Gerald lowered his greatsword, the blade humming faintly with residual power. His deep voice rolled out like the toll of ancient war drums echoing through hollow mountain halls—laced with authority, and layered with finality.
"Stay on your knees... and I shall spare your life."
But Asher did not flinch.
His white eyes—glowing like twin stars caught in a winter storm—narrowed with cold fury. In the space of a heartbeat, he vanished.
Wind screamed as the air split open behind him, and in the next instant, he crashed into Gerald's chest with a thunderous boom, the sheer force of the impact launching the knight through a stone wall, then another, and another—until his armored form skidded to a violent halt within the sacred hall.
Stone crumbled around him as Gerald groaned and rose to one knee, muscles aching beneath dented plate. Dust clung to his frame, battered from the barrage.
He lifted his head—only to see two brilliant white eyes shimmering in the darkness of the gaping holes Asher had carved with his body.
"So you have chosen death," Gerald spat, rising. His voice surged with defiant pride. "But your rage will bear you no fruit. You can never possess a woman who belongs to the very peak of this world!"
Asher answered with silence—and motion.
Like a wraith unbound, he surged forth, his body a blur of berserk energy. His claws—ice blue and pulsing with primal force—lunged from the void, mere inches from Gerald's face. Then, as the light struck him, his monstrous form fully unfurled: the white bear of legend—muscle-bound, draped in thick braids of fur, fangs flashing beneath his snarling lips, and eyes like twin moons ablaze in fury.
Gerald raised his vambrace in defense, but his eyes widened—the claws sank in.
Snarling, he twisted and slashed in one smooth motion, severing Asher's forearm with brutal precision. Crimson sprayed. He spun with practiced grace, his sword carving three diagonal lines across Asher's torso, each blow sending shockwaves through flesh and armor alike.
"Die!" He roared, thrusting his sword like a battering ram. But Asher pivoted, blood trailing in a vivid arc, narrowly dodging the impalement. White fangs peeked through his lips.
Gerald had no time to wonder. Asher stepped forward, seized his shoulder in an iron grip—and slammed his head into Gerald's with skull-shattering force.
The shockwave hurled Gerald backwards like a ragdoll. He crashed into the stone throne with a sound like thunder ripping through a cathedral. Groaning, he looked up through a haze of pain—and then saw it.
A white wolf had entered the hall, moving with eerie grace. Between its teeth gleamed a sword.
Asher extended a bloodied hand and took the blade from his companion's maw—Ithamar, his sword. The moment he gripped it, his right hand flared crimson, muscles pulsing with renewed heat. From his left hand, already regenerated, an icy mist gathered and hardened—forming a long, jagged sword of frost.
And then, a voice. No—voices.
"Rise... and face us!"
Dozens of voices boomed from Asher's mouth, layered in perfect, terrifying harmony, like the cries of vengeful spirits walking beside him. Step by step, he marched toward Gerald.
The knight rose slowly, cracking his neck and flexing his hands. His expression darkened.
"It's a pity," he said coldly. "You won't live long enough to learn from your mistakes."
Then his body began to change.
His muscles twisted and grew, shredding his armor from within. White fur erupted across his frame as he surged to nine feet in height, his back hunching slightly from the mass of power. From his elbows burst jagged, ice-blue spikes. His claws gleamed like polished crystal. Braided locks of fur fell across his bestial face. He was no longer a man—he was a titan. A monster of war.
The ground trembled beneath his feet.
The instant their blades met, the entire hall quaked. Cracks spiderwebbed across the floor. Pillars split with shrieks of protest. Sparks and frost burst from their weapons in waves as Gerald slammed Asher's head into a wall, cracking it wide.
Asher snarled and surged back, shoulder-checking him and swinging his longsword—only for Gerald to absorb it with his shoulder pauldron and twist away from the follow-up frost slash.
There was no wasted movement. Gerald was faster than he had any right to be.
With a brutal lunge, Gerald plunged his sword into Asher's abdomen.
Then came the headbutt—sharp, decisive—followed by a flurry of motion that sent Asher stumbling backwards, blood trailing from his mouth and fresh wounds.
As Gerald wrenched his sword free, his cold gaze lingered on Asher's bleeding form. And in it—pity.
Rage exploded from his chest like a scream.
"Argh!" He roared, his cry echoing through the broken hall. He raised both swords and slashed in a cross—his frost blade clashing against Gerald's guard, opening a brief window to plunge Ithamar toward the knight's side.
It barely sank in before Gerald danced away.
His size, his weight—every advantage leaned in his favor.
And Asher knew, deep in his primal heart, that if Sirius joined now—he would be next.
He couldn't lose Sirius again.
In that blink of hesitation, Gerald burst forward and drove his knee into Asher's face with the force of an avalanche.
Asher crashed through three stone pillars before falling in a heap, the breath knocked from his lungs.
Gerald approached, his boots crunching through rubble and blood.
"It pains me that I must kill a talent like you, Lord Ashbourne," he said solemnly. "But I am sworn to Cyrenia. And Princess Sapphira... belongs to Cyrenia."
His body trembled. He was on one knee again, eyes flickering—white, then normal, then white again. His chest rose and fell with ragged gasps. Blood stained his fur. He could hear the muffled chaos of battle beyond the shattered walls—explosions, screaming, and a storm brewing in his soul.
"But she wants to stay with me," he whispered, voice cracking.
"The destiny is to be an empress."
His voice broke completely. "Let her go."
Gerald didn't even blink.
Silence hung like a blade above their heads.
And then Asher spoke, his voice low, deadly.
"Then you better kill me now..."
He rose, barely standing, blood dripping from his jaw, his hide dissolving in mist and shadow.
"Because if you don't—Cyrenia will burn."