CHAPTER 858: ORFRY’S SMILE

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMM!"

Explosions tore through the battlefield, the shockwaves shaking the very mountains. The True Depravita of Greed, the Royal Guard, Fang, and thousands of Reapers swarmed Gengish like a living tide of steel, claw, and flame. Strike after strike chipped away at the Corruption General’s strength, draining his vitality one wound at a time. Their eyes glowed with raw killing intent—unyielding, merciless—each pressing forward as if their own lives meant nothing so long as they could claim his.

The ground beneath them was cracked and blackened, littered with the corpses of slain Reapers and shattered earth where Gengish’s claws had lashed out in fury. Even so, the relentless assault gave him no space to recover, no breath to rally.

And in the skies above, the situation for the Corruption Forces was equally dire.

Mary, Freya’s opponent, was a nightmare to face—swift, ruthless, and technically flawless. Her swords were small, almost delicate in appearance, but every cut carried with it a strange and insidious curse. Black stitching marks would bloom from the wounds she inflicted, identical to the marks that crisscrossed Mary’s own body. These "stitches" didn’t heal; they spread, expanding the injury, forcing muscles to tear and blood to flow faster.

Freya was already covered in them. Her armor was slick with blood, her breathing shallow, her face pale from the constant loss. Without her Depravita power, she might have already fallen. It was only the Lust aspect’s gift—boosting her reflexes, sharpness, and raw battle prowess—that had kept her in the fight. Even so, Mary had been gradually seizing control, her cursed stitches slowly tipping the balance in her favor.

But now, for the first time in the duel, Freya’s lips curved in a faint, defiant smile.

She was no longer fighting alone.

The Divine Avatar had joined her, and with him came a sudden shift in momentum. Side by side, they struck with a rhythm as precise as it was overwhelming, forcing Mary onto the defensive. Overlord’s body radiated a golden, unyielding light—Divine Power rolling off him in waves. That same light burned away the cursed stitches wherever it touched Freya, scouring the corruption from her wounds as though purifying the battlefield itself.

Mary’s expression hardened. She poured her full strength into her defense, but the pressure was unlike anything she had faced before. Freya’s jagged, rust-covered sword was already a terror to handle, but now every swing was paired with the crushing force of Overlord’s strikes—fists and kicks capable of breaking bones.

The Corruption General’s guard began to falter. Blow after blow landed, each one forcing her back. Then came the decisive moment.

Overlord’s fist smashed into Mary’s left elbow. The joint shattered, her arm going limp as pain shot through her side. Her flank was left open—fatally so.

Freya’s eyes blazed, and her entire cultivation surged. Her bloodline roared awake, her aura exploding outward. Every thread of her strength flowed into the rusting blade until it shone like a newborn sun, so bright it cast shadows across the clouds.

In a single, fluid motion, she struck.

The blade bit into Mary’s flesh from her left shoulder down through her right waist, carving through skin, muscle, and bone alike. For a heartbeat, the world seemed to hold still. Then the wound erupted in a radiant explosion that blinded all who looked at it.

Mary’s body was hurled backward, spinning helplessly through the air like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Blood streamed from her mouth, soaking her form in crimson.

The killing intent in Freya’s gaze exploded in full force. She dove after her falling enemy, Overlord matching her speed stride for stride.

Far away, William the First’s eyes narrowed. Around him, the Corruption Generals were collapsing. Gengish was being shredded by the endless swarm on the ground. Mary was seconds away from being finished by Freya’s sword.

"Hmph. Do you think you have the luxury of distraction?"

The cold voice jolted him back to reality. He had dominated the duel until now, confident in his inevitable victory over the True Depravita of Envy. But that confidence had made him careless—careless enough to split his focus across the battlefield.

It was a mistake.

When he looked back, Fafnir’s chest was glowing with a terrible radiance, every dash of light in his body drawn into a single point over his heart.

This was no ordinary attack. It was the culmination of years of stored might—the light power he had once absorbed in the Doomsday World from a Legendary Angel, refined, tempered, and honed to perfection.

And now it was unleashed.

A blinding beam of destruction lanced forth, striking William point-blank before he could even raise a guard.

"BOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!"

The detonation tore across the sky, scattering clouds in its wake. Fafnir’s aura flickered as the light power left him, but a savage grin split his face when he saw the Corruption General’s smoldering figure tumbling through the air. Flames reignited along Fafnir’s wings as he dove after him, every motion radiating the intent to end William here and now.

High above, far beyond the reach of the fighting below, the air shimmered with raw power. The sky was cast in dark greys and blacks, and though the forms of the watchers were obscured, their eyes shone like beacons.

One gaze held three eyes, each alight with exhilaration and thrill. This was the True Depravita of Wrath, almost trembling with excitement as he watched the tide of battle turn fully in their favor. Victory, long and hard-fought, was now within their grasp. The losses had been heavy—especially during the surprise onslaught of the Hellhound Abomination—but they had endured. They had survived. And now they were moments from triumph.

The other gaze was colder, sharper, and steeped in fury barely held in check. Orfry’s rage was a storm beneath the surface. He had forged this army piece by piece, gathered Superior Legends under his banner, built a force that should have been unstoppable. And yet—despite all of it—they now stood on the brink of utter defeat.

For a moment, his expression was stone.

Then, slowly, his lips curled into a smile.