Chapter : 637
The thing that pulsed on the scorched earth was a violation of natural law. It was an unfinished blasphemy, a creature that defied every known category of existence. It had the formless, gelatinous quality of a colossal slime, easily ten feet in diameter, but it was not translucent or mundane. Its color was the absolute black of a starless, moonless midnight, a void that seemed to absorb the very light around it, creating a pocket of profound darkness in the bright afternoon sun.
It had no limbs to strike with, no eyes to see with, no mouth to roar with. It was simply a heaving, amorphous mass of living shadow, its surface rippling and shuddering with a silent, malevolent energy. It was a primal, unfinished horror, a creature that had been torn from the Abyss before it was fully formed, a nightmare given substance.
Yet, despite its utter lack of discernible features, the spiritual pressure it radiated was immense. It was a force far more potent and terrifying than the Curse Knight in his armored form had ever been. The debilitating curse aura that had once been a tactical weapon had now been concentrated and amplified into a palpable wave of pure, negative energy. It was a suffocating presence, a psychic miasma that promised not just weariness or despair, but utter, soul-crushing nullification. It was an aura of anti-life, a field of entropy that sought to break down and consume all other forms of energy.
Lloyd felt the change in the battlefield instantly. His connection to Iffrit, the psychic conduit through which he channeled the demon’s boundless fire, suddenly felt strained and sluggish. It was as if the very air between them had become a thick, viscous medium, a spiritual tar that resisted his will. This new, formless creature was a walking dead-magic zone, and it was actively corroding the very fabric of his power.
From across the garden, Princess Isabella let out a sharp, pained gasp and sank to one knee, her face paling dramatically. The vibrant spirit energy that had sustained her through her own duel was being actively leeched away by the creature’s presence. “What… what is that thing?” she breathed, her question a whisper of pure, unadulterated horror. Even from a hundred meters away, the creature’s aura was sapping the very life force from her and her guards.
“Fall back! All of you, fall back now!” Captain Eva roared, her voice sharp with urgent command. She shoved a faltering student behind her, creating a human shield with her own body. “Form a defensive perimeter around the students! Do not, under any circumstances, engage that… that thing!” She was a veteran of a hundred battles, but her instincts screamed at her that to get any closer to that creature was to have her soul scoured from her body.
Lloyd’s mind, the cold, pragmatic mind of the Major General, processed the new threat with the speed of a supercomputer.
Threat entity reclassified. Previous opponent: Ascended-level warrior with a focused, debilitating curse. New opponent: Unidentified Abyssal entity. Projected power level: Peak Ascended, possibly touching the threshold of Transcended. Primary abilities: Area-of-effect spiritual corrosion, high resistance to conventional energy forms. Physical structure is diffuse, making single-target kinetic or piercing attacks likely ineffective. Weakness: Unknown. Presumed weakness: Conceptual opposition. Annihilation-class energy required.
The calculation was instant. The decision was absolute. He could not afford a prolonged battle of attrition against a being that fed on energy. This thing had to be erased. It had to be removed from existence, quickly and completely, before its corrosive aura could do permanent, irreparable damage to the onlookers or the very soul of the Academy grounds.
He took a half-step back, creating a crucial few meters of space between himself and the formless demon. He did not need to speak a command. He simply projected his will, a silent, absolute order, through his psychic bond with his spirit partner.
Iffrit. Full power. Annihilate it.
The demon king of fire, Iffrit, who had been watching the transformation with a silent, burning contempt, needed no further prompting. The creature before him was an affront to his very nature. It was a being of cold, empty shadow, the absolute antithesis of his own glorious, roaring, life-affirming fire. With a deep, subsonic rumble that was felt in the bones of every living thing in the garden, Iffrit acted.
He did not charge. He did not swing his sword. He simply plunged the glowing, molten tip of his colossal, twelve-foot zanbatō into the scorched earth before him.
The effect was immediate, and it was cataclysmic.
Chapter : 638
The ground around the amorphous, black demon erupted. It was not a conventional explosion of fire and shrapnel. It was a silent, rising tide of pure, crimson flame. It was not a fireball or a jet of fire that could be dodged or blocked; it was a mountain of fire, a solid, roaring, three-dimensional pillar of absolute annihilation that burst from the underworld to utterly consume the creature. The formless demon was instantly engulfed in a swirling, inescapable vortex of incandescent plasma, a self-contained, miniature sun that turned the Academy garden into a scene from the deepest, most terrifying pits of hell.
The heat was so intense that the ancient stone wall behind the inferno began to glow, bubble, and melt like wax. The very air crackled and warped with the thermal stress. The onlookers cried out, shielding their eyes from the blinding, terrifyingly beautiful spectacle of pure destruction.
But from within the very heart of the fiery mountain, the damned soul of the Curse Knight fought back.
The pillar of annihilating fire raged, a silent, swirling vortex of impossible heat. It was a power that should have erased anything from existence in a heartbeat. And yet, the formless black demon, the final, blasphemous incarnation of the Curse Knight, endured. It was being consumed, its shadowy mass boiling and hissing as it was unmade by Iffrit’s conceptual flames, but it was not yet destroyed.
In its final moments, it gathered every last shred of its power, the concentrated essence of the knight’s sacrificed soul and the abyssal curse that had defined him, into a single, desperate point of retaliation. A final act of defiance from beyond the grave.
From the heart of the inferno, a sphere of energy shot forth. It was a projectile of pure despair, a swirling vortex of the abyssal black of the curse and the ethereal, sorrowful blue of a lost and broken human spirit. It screamed through the superheated air, a missile of concentrated negative energy aimed directly at the White Mask.
Lloyd watched it come, his masked face impassive, unreadable. He could have dodged. A simple sidestep would have been enough. He could have had Iffrit intercept it with another wave of fire. But to do so would have been to grant the creature a final, small victory. It would have been an admission that its final, desperate act was a genuine threat to him. He would not give it that dignity. He would meet its ultimate attack with his own, and he would demonstrate the uncrossable gulf that lay between them.
He raised his own fiery broadsword, the blade a conduit of Iffrit’s immense power. He did not attempt to match the complexity of the demon’s attack. He met its despair with pure, simple, overwhelming force. He channeled a fraction of Iffrit’s power, a small taste of the inferno that his spirit was currently unleashing upon the world. A swirling ball of crimson fire, so dense and so compact it looked like a miniature sun, formed at the tip of his blade.
With a smooth, effortless, and almost casual motion, he swung his sword forward. He did not hurl the fireball as a projectile. Instead, he unleashed it as a wave of pure, concussive, annihilating heat.
The blue-black sphere of despair met the crimson wave of destruction in mid-air.
The result was not a grand explosion of light and sound. There was no deafening boom that shook the Academy to its foundations. There was only a single, sharp, tearing sound, like the fabric of reality itself being ripped in two. For a fraction of a second, a perfect, shimmering sphere of absolute nothingness appeared where the two opposing energies had collided. It was a hole in the world, a momentary vacuum where both powers had utterly, completely, and perfectly cancelled each other out. And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Lloyd stood, his sword still humming with a universe of contained power. The creature’s final, desperate attack had been negated, erased from existence as if it had never been fired at all.
And the mountain of fire that was Iffrit’s primary attack continued to burn, its purpose singular, its fury absolute.
After ten long, roaring seconds that felt like an eternity, Iffrit withdrew the tip of his zanbatō from the ground. The inferno vanished as quickly and as silently as it had appeared. The blinding crimson light receded, the impossible heat dissipated, and the world returned to a semblance of normalcy.
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Where the formless, black demon had been, there was now… nothing.
Chapter : 639
Not a single trace remained. Not a scorch mark different from the ones Lloyd had already made. Not a wisp of foul-smelling smoke. Not even a single grain of ash. The creature, and the soul of the knight that had fueled it, had been so completely and utterly consumed, so perfectly unmade by the conceptual flames of annihilation, that it was as if it had never existed at all.
Lloyd stood in the sudden, ringing silence, looking at the empty, blackened space on the lawn. He felt a flicker of surprise, a genuine and profound intellectual curiosity. It was not surprise at his victory—that had been a foregone conclusion the moment he had committed his full power. It was surprise at the totality of it.
He had known Iffrit’s fire was powerful. He had not, until this moment, truly comprehended its conceptual nature. It didn't just burn matter. It seemed to specifically and fundamentally erase things of shadow, curse, and negative spiritual energy. It was the perfect, absolute counter. A valuable piece of tactical data for future engagements.
The Curse Knight of Altamira, in all his forms, was gone.
The judgment was complete.
The White Mask had won.
---
The silence that followed the demon’s absolute erasure was heavy and profound, a vacuum in which the world seemed to hold its breath. The searing heat that had bleached the sky began to dissipate, replaced by the cool, crisp air of the afternoon, now permanently tainted with the sharp scent of ozone and the ghostly smell of vaporized stone. The White Mask stood alone in the center of his scorched circle of devastation, a silent, solitary figure whose stillness was more intimidating than any roar.
Behind him, Iffrit, the god-like demon of fire, let out a low, rumbling growl of deep, primal satisfaction. Its purpose fulfilled, it dissolved into a swirling vortex of crimson motes of light and shadow, vanishing as silently as it had appeared, returning to the soul-space from whence it came. The spectacle was over. The immediate threat was neutralized. For the White Mask, it was time to disappear.
Lloyd turned, his movements calm, economical, and deliberate. He began to walk away from the heart of the destruction, his back to the stunned audience of royals, elite guards, and traumatized students. His part in this public drama was finished. He had been forced to reveal a fraction of his true power, a move that would have dangerous and unpredictable consequences down the line, but he had achieved his primary objectives: he had protected Airin, and he had eliminated a high-level threat from a rival kingdom. It was a necessary cost, a calculated risk in a war that was growing more complex by the day.
“Wait.”
The voice cut through the silence, clear as a crystal bell, yet ringing with an imperious authority that was accustomed to absolute obedience. It was Princess Isabella.
Lloyd paused his stride but did not turn around. To acknowledge her was to engage. To engage was to risk a conversation. And a conversation, no matter how brief, carried the unacceptable risk of exposure. He had to maintain the mystery. He had to remain an unsolvable, terrifying enigma. So he stood with his back to her, a silent, final act of dismissal.
He heard the soft, hesitant scuff of her boots on the scorched earth behind him. She was approaching. He could feel the weight of every gaze in the garden, a hundred pairs of eyes fixed on their silent tableau.
“I asked you to wait,” she said again, her voice closer now, and he could hear the frustration and outrage warring with a reluctant awe. “You saved my life. You saved the lives of my students. You saved my personal scholar. The Crown of Bethelham owes you a profound debt. I would know the name of our benefactor.”
Lloyd remained silent. He took another deliberate step, his intention clear. He was leaving. Her gratitude was a political complication he did not need. Her debt was a leash he had no intention of wearing.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his arm.
It was small, but the grip was surprisingly firm, the calluses of a swordswoman pressing against the fabric of his sleeve. The Princess had physically, publicly, stopped him. It was a breach of protocol so profound, a princess of the royal blood touching a mysterious, cloaked, and demonstrably apocalyptic figure, that it sent a new ripple of shocked gasps through the onlookers.
“I will have your name,” she insisted, her voice now a low, fierce whisper meant only for him. “I command it.”
Chapter : 640
Lloyd stopped. He stood perfectly still for a long, agonizing moment that stretched into an eternity. Beneath the blank, emotionless void of his white mask, his mind was a raging sea of calculations and risk assessments. He could feel the fine, embroidered fabric of her royal cadet’s uniform against his own simple, dark attire. He could smell the faint, aristocratic scent of jasmine and polished steel that clung to her. He could feel the heat of her pride, her frustration, her desperate, royal need for an answer, for a box to put him in, for a name to attach to the impossible power she had just witnessed.
And he could give her nothing.
With a movement that was at once impossibly gentle and yet irresistibly firm, he pulled his arm from her grasp. He did not flinch. He did not look back. He did not offer a word or a gesture of apology.
He simply took another step forward, and as he did, his form was consumed by a silent, swirling vortex of crimson flame. For a single, breathtaking heartbeat, he was a pillar of living fire, and then, he was gone. A final, dramatic, and utterly unequivocal exit that left no room for further questions.
Princess Isabella was left standing alone in the center of the circle of black earth, her hand still outstretched, grasping at the empty, superheated air. She stared at the spot where the masked man had vanished, her expression a complex, beautiful storm of frustration, awe, and a deep, unsettling intrigue that burned brighter than any fire. She had been saved by a ghost, a phantom of fire and shadow, and she was no closer to understanding him than before. The mystery of the White Mask was no longer a simple curiosity; it had become a burning obsession in the heart of the kingdom’s future queen.
A few moments later, in the cool, deep shadows of a secluded stone alcove hundreds of meters away, near the faculty lounge, reality shimmered and tore. A vortex of silent, crimson flame bloomed for an instant and then vanished, leaving Lloyd standing in its place. The high-speed movement using Fang Fairy's lightning cloak drained his energy, he was so fast that it looked like teleportation. He sagged against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in ragged, painful gasps. The adrenaline of the battle, the god-like power of his spirits, was now receding, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep weariness.
He moved with practiced efficiency. The featureless white mask was untied and tucked away into a hidden pocket. The fiery broadsword, which was merely a mundane practice blade he had channeled his power through, dematerialized back into his System’s inventory. The menacing, oppressive aura of the Major General was ruthlessly suppressed, locked away behind layers of mental discipline.
He smoothed down his fine, ducal attire, took several deep, centering breaths to calm his racing heart, and recomposed his features into the bland, polite, and slightly vapid mask of Professor Lloyd Ferrum. The transformation was complete. The god of war was gone, and the awkward young academic had returned.
He pushed open the heavy oak door to the teachers’ room and stepped inside, preparing a story about having been caught in the chaos and taking shelter. He expected to find a room full of panicked academics, a flurry of activity and frightened chatter.
Instead, the lounge was empty. Eerily silent. The sudden crisis had clearly sent the other professors rushing to the main hall to await royal orders, or to secure their own classrooms and students.
“Good,” Lloyd muttered under his breath, a wave of relief washing over him. “The last thing I need right now is a barrage of questions from a flock of panicked old men.” The thought was uncharitable, but he was too physically and mentally drained to care. All he wanted was to sink into a chair in the solitude of his office, to be still, to process the chaotic, world-altering events of the past hour.
He walked across the plush carpet toward the door of his small office, the adrenaline crash hitting him like a physical blow. His legs felt like they were filled with lead. He had just reached for the doorknob, his mind already anticipating the blessed quiet, when a calm, deeply resonant voice spoke from the main doorway of the lounge, a voice that made his blood run cold.
“A rather eventful first practical lesson for your tenure, wouldn’t you say, Professor Ferrum?”
Lloyd froze, his hand hovering over the doorknob. His heart, which had just begun to slow, leaped back into his throat. He turned slowly, a dreadful certainty settling in his gut.
