The light from the palace burst outward like a dying star—white, black, and red twisting into a single, blinding flash that split the sky.
For a moment, everyone on the battlefield froze. Then came the roar.
A sound that wasn't thunder, nor explosion—but something alive, something ancient.
The kind of sound that pressed against the soul itself.
At the southern gate of the Devil's Citadel, the war that had raged for hours suddenly changed.
The air turned heavy. The world seemed to breathe in—and then exhale despair.
Nock Fletcher's divine barrier cracked in three places before he even realized it. His golden aura sputtered, the hymns of his priests stuttering mid-chant. The devils ahead—once sluggish and retreating—suddenly screamed in unison. Their eyes burned crimson, their bodies swelling with unnatural strength. Even the lesser ones, the ones they'd cut down by the dozens, began to regenerate faster than before.
