Garen's talent was called Executioner—a dreadful power that allowed him to match the strength of any opponent, whether they were weaker or stronger than he.
Worse still, it rendered him impervious to elemental attacks. His dominance was not only in raw power but in the sheer depth of experience—over four centuries of battle-forged knowledge and honed instinct. Against that, Asher's youth and strength faltered.
Asher found himself oppressed on all sides. Every strike, every parry, every attempt to seize control of the duel was answered not just with greater force but with greater cunning.
The technological marvels he once relied on, the advanced gear he'd prized, proved little more than brittle toys before the unknown alloy of Garen's silver armor.
And with every failed attempt, a chilling truth became clear: there was a secret buried within Tenaria—a secret that only revealed itself to those who reached its summit. The gap in power wasn't just wide… it was abysmal.
Blood spurted into the air as Garen's blade carved a deep gash across Asher's thigh, forcing a grunt from his lips. The knight didn't give him a moment to breathe—his boot slammed into Asher's midsection, hurling him like a ragdoll.
He flew through the camp, crashing through tents and debris, tumbling across the outskirts where silence and fire met in uneasy truce.
"My Lady, leave now!" Nero shouted toward Sapphira, his voice tight with urgency and fear—for her life, and for the child she carried.
But Sapphira didn't move. Instead, her hands glowed as she summoned a radiant barrier just in time. A massive arc of sword-light came cleaving from behind. It would've taken Nero's head clean off had she hesitated even a second.
The earth quaked as Garen landed with a thunderous impact twenty meters from them with Asher.
Asher, his body aching, rolled from the debris and forced himself to stand. Blood dripped from his wounds—but they were already sealing. His regeneration kicked in with desperate speed.
'Help me!' he said inwardly, calling upon the spirits of those who came before him.
Only stillness answered his call.
'You shall receive no help.'
Zenas' voice echoed from the depths of Asher's consciousness, calm and resolute. 'This is yours to carry.'
There was no time to process the meaning. Garen's massive blade came crashing down.
Asher barely sidestepped it, planting his feet and ramming his shield into Garen's side. He followed with a desperate sword thrust—but Garen twisted his blade and parried with ease.
"You're sharp-witted for a twenty-five-year-old brat…" Garen muttered with a cold smirk, "but you're still slow."
Garen drove his shoulder into Asher's chest with punishing force. The sickening crack of shattering ribs echoed across the field. Asher's body flew once more, crashing through burning tents and crumpling into the dirt.
Sapphira's hands trembled, her breath quickening, but she didn't move. Her head lowered, dark hair hiding her face.
"Your men are watching!" Garen's voice boomed like thunder as he turned to the soldiers slowly gathering in the distance—faces streaked with ash and blood, eyes wide with disbelief.
"They see their lord groaning in agony. Tossed like a dog on the dirt. No grace. No glory. No honour!" His words cut deeper than any sword.
With deliberate malice, Garen plunged his greatsword into the ground, letting it stand as a symbol of his supremacy. He watched as Asher, against all odds, pushed himself to his knees, then forced himself upright once again.
A slow chuckle escaped Garen's lips.
"I must admit, I didn't expect such tenacity. That regeneration of yours is no small feat. But it must be draining your force… or perhaps, in your case… mana."
A low growl rippled from the ranks behind.
"Let's kill this bastard!" one soldier shouted, eyes ablaze with fury.
But Alec threw an arm in front of him, halting him with a fierce glare. His gaze was locked not on the soldier, but on Garen—who hadn't even turned his head.
The moment the soldier stepped past the hundred-meter mark, the very air around Garen shimmered with heat—and the soldier would've been reduced to glowing ash before ever reaching him.
"Are we just going to stand here and do nothing?! No matter how strong he is, all of us together can bring him down!" Lambert snarled, his grip tightening around his lance.
"Of course," Alec replied calmly, not even flinching. "But at what cost? At least seventy percent of us will die… maybe more. He hasn't even unleashed his inner world yet—and judging by his force, I believe he can. At will."
"So we're supposed to stand by and let His Lordship die?" Paul hissed, his bow already half-drawn.
"Wait…" Alec's eyes narrowed. "Something's not right."
At that moment, Garen closed his eyes… and when he opened them, his right pupil glowed faintly with a strange, burning hue. If one could peer into the depths of that gaze, they would have seen where it landed—on Sapphira.
'No man can do it… not even him.'
His thoughts were not words but a current of resolve flowing toward her, like a silent promise—or a judgment.
Orange mist billowed from his glowing eye. Then—
Flames erupted from the ground behind him, spiraling upward like a serpent ascending the heavens before morphing into a titanic dragon of pure fire. The earth blackened beneath its heat, cracks stretching outward in a violent web of chaos.
Soldiers scrambled, screaming and fleeing as molten flames spewed from the fissures—yet none touched Sapphira, nor the tent behind her. The inferno parted around her like an obedient servant.
She stood unmoved. Her violet eyes were veiled beneath strands of black hair, but a spark blazed within them—hope, flickering like a candle defying the storm as she gazed at Asher.
Inside Asher, another storm raged.
'You will die if you do not shut the world out,' Zenas's voice echoed from the deep. 'Shut out the pain… the fury you feel from his mocking words toward your woman. You haven't spoken—but I can feel it… the fire in your heart.'
Above, the fire dragon soared—its light casting shadows as far as Velmyra. Civilians stirred in their beds, stepping out of homes with eyes widened in awe and dread. Some fell to their knees. Others wept.
Garen swung his blade down.
The dragon collapsed into a torrent of flame, a divine punishment falling from the heavens like a meteor.
It would raze the land for kilometres.
It would take everything.
Asher's eyes widened.
His woman. His unborn children. His men.
'Inner worlds are forged from will,' Zenas spoke again, his voice sharp with urgency. 'We doubt the world because it doesn't obey us. We humans are greedy—we want strength, riches, eternal life… what do you want? Paint the world in your heart. Show it to me.'
Asher stood frozen. Flames reflected in his eyes. His skin bubbled, melting under the heat. His bones trembled.
In the spirit realm, Zenas stepped down from his throne. His jaw was tight.
'Asher… what does your heart desire?'
Like a dam bursting, a vision flooded Asher's mind.
A boundless snowy plain stretched before him—vast, silent, and sacred. Jagged black boulders floated above the frostbitten land. And above it all—
Gently falling snow, white as memory.
Back in the real world—
Asher took a step forward. His feet crushed the scorched earth.
He raised his sword high—
The massive arc of flame crashing toward him froze mid-air, sealed inside a crystalline wall of translucent ice. The world gasped.
It pulsed through his heart like liquid steel.
With another step, Asher thrust his blade forward. Ice coalesced around it—growing, stretching—
A gigantic blade of clear-blue ice roared forward, slamming into Garen and hurling him back. It pierced through his strange armour—and through his chest!
Blood splattered across the ground.
For a moment, Garen stood still… then slowly looked down at the wound.
The wound closed—not a scar left.
Garen chuckled, low and hoarse, like a man relishing the past. "Never in my lifetime did I imagine… an Awoken One at twenty-five. There hasn't been a single case in centuries—not even at a hundred years."
His eyes turned cold. "I did not come on my own will. I did not attack under the command of my lord, Prince Aaron Nethaneel either." He turned, facing Sapphira. Her body trembled—just slightly—as her eyes locked with his for she could sense he was about to ruin this great success.
"I have fulfilled my duty as an Anointed, Tenaria," he said grimly. "I owe you no more favours."
He raised a hand and pointed at Asher.
"Next time… I will kill him."
He turned and walked away.
His eyes weren't on Garen.
They weren't on the crowd.
Or… could she even still be called that?