt anymore. Right now, all that mattered was getting himself and the Dawn faithful out alive, and bringing word back. Let His Holiness decide what to do next.
Fighting to the death with some unknown, terrifying force wasn't bravery—it was suicide.
Especially now that he was starting to see the outline of the Clinton Royal Family's real plan. Those conniving bastards clearly had their own agenda. If he and everyone he brought here were wiped out, it wouldn't just be a tragedy—it would be a crippling blow to the Cult of the Dawn.
Worse yet, they might not even manage to destroy the Cult of the End. If things spiraled further, the Dawn cult could go down with them.
Weighing the risks, a temporary retreat was, undeniably, the smartest option they had.
Witt looked like he was choking on rage. He wanted nothing more than to resist—but his position didn't give him the authority to override Wells. In the end, all he could do was glare hatefully at the Cult of the End… then grit his teeth and follow Wells, shoulders slumped in defeat.
When the Cult of the End saw the Dawn cult actually starting to pull back, Fursa and the others froze for a second—then a tidal wave of wild celebration swept across the battlefield.
"We won!! We actually won!!" Quito threw his head back in laughter, high on the thrill of it.
"Your Majesty is brilliant! Your Majesty is invincible!" Vysa's gaunt face lit up with joy. His heart swelled with reverence for Dusk—and a deep shame for ever having doubted him, even for a second.
A being so formidable, so wise, so unstoppable—there was no doubt about it. This was their Lord of the End.
Farther away, as the sounds of jubilation echoed behind them, Wells's expression darkened with every cheer.
He turned and cast one last glance at the bronze-masked man on the battlefield.
His eyes were cold and venomous.
"You've killed too many of us. This won't end here," he said with a voice like a curse. "When I report back to His Holiness, whether or not you're truly the Lord of the End… we'll make sure there's not even a scrap of your corpse left behind."
Dusk, still basking in the admiration of the crowd, sensed something and glanced up.
He caught the sinister glint in Wells's eyes—but his own gaze, from beneath the bronze mask, narrowed ever so slightly, then looked away.
He didn't care.
Right now, all that mattered was getting through this moment. Just survive this stage, and that would be enough.
As for what came after?
No need to worry too much.
Worst case? He could always ditch the Cult of the End and run.
———
At that same moment, some of the Church of the End members finally realized something strange was happening.
"Why are the Cult of the Dawn people… pulling back?" the fat deacon muttered, watching the retreating army in confusion.
He had no idea what had just unfolded.