The Succession of the Saint

The golden warrior heard the cry from above. It stepped away from the Ruinhorn at one crucial moment. 

The Lich Lord was struck by a destructive, focused beam of pure, sun-like energy that lanced down from the skies.

The skeleton form of Yarte was broken and smoldering with holy energy. The lich stumbled but stayed upright. 

Rather, with a hiss of anger, he leaped toward the golden warrior who was floating in the skies, his fingertips spitting black filth.

“You will serve a new master!” Yarte shrieked.

But Ars Caelus ascended effortlessly, the dark tendrils grasping at empty air.

Seeing his enemy injured, Nennoch did not give him time to recover. With a battle cry, he struck down with his greatsword but it misses Yarte.

Nennoch's sword, brimming with unbridled strength, crashed into the glassy, dark arena floor and destroyed it.

The entire courtyard, already flattened by Yarte’s spell, shattered into a thousand massive, floating islands of rock.

“Gods, Nennoch! He can never hold back!” Ingeldamu yelled, grabbing Grizellum and leaping onto a rising slab of stone to avoid falling into the chasm below.

They were all in the air now. Nennoch was leaping from rock to rock with impossible speed, his eyes locked on Yarte.

But in his singular focus, he forgot the other god in the sky.

The Ruinhorn, having been temporarily abandoned by Ars Caelus, let out a triumphant roar. It descended like a mountain, ramming into Nennoch in mid-air with a sound like a thunderclap. 

The kingdom’s strongest knight was sent flying into the distant, smoking horizon.

“Tch,” Ingeldamu grunted, watching his friend vanish. The two remaining Pillars of Minilon stood alone on their floating rock, facing the Lich Lord.

“Ars Caelus! We require your aid!” Grizellum commanded, his voice booming with authority.

The golden warrior appeared beside them, his expression grim. “The beast is my concern now, Prelate,” he stated. “I will ensure it does not interfere again.” he shot back into the sky to re-engage the Ruinhorn.

Now, it was two against one.

“Well, well, Grizellum,” Yarte rasped, “It comes down to us. The two students of the arcane. Always the rivals, weren't we? You with your dogmatic faith, and me with my pursuit of true power.”

“You were my friend, Yarte,” Grizellum said, “My brother. But you chose the whispers of a dead god over the lives of saint.”

“Enough sentimentality,” Yarte sneered. “The King is likely crushed in the rubble he called a home. So tell me, old friend. Where is the prince? My master requires a new vessel.”

Grizellum’s face hardened. “The royal heir is beyond your reach, abomination,” he declared, raising his holy staff. “He is in the safest place in this city, protected by Orivaneia’s own magic and the strongest knights still breathing!”

“Then I will tear this city apart stone by stone to find him!” Yarte shrieked, and the final battle began.

.

.

.

“Hmm?” Ura sat on the ledge, legs dangling over the edge, watching the distant, colossal form of the Ruinhorn tear a fiery scar across Frola.

Ura sighed, bored. She turned her head again.

“Hey, future husband,” she said, “Aren’t you feeling bored? Nothing is happening up here yet…”

“Go to hell, you monster…” Baltram spat, his face pale with pain and hatred.

“Mm, no, I don’t think I will,” Ura replied, turning back to the chaos below. Her sharp, green eyes then caught a flicker of distinctive color in the stream of panicked knights flowing into the central keep.

A flash of pale, almost white-blonde hair. Then another, and another.

“There you are, royals,” she whispered to herself.

She fell from the roof and landed soundlessly in the way of the escaping group, bringing them to a stop. It was the Queen holding the hands of two young, blond children while being escorted by a number of royal guards.

“Are you the royal family?” Ura asked, “Where is the King now?”

The Queen nodded, “Yes,” she said, “The King… he fell with the tower. Please, let us into the keep. We need sanctuary.”

Ura shook her head, “This place is for weaklings and cowards. If you want to survive, your sanctuary is not in there.” She pointed with her staff back towards the distant, dark entrance of the mines. “Go there. It’s much safer.”

“Safer?” the Queen asked, bewildered. “Why?”

“Because the knights in that fortress are all perverts,”

-ooo-

The battle for the capital had devolved into a desperate struggle.

Grizellum had to recite prayers of stability to prevent the ground from engulfing him when Yarte created spatial rifts beneath his feet. 

With his shield shattered, Ingeldamu had to repel the Ruinhorn's sweeping tail and ground-shaking stomps. 

"YARTEEE!!!!!"

An explosion of heat erupted forth as a bolt of dazzling blue fire suddenly slammed into the middle of the destroyed courtyard. 

Nennoch was the one who done it. Even though his body was covered in blood and his armor was broken, he was encircled by a throbbing, ethereal blue flame. 

As the best knight in the realm, he stood up and appeared to be unkillable.

“You’re supposed to stay dead, Yarte!!” he roared, his voice a chorus of grief and righteous fury.

Yarte easily blocked Nennoch’s initial, furious charge with a shield of solidified souls. 

But Nennoch twirled and with two perfect, flowing strikes, he severed both of the lich’s skeletal arms at the shoulder.

Yarte stared in shock at his powerless, dismembered limbs. Before he could conjure them back, Grizellum saw his opening. 

Chanting a final, powerful prayer, he called Caelus again and throwed him directly through the lich’s ribcage, shattering the phylactery within.

Yarte looked down at the holy instrument impaling him, then up at the sky.

“The vessel… is prepared… The Master… will still… return…” With that, his light faded, and his skeletal form crumbled into a pile of lifeless, corrupted dust.

But in that instant, a massive, black tentacle whipped down from the sky, a surprise attack from the now-unattended Ruinhorn. It pierced Ingeldamu’s chest, lifting him into the air.

The commander stared in shock, his final breath a quiet prayer. “Lady Orivaneia… save my king…”

The Ruinhorn did not care. It brought the impaled knight to its maw and consumed him, armor and all.

"Tch! Not him too!" Grizellum grits his teeth. He looked at Nennoch, who was now panting, his body still glowing with the blue fire. “The Blue Phoenix effect…” the prelate said, his voice heavy with sorrow. 

“When will it wear off?”

“Until this battle is done, of course,” Nennoch replied, his voice strained but resolute. 

“While the Ruinhorn is still roaming this city, I will not die!”

Grizellum’s face fell. He understood. “So you’re already dead, huh?” he whispered. “Nice knowing you, old friend.”

Nennoch just grinned. It was the highest honor, to die protecting his kingdom. He reached for Ars Caelus, which had fallen to the ground, but the blade’s holy light flared, burning his hand.

He laughed, a raw, painful sound. “You still don’t want to be used by me, huh?”

The greatsword vibrated, then shot into the sky. A small, black figure dropped from above, catching it effortlessly. It was a black catgirl.

“Let’s get this over with, nya!” Uetum said, her voice now deadly serious.

Nennoch didn’t question it. There was no time. His own blue flames coalesced in his hand, forming a brilliant, burning fire soul blade. “Alright!” he roared in agreement.

The catgirl looked down at the exhausted High Prelate. “Protect the mine, Nya!” she commanded, her voice holding an ancient authority. “Sir Nennoch and I will take care of this monster.”

The prelate smiled, “As you wish, Lady Serenya!”