Chapter 112: Damascus’ Descent [1]
The blinding pillar of divine, saintly energy finally receded, leaving behind an oppressive, absolute quiet that blanketed the ruins of Norona City.
The birth of a Martial Saint
The first in centuries to walk the sands of the Hudeii Desert—sent physical and mental shockwaves rippling through every powerful entity remaining on the battlefield.
Grand Chancellor Manuses trembled where he hovered, his white-gold wings twitching with a manic, ecstatic energy.
"So this is it...." Manuses chuckled softly.
His amber eagle eyes stared at the shimmering, jade-like form of Croak, his heart hammering against his ribs in pure, unadulterated excitement.
"To think this is how mighty a Martial Saint truly is"
Clutched tightly within his spatial storage was his own Evolution Advancement Elixir, given to him by Roy.
Seeing the raw, reality-warping majesty of a true Saint right before his eyes didn’t just inspire him.
It lit a raging fire in his soul.
’I’m next,’ Manuses thought,
a wide, thrilled smile breaking across his face.
’I am next.’
’The heights of the heavens are finally within our grasp!’
General Trojan stood at the apex of his sand dune, his stoic facade cracking for the first time as his eyes widened in profound awe.
"So powerful...!" he mumbled.
He slowly removed his hand from the pommel of his blade and brought it to his chest, bowing his head slightly in deep, military reverence to the newly ascended Saint.
As the supreme commander, witnessing this evolution filled him with an indestructible sense of pride and inspiration.
Varania was no longer just a rising kingdom.
It was an empire backed by god-like might.
Duchess Eurenia stood amidst the dissipating steam, her crimson eyes reflecting the fading sapphire light of the ascension.
"The night of a Martial Saint"
Her breath hitched.
Her elegant posture freezing as she felt the sheer weight of the Saint of the Sea authority.
She felt completely humbled and deeply inspired, her own martial heart yearning to push past her current boundaries to one day stand beside Croak in that transcendent realm of cultivation.
Duchess Brenda let out a breath that was half-gasp, half-laugh, her massive executioner’s axe slipping slightly from her shoulder as she stared in absolute admiration.
The sheer, terrifying dominance radiating from Croak vibrated perfectly with her savage nature.
"Incredible..." she muttered.
Her fangs bared not in fury, but in pure, unbridled worship of raw strength. "That old frog actually pulled it off."
"That’s the power of our King’s chosen!"
Duchess Alisa, completely submerged within the fluid darkness of the shadow realm, felt the ambient shadows themselves bow down in the presence of the new Saint.
For the first time, her silent, calculating detachment was replaced by a profound sense of awe.
’If a Martial Saint could be this powerful, how strong is a Martial Demigod?’ she thought, ’Could the Apostle reach the heavens with his might?’
Countless thoughts crossed her mind as she watched amidst the shadows.
The darkness around her rippled with a newfound, fiercely loyal conviction.
Meanwhile...
Hector, however, was completely consumed by a volatile, hellish fury.
"Aradin!" he clenched his fist, "That damned frog killed Aradin!!"
Standing near the inner sanctum, he watched the hyper-concentrated sea prison implode, erasing every single trace of Aradin from existence.
The sudden, absolute death of his fellow knight-priest snapped something inside him.
His eyes turned completely bloodshot, a guttural, animalistic roar tearing from his throat as his mana violently erupted in dark, chaotic spikes.
He didn’t care about the Saint-level pressure warping the air.
He wanted to rip Croak to shreds, to tear the jade chitin from the frog’s body with his bare hands and paint the ruined plaza in saintly blood.
"We have lost the war" the gentle voice of Razarak boomed.
The Troll King Razarak, high atop his throne within the protected confines of the Grand Sanctum, slowly rose to his feet.
He stared out through the massive, fractured archway of his palace, his giant four-meter frame casting a long, heavy shadow over the altar.
The stoic calm he had maintained throughout the invasion finally dissolved into a grim, hollow realization.
Looking at High Priest Croak, he knew the truth.
The end was completely, utterly inevitable. Norona City was lost.
"Norona is gone" Razarak whispered, "But it’s not the end...."
The western order was dead.
There was no conventional military strategy, no brute frost strength, and no ancient reserve that could defeat a Martial Saint backed by the Holy Kingdom of Varania.
For the west to survive.
For him to claw a victory out of the jaws of this absolute annihilation.
He had to abandon the physical battlefield entirely.
Turning his back on the frozen, ruined ocean outside, the Troll King looked down at the glowing, intricate arrays of the sacrificial ritual site before him.
His eyes hardened with the ruthless resolve of a doomed monarch.
To win this war, he had to perfect the ritual immediately.
He had to offer whatever remained of his kingdom’s life-force to initiate the absolute, immediate descent of Lord Damascus.
Leaving the absolute ruin of the outer capital behind, the Troll King Razarak turned his massive, four-meter frame and strode heavily into the subterranean depths beneath the Grand Sanctum.
Every step he took vibrated through the cold, dark obsidian corridors as he descended deeper into the absolute heart of the ritual site.
Leaving the terrifying pressure of the newly ascended Martial Saint above.
As he stepped past the final, rune-carved iron threshold.
The air grew deathly still, thick with the heavy, sickening stench of iron, decay, and stagnant mana
Before him lay a horrific monument to his desperation.
Thousands of dead bodies were piled together in grotesque, mountain-like heaps that lined the perimeter of the cavernous chamber.
The grand array was fueled by a grotesque tapestry of slaughter.
Scattered across the blood-slicked stone floor, the dried, shriveled corpses of beastmen littered the scene.
Their lifeforce entirely siphoned away during the early phases of the western conflict.
Their skin tightly clinging to their bones like brittle parchment.
Interspersed among the fallen invaders were the broken, scattered bodies of the Troll King’s own kin.
Trolls who had given their lives—or had them forcibly taken—to fuel the insatiable hunger of the sacrificial formation lay in mangled heaps.
Their legendary cellular regeneration rendered useless, their corpses cold and gray.
At the literal epicenter of this macabre theater, where the thousands of glowing, crimson ritual lines converged, stood the grand stone table.
Resting quietly upon the cold, blood-grooved slab was the unconscious human.
The figure lay perfectly still, breathing in faint, shallow gasps, entirely unaware of the catastrophic war raging above or the mountains of corpses encircling the altar.
The human’s body was the final, crucial vessel.
The ultimate conduit through which the divine and terrifying consciousness of Lord Damascus would soon be anchored to the mortal realm.
Razarak stood over the grand stone table, the crimson glow of the activated runes reflecting off his grim, battle-worn features.
He looked down at the unconscious sacrifice, then back toward the cavern ceiling where the distant, saintly shockwaves still echoed.
There was no hesitation left in his eyes.
"The ritual has reached its final climax" Razarak’s lips curled up, "It just needed a final push"
Raising his massive hands, he prepared to spark the final, cataclysmic convergence.
"The fall of Norona is the final push"
"The misfortune that had be fallen the land of Norona is what Lord Damascus needs" the eyes of the Troll King flickered.
"Heroe Nonima Se’Renao JuJura Dereio" the Troll King chanted in ancient Lydorian and in that moment.
The grand array lit up.
The entirety of Norona began to tremble.
The ritual is complete.
And the descent of the God of Misfortune has begun!