The events unfolding within Mephisto's realm didn't disturb the fighting outside; there were no earth-shaking earthquakes, the sky didn't fall, and there were no real signs of anything major happening at all.
The demons continued to fight, the endless hordes of lesser and minor demons throwing themselves at the smaller but individually superior army of Enforcement Knights.
All the Knights of the Round Table had long since joined the fight, either helping thin the number, or moving towards the more powerful demons who appeared from time to time, or even going to help hold back D'Spayre.
He hadn't missed the fact that the biggest problem, the King of Knights, had left, and he wanted to try to invade Earth while he had the chance.
Sadly for him, the Knights wouldn't let him disengage, and no matter how powerful he was, he was unable to stop Gawain.
The Knight of the Sun was truly living up to his legend of being invincible under the midday sun.
He and the others were no match for D'Spayre, but they were still able to keep him there, unable to advance towards the exit, something that just caused him to grow all the angrier, but his rage was no help.
He was already outputting the maximum he could; any more, and the entire dimension they were in would collapse, and if that happened, he would get lost in the nothing between realms, and while he didn't fear that, getting back home would be annoying.
And no demon lord wanted to leave his home for long, after all, his demons would all want nothing less than to usurp their throne.
So unable to go all out, he was stuck dealing with the Knights, and while they couldn't truly hurt him, they did annoy him to no end.
In the Nightmare realm, the domain of dreams and nightmares, Nightmare was still throwing his weight at that tiny spark of light that shouldn't exist within his domain.
The phantom city of Camelot, a dream manifesting inside a dream, was holding firm.
The attacks were terrifying, a true lord's fury. Each one contained enough psychic energy to shatter the minds of a thousand lesser beings.
But every strike was being met by the shimmering walls of Camelot, a dream fortress powered by the collective hopes of a species. The demon's onslaught was a relentless storm of despair; the city's defense was a stoic mountain of faith.
It was a battle of concepts. The nightmare of ultimate failure against the dream of ultimate triumph.
And for now, the dream was winning.
Nightmare had grown larger, his form now a swirling vortex of shadow and pure fear, a living black hole of despair that threatened to swallow the light. He was no longer just a demon; he was the embodiment of the fear of failure, the terror of insignificance.
"Your dream is a lie!" he roared, a psychic wave that made the very stones of Camelot tremble. "It is a fragile illusion that will shatter against the harsh reality of existence! You cling to a false hope, a childish fantasy that will ultimately leave you broken and defeated!"
Galahad stood on the highest tower of the phantom city, shield in hand, its light a beacon in the storm.
Kay and Ector were at his side, their faces grim.
They knew they wouldn't last, and worse, they knew that they wouldn't survive Nightmare's fury once the walls fell.
They were far behind enemy lines, within the home of their opponent, far from help, and hopelessly outmatched.
Yet despite the hopelessness of their situation, they didn't despair; they remained resolute in their faith and their purpose.
Inside Satannish's realm, the battle was one of pure rage and fury.
Mordred and Satannish were locked in a duel that defied the laws of physics, a clash of two beings who thrived on the joy of battle.
Their attacks were not elegant, not skillful, but pure, brutal, and powerful.
Each strike was a cataclysm, each clash a world-shattering event.
Lionel, meanwhile, had become a master of disruption, a thorn in Satannish's side. He couldn't match the Hell Lord's power, but he could exploit the moments of distraction created by Mordred's reckless aggression.
As Satannish swung a massive, fiery fist at Mordred, she met it with her own, the impact creating a shockwave that cracked the obsidian ground for miles.
Lionel saw his chance. He lunged, not at the Hell Lord, but at the very space between Mordred and Satannish. He didn't aim to injure; he aimed to disrupt.
His sword, humming with the power of his oath, carved a glowing rune in the air, a sigil of order and stability in the chaos.
Satannish's fist, a construct of pure rage, suddenly faltered.
It lasted for but a moment before his fist continued forward, but much of the power in it had been denied, and Mordred blocked it with the flat side of Clarent. Even then, she was pushed backward a dozen feet, her armored boots tearing up the ground beneath her.
Satannish was pure rage and force, a being of unstoppable might, but also someone who delighted in battle, so despite being strong enough to crush the two of them with ease, he didn't.
To him, victory didn't matter as much as the fight itself.
The thrill, the joy, the challenge.
Even now, as he fought Mordred, he wasn't trying to end it.
He was savoring it.
The clash of steel, the roar of fury, the dance of destruction, it was a symphony to him, a masterpiece of violence that he was conducting.
Mordred, for her part, was in her element. She was a warrior, a fighter, a being who lived for the thrill of battle. The rage, the fury, the joy of the fight, it was all she needed.
She met Satannish's attacks with a ferocity that was born of a deep, primal need, a need to prove herself, to prove that she was worthy, that she was the best.
And Lionel, the calm center of the storm, the strategist, the tactician, was the perfect foil for her recklessness.
Together, they were a team, a well-oiled machine, a force to be reckoned with.
They couldn't win, but they could hold.
And for now, that was enough.
-----
In my battle, the blinding light of Rhongomyniad began to fade, the world slowly returning from a flash of pure white.
Mephisto lay on the ground, his form flickering, the black fire that composed his body reduced to a smoldering ember.
If one didn't know better, it was easy to think he was dead, but it was only an illusion; the core of his being was hurt, yes, greatly diminished for now, but wasn't truly threatened.
Still, as soon as the light faded, and the roaring fury of Rhongomyniad calmed, the actions here instantly caught the attention of all other parties at the peak.
Whether it was Nightmare, D'Spayre, Satannish, or even Dormammu who was confronting the Ancient One, they all turned their heads towards Mephisto's realm.
The scent of blood in the water wasn't just a metaphor; it was a very real thing in the demonic realms.
The scent of a fallen lord, a wounded rival, was an irresistible lure, a promise of power, of territory, of souls.
All of them stopped what they were doing; they couldn't believe what they were sensing. To them, the event that just happened was beyond impossible. A dimension had been split in two!
A Dimensional Lord had nearly fallen!
How could they not react with utter disbelief?
D'Spayre stopped, his assault on Gawain and the others faltering, a look of pure, unadulterated shock on his face.
Nightmare paused, his form shrinking, the swirling vortex of shadow and pure fear faltering, a look of confusion and then, dawning comprehension, on his face.
Satannish stopped, his massive form freezing in place, a look of genuine surprise on his face. He had been enjoying the fight with Mordred, but this... this was something else entirely. This was a game-changer.
Dormammu, who had been locked in a duel with the Ancient One, a battle of wills and magic that was reshaping the very fabric of the Dark Dimension, also paused. He could feel it, a disturbance in the cosmic balance, a shift in the power dynamics of the infernal realms.
They all could.
The scent of Mephisto's fear, of his pain, of his desperation, was like a siren's song, a call to arms that they could not ignore.
Even the Ancient One noticed it, and she, too, was surprised. This was indeed the outcome she wanted, but to truly see it happen was still shocking.
Mephisto was mighty, his strength making him more or less unbeatable, and still, he had been beaten.
That didn't mean I was far stronger than him, not really, if anything, he was far stronger than me.
The reason for his fall came down to concepts, not strength.
One shouldn't forget that Dr. Strange defeated Dormammu, and he was infinitely weaker than the Ancient One.
He won only because he was able to bring the concept of time into a place where it didn't exist. Dormammu was eternal; there was no time, not past, not future in his realm, only eternity.
So when time was introduced, he had no way of dealing with it.
And yes, that was thanks to an Infinity Stone, but it was still a mortal defeating a Dimensional Lord.
And I was no mere mortal, I was a Goddess, and I didn't just counter Mephisto with one concept, but stacked multiple together. Two anti-properties stacked together, and then goodness, holiness, and the concepts of Rhongomyniad as the tower of the world.
If that wasn't enough to flatten Mephisto, then we might as well just give him Earth already and be done with it.
The shock among the Hell Lords was a palpable wave of psychic energy that rippled through the various connected realms. The battlefield, moments ago a chaotic symphony of violence, fell into a strange, stunned silence. Even the mindless demon hordes paused, their innate sense of hierarchy and power sensing the monumental shift.
I used this precious window of opportunity. While the other lords were reeling, trying to process the impossible, I acted.
"Bedivere, Lucan, we are leaving," I commanded, my voice sharp and clear, cutting through the psychic static.
I turned my back on the smoldering form of Mephisto, a calculated insult. I showed no fear, no hesitation, only the cold confidence of a victor who had seen what she needed to see and accomplished what she needed to accomplish.
"As you command, my King," Bedivere responded instantly, his one good eye scanning the shadows, ready for any trick, any last-ditch assault from the fallen lord.
Lucan, ever the vigilant guardian, moved to cover our retreat, his body a shield between me and the prostrate demon. His Noble Phantasm was still held in reserve, a silent, desperate prayer that he would not have to use it.
As we walked back towards the portal, I could feel Mephisto's hateful gaze burning into my back.
(End of chapter)
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