ᛇ...ᛁ...ᚻ...
At that moment, the Ancient Serpent finally freed up a hand and cast a dark look toward Cyrus the Great, who was staggering back to his feet through the dust ahead. In a chilling voice, he chanted three Rune symbols carrying linked meanings of "flowing water," "snowstorm," and "freezing," layering them together into a composite spell.
In an instant, a powerful sense of dread gripped the Persian King's heart. A chill swept over him. The moment he lowered his head, he saw an ice-blue Magecraft array spreading a full hundred meters beneath his feet.
Hum!
At the same time, Ether resonance rippled outward. Thick storm clouds gathered from every direction. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled, and the surrounding temperature plunged. Snowstorms and whirlwinds merged into one, with jagged ice shards mixed into the gale. Pillars of wind swept out in slashing spirals, frost covered the earth, ice spikes burst up one after another from the ground, and spears of ice condensed in the sky before crashing down like meteors toward the desperately evasive figure below.
As far as Cyrus could see, the world had turned into a frozen hell of ice and rime.
Bear witness. This is the Great Magecraft created by combining my power with that of the giant wolf Fenrir and the winter goddess Skadi.
Its name is... Fimbulwinter!
Watching Cyrus slow under the blizzard, his injuries worsening by the second, the Ancient Serpent bared his teeth in a savage grin.
[Fimbulwinter] was one of the great events in the primordial history of the Norse Age of Gods, the omen that heralded Ragnarok.
During that time, the world would endure three consecutive winters: the Winter of Wind, the Winter of Swords, and the Winter of Wolves. Ice and snow would blow in from every direction, the Nine Realms would fall into darkness, order would collapse, countless wars would break out, brothers would slaughter one another, and innumerable lives would be lost.
But with Samael's intervention, that foretold catastrophe had naturally never come to pass.
Still, out of a certain twisted sense of humor, the Ancient Serpent had secretly worked with Skadi and Fenrir to create a regional Great Magecraft that simulated an apocalyptic natural disaster, and named it after that event.
At the same time, Samael slowly raised his cross-spear and began gathering power, preparing the thunderous blow that would bury Cyrus the Great for good.
Trapped inside the raging snowstorm, Cyrus saw the cross-shaped flames ahead of him blazing higher and higher, and his soul nearly fled in terror. Without caring about the cost in Mana, he called upon the divine name of Mithra, Lord of Light, and forcibly unleashed divine power.
In an instant, blazing sunlight exploded outward, ripping open a narrow gap in the endless storm. Cyrus immediately broke free, threw himself out of the trap in disarray, and roared sharply.
"Hassan-i-Sabbah! What are you waiting for? Strike now!"
That roar, infused with divine power, rolled out like thunder across the sky and echoed through half of Rome.
The first Old Man of the Mountain of the Assassin Order, the "Old Man of the Mountain" Hassan-i-Sabbah. So it was him!
No wonder...
At that moment, Samael finally understood. He lifted his gaze toward the half-collapsed Pantheon and fixed his eyes on the dark figure in a black cloak and skull-like bone mask, a complicated light flickering in his eyes.
The Assassins of the Assassin Order, as well as the Hassans who had once served as leaders, all turned at once toward Palatine Hill, looking for their chief.
"I am an Assassin, not an executioner. The evening bell need sound only once..."
At that moment, a low voice like wind drifting through a dark valley reached them from afar.
The Old Man of the Mountain rested his short blade against the ground, gave a slight bow down the mountain, then his body dispersed like smoke and mist, fading into nothing as the last echoes of his words died away.
Seeing that the Assassin he had relied on as a major ally had simply withdrawn from the stage like this, Cyrus the Great was left dumbfounded, and his side immediately broke into shocked uproar.
Samael was the first to pull his thoughts back together. At once, his eyes narrowed, his body bent like a great bow into an exaggerated arc, and the cross-spear blazing with light was hurled toward Cyrus with the force of thunder.
"Book of Destiny, Divine Oracle!"
At the critical moment, sensing death closing in, the Persian King steeled himself and, gritting his teeth, interlocked all ten fingers together. Veins bulged on his forehead as he threw back his head and roared.
In an instant, a great ancient tome flew out from the golden Magecraft array activated at Cyrus's chest. Its front and back covers were engraved with the images of twin gods of good and evil. Its pages flipped wildly, and lines of golden characters peeled free and flew into the air, gathering into a mass of flickering, burning golden flame.
Hum!
In that instant, it was as though the very first ray of light at the birth of the world had descended. The extreme whiteness washed away all color and sensation, leaving consciousness blank for a brief moment.
By the time the people of Rome came back to themselves, color and sound had gradually returned to the pale world.
But Cyrus the Great in the square, along with the Persian heroes and soldiers in the streets and alleys, had already vanished without a trace.
Samael's thrown cross-spear had pinned a page as thin as gold foil to the ground, its tail still trembling faintly.
Cyrus! You bastard!
At that moment, Ramesses II saw that his ally had already abandoned him and fled first. Under the malicious gazes fixed on him from all directions, he suddenly felt as though he were sitting on needles. Without the slightest hesitation, he blasted Altera away, swung his scepter, and unleashed divine power.
At once, spirals of sand rose from the ground and wrapped around Nitocris, Cleopatra, and the rest of the Egyptian elite, transporting them to a newly summoned Solar Ship.
The Pharaoh King then summoned two hot-sand sphinxes to cover the rear, poured Mana into the vessel with ruthless decisiveness, and sent the Solar Ship surging to full speed before it vanished into the clouds in a torrent of Ether light.
Cross-shaped pupils opened and closed in Samael's eyes as he watched the Solar Ship grow more distant and the devastated city of Rome spread before him. His gaze flickered, then turned to focus on the King of the Huns floating in the air with that seven-colored great sword in hand.
"I did what I promised you."
"Mhm..."
"The next time we meet, we'll be enemies."
"I'll do my best to turn you into a friend."
The Ancient Serpent smiled openly as he gave that earnest reply. Altera remained unmoved. The light of the Sword of the War God in her hand faded, and she immediately spread her wings and flew out beyond Rome.
When the fire-scarred city of Rome finally fell quiet, Samael let out a light breath and turned toward the square ahead.
Clang...
He pulled the cross-spear, now with its flames extinguished, from the ground with one hand. Then he picked up the foil-thin golden page left behind and frowned as he examined it.
The authority of fate again?!
The feeling was strangely familiar.
And, in any case, deeply irritating.
For a moment, Samael's thoughts tangled into a knot. The intertwined clues and the current chaos gave him a pounding headache. Then the Ancient Serpent glanced toward the half-collapsed Pantheon, his eyes dark and deep.
Tch. I wonder whether that old friend's retreat was deliberate... or not.
Still, how could the dignified Old Man of the Mountain possibly obey Cyrus? And even help that great king assassinate Romulus, the Divine Ancestor of Rome?
Wait. Romulus!
The realization struck Samael at once. He immediately pulled Nero to her feet from where she had been placed to one side, and with Boudica and Brynhildr flanking them, rushed toward the Great Altar.
A moment later, the Roman emperors, one dead and three wounded, arrived belatedly with reinforcements from the six great clans. Their faces full of grief, they gathered in front of the Pantheon and placed their final hopes on the god who had descended to this world.
But the instant Samael made contact, his heart sank straight to the bottom.
He lowered his hand and slowly shook his head.
The divine core was shattered. The body was collapsing. Romulus was still hanging on by a single breath, and there was no saving him.
And on top of that, Samael knew little about Rome's artificial divine spirit technology. He was completely helpless.
That last shred of hope was mercilessly snuffed out, and mourning cries spread everywhere across Rome, wrapped in a haze of despair and confusion.
Thud!
With the heavy sound of the spear-butt striking the ground, Romulus spoke in a low voice.
"Romans, raise your heads. Straighten your backs. Even if I die here, Rome will still endure forever!"
One after another, the people of Rome wiped away their tears, but the grief on their faces remained.
Then Romulus turned to look at Nero, whom Samael had brought over, his gaze growing gentle.
"Nero, what a lovely child. What a beautiful child. What a radiant child. Come, come here. The Rome of the past, the Rome of the present, and the Rome of the future all love you.
Look. My spear, which is Rome itself, is here now.
From this moment on, I entrust it to you. Support Rome's future with those slender wrists of yours.
O flower of Rome, Rose Emperor of the world!"