The Vampire Ancestor stared at the white figure wearing the darkness of the entire city upon her shoulders.
A chill welled up from the depths of his thousand-year-old body once again.
The chill came silently, yet it permeated every fiber of his being.
It crept through his skin, growing from the deepest recesses of his bloodline.
Like a frozen vine, it slowly and unstoppably climbed along his decayed yet still-strong blood vessels, wrapping around his heart, his throat, and his face, which hadn't changed its expression in hundreds of years.
The last time he had felt this way traced back to a time when he had caught a distant glimpse of the Third Generation Ancestor in the Demon Realm.
That was a very, very long time ago. So long ago that the memory was nearly buried under a thousand years of dust, so long that he had almost convinced himself it was merely a vivid nightmare from his youth.
But now, that memory surfaced from beneath the dust without warning, as clear as if it had happened yesterday—the same act of looking up, the same suffocating feeling of being looked down upon like a speck of dust by an existence far beyond his comprehension.
Those eyes... there was no mistaking them.
Fear.
He finally understood the sense of crisis that had plagued him from the very beginning.
From the moment this white-haired girl set foot in Silvervein City, that inexplicable unease had been lingering in his bloodline.
He had thought it was just the tension of an impending grand battle, the caution of facing an unknown variable.
He had told himself over and over again that she was just a Twelfth Generation vampire whose physical presence was so thin she could dissipate at any moment, utterly unworthy of his wariness.
His instincts had not been wrong.
They had been screaming at him all along, but he had refused to believe them.
Fear.
But now, he believed.
He was afraid.
Fear, a sensation he had forced others to bear for a thousand years, finally flowed into his own blood for the first time.
It was so foreign, yet so familiar.
Familiar, because he had personally planted it in the eyes of countless victims, watching it bloom, distort, and shatter in their pupils.
Foreign, because he had never imagined that one day, this very thing would grow from his own eyes.
“...Monster,” the Ancestor roared. That roar carried very little of the majesty a vampire emperor should possess; instead, it sounded like the blustering growl of a beast cornered in a dead end.
In his palm, the dark-gold disc capable of piercing half a nation suddenly erupted with blackish-red light.
He no longer aimed at the Hero, no longer sparing any cost.
His Fifth Generation, emperor-tier bloodline poured out completely. A full thousand years of accumulated foundation—the very basis of his supremacy over countless kin—was unleashed.
At this moment, like a madman pushing his entire fortune onto the gambling table, he poured all of it into the disc in his palm without reservation.
The disc expanded, warping and tearing the void as it transformed into a falling, dark-gold sun. Carrying the terrifying power to erase half of Solitude, it plunged straight and greedily toward Sophie.
It was a killer move worthy of being recorded in the annals of vampire history.
Blackish-red flames rolled across its surface, and every flicker of the flame-runes was intertwined with the souls of the dead devoured by this array over the millennium.
Everywhere it passed, even the air was ignited, burning the everlasting night sky into a blinding, crimson red.
The heavens were illuminated a brilliant red by this strike.
The blood-red ring paled in its presence.
The three ancient eyes born with the magic array, which had witnessed the fall of gods, and the terrifying array wrapping around the entire city, appeared like insignificant embers under the light of this dark-gold sun.
The humans in the ruins could make no sound. They could only look up, watching the dark-gold sun capable of ending everything sink lower and grow larger, swallowing the entire sky.
The heatwave hit the ground in advance, baking their cheeks with searing pain and leaving nothing but despairing red light in the eyes of the survivors. Some wanted to cry, only to find their tears evaporating before they could fall.
Some wanted to run, but found their legs too weak to take a step. All they could do was look up, wait, and watch helplessly as that deathly sphere slowly pressed down upon them.
But Sophie simply raised her head.
Her robe woven from the night billowed gently in the windless air, and her crimson wings half-unfurled.
Her posture was leisurely and relaxed, as if what was pressing down on her head was not a dark-gold sun capable of destroying half a nation, but merely an eyesore of a cloud floating a bit too low.
She reached out her hand and made a peace sign toward the empty void—which roughly meant, “Two cakes, no bargaining.”
“Forge a sword for me.”
Four simple words. Spoken so casually, so nonchalantly.
The void split open.
The moment it appeared, the entire sky seemed to be crumpled by an invisible hand. Light bent and refracted at the edges of the rift, revealing a deep, dizzying, star-studded void behind it.
A sword emerged from that rift.
It emerged very slowly, because it was simply too massive.
When the tip of the sword pierced the void, the entire sky trembled.
A low, lingering rumble echoed from the depths of the heavens, as if the world itself were groaning at the descent of this sword.
Stars lit up one by one as the blade emerged, then extinguished one by one, trailing long, flowing streaks of light on both sides of the blade.
The moment it was drawn, everyone in the ruins held their breath.
It was a massive blue sword adorned with the starry sky.
A New Moon totem was carved into the hilt, casting a soft, sacred glow against the deep blue blade. The blade itself was surrounded by the phenomenon of a collapsing galaxy, with countless tiny stars being born, burning, collapsing, and dying on its surface in an endless cycle, as if someone had sealed the life and death of an entire cosmos into this single sword.
It was dozens of times larger than Sophie's body, even more majestic than the dark-gold sun unleashed by the Vampire Ancestor.
The massive blade lay across the everlasting night sky, making even the falling, dark-gold sun look like a hastily assembled, laughable counterfeit.
It was not a weapon meant for humans at all.
It was like a segment of a starry river forcibly cut and suspended above the everlasting night.
The greatsword named the Monarch's Sword.
Sophie's slender fingers wrapped around the hilt that far exceeded her size.
Her fingers were so thin and white; gripping that world-shaking greatsword, it should have looked ridiculous and weak.
Yet, for some reason, the moment those five slender fingers tightened around the hilt, an absurd yet incredibly real feeling welled up in everyone—this sword was meant to be held in her hands.
She made no stance to swing, nor any sign of gathering strength.
She merely raised her eyes, looking at the falling, dark-gold sun, and at the thousand-year-old Vampire Ancestor behind the disc, who was looking at her directly for the first time.
Nothing out of the ordinary.
【Hero's Entrance (Reversed) Lv. Max: When you publicly appear in a scene where [The Strong Waver], [Order Collapses], or [The Enemy is Certain of Impending Disaster], your next attack will receive bonuses from [Fear], [Witness], [Infamy], and [Scale of Despair]. The more the enemy believes 'you will bring unstoppable disaster' and the more despondent the enemy camp is, the higher the skill's power. If the enemy still firmly believes they can win or thinks you are merely bluffing, the bonus is significantly reduced.】
Despair began to spread.
It seeped from the Ancestor's eyes first, then trickled down layer by layer along the blood-red ring.
The vampires dominated by Bloodline Majesty still possessed clear minds. They, too, were powerless, forced to stand atop this altar fueled by countless lives to maintain the slaughter. They, too, felt despair at their own actions.
They were fully aware of what they were doing, and they clearly foresaw the end they were about to face.
Ah, such sweet despair.
It was the finest Fear, enough to intoxicate any connoisseur.
That Fear poured out of thousands of vampire eyes simultaneously, merging into a torrent that was greedily absorbed by the Monarch's Sword.
The Monarch's Sword began to glow.
The words “we are finished” wavering in the vampires' hearts materialized as a brilliant glow on the blade.
The light on the sword grew brighter and brighter.
The radiance rose from deep within the blade, from the depths of that sealed starry river. It grew stronger and hotter, like a rising sun of judgment about to burst forth.
The Fear reflected in thousands of pairs of eyes under this sky flowed along the sword's spine to its edge, gathering into a brilliant galaxy.
The fear of humans, the fear of vampires, the fear of victors, the fear of losers... all fear became one at this moment, serving as nourishment for this strike, turning into that brilliant, extreme light at the tip of the blade.
Sophie brought the sword down.
There were no fancy movements.
It was a pure, simple strike.
The strike was beautifully simple, without a single shred of unnecessary embellishment, just like the initial laws of the universe—it required no explanation, no buildup; it simply fell, and thus everything was decided.
There was no loud rumble.
There was no explosion.
Only a single moment where everyone saw: the dark-gold sun that should have wiped out half of Solitude was sliced open from top to bottom like a thin sheet of ice the instant the edge of the Monarch's Sword touched it.
The cut was clean and swift, without any resistance.
It was as if the dark-gold sun, which condensed a thousand years of a vampire emperor's foundation, possessed no mass or power whatsoever in front of the Monarch's Sword, acting as nothing more than a fragile little hard-boiled egg blocking the path.
The blackish-red light collapsed from the cut, but it could no longer unleash any power.
It was supposed to be a disaster that would strike terror into the citizens of an entire nation.
But in front of this sword, such power lost its meaning. Its collapse was so thorough, so quiet.
A grand firework had its fuse gently pinched out before it could even detonate.
The blade did not stop.
First were the Seventh Generation Vampire Dukes hovering at the highest layer of the blood-red ring.
Where the pressure passed, the closest Dukes were the first to disintegrate.
They didn't even have time to scream.
Ancient bloodlines, thousand-year-old bodies, and the dominant order etched into their bones turned into pieces of blood mist before the sword-light.
Those once-supreme, arrogant existences didn't even have time to leave a single last word before vanishing silently from this world, like morning dew evaporated by the blazing sun.
Before the blood mist could fall, it was whipped into even finer red dust by the wind of the sword.
“How is this possible...”
The Ancestor's pupils contracted sharply.
He had thought he could at least put up a fight.
He had lived for a thousand years, possessing a Fifth Generation emperor-tier bloodline and a killer move capable of piercing a nation, while his opponent was merely a Twelfth Generation whose physical presence was so thin she could dissipate at any moment.
Only at this moment did he realize that from the second this white-haired girl arrived on the scene, he had never stood a chance.
He was not even worthy of being called her opponent.
The momentum of the sword rolled down along the magic array.
The Tenth Generation Vampires maintaining the foundation collapsed, and as their hands turned to blood mist, the entire blood mist base crumbled.
The Eighth Generation Vampire Duke anchoring the array tried to flee, but the mere aftershock of the sword-wind brushed past his side, wiping away half his body along with his luxurious vampire attire.
He stumbled and fell toward the ruins, his remaining half-face frozen in disbelief before dispersing into the wind before hitting the ground.
The blood-red ring cracked.
The three ancient eyes, under the residual power of the Monarch's Sword, dimmed, shattered, and closed one by one.
The heavens shook as if collapsing.
Losing its support, the massive array began a chain collapse. Broken array runes, like burnt embers, peeled off the sky piece by piece, slowly and heavily crashing toward the ruins with a lingering, dark-red glow.
The low-generation vampire descendants driven by the vampires to maintain the array turned into blood mist in droves. Screams rose one after another, only to be drowned out by the louder sound of the collapse.
The entire sky was burning, yet also extinguishing, like a massive canvas ignited from the center, curling, blackening, and turning to ash from the inside out.
And under this heaven-collapsing destruction, the entire city would face ruin.
Kaila moved.
She had been waiting for this moment.
From the moment Sophie removed her mask and the flow of human fear stopped, the golden chains tightening around her back and shoulders had strangely loosened for an instant—because at this moment in the ruins, saving people was far more important for the Hero than continuing to stop the Witch.
Just as she wanted.
But... Sophie.
Is the answer you gave me... truly what I think it is?
“Stand in the light!”
Kaila shouted, the golden light around her body surging as her solar barrier suddenly expanded.
Her full strength erupted, her purpose as the Hero fulfilled at this moment.
She dropped to one knee, both hands supporting the light shield that kept denting and bouncing back from the impacts. Her golden hair was blown straight in the air currents, her teeth clenched tight.
She no longer distracted herself with thoughts of destroying the Witch, nor was she torn by her instincts.
She did only one thing: protect the people behind her, who couldn't even call her by her full name, within the light.
This was something only the Hero could do.
The New Moon Sect believers who had stayed behind to open shields also sprang into action.
The cultists, who had been slacking off since Miaoyue was absent, now felt something hotter than fear ignite in their eyes as they watched the Saintess, who wore the night on her shoulders, raise the Monarch's Sword.
It was a fanatical, boiling conviction—a fire named faith, suddenly ignited in the face of despair.
“It's the Goddess...”
“The Goddess is fighting for us!”
They propped up the wounded, carried the children, and helped one another rush toward Kaila's solar barrier.
As falling array runes crashed down, some used their bodies to shield their companions from falling debris, their backs bloodied but refusing to let go; as the blood mist surged, some tore their clothes to cover children's noses and mouths, while they themselves choked with tears.
An elderly cultist opened his arms, pulling several children into his embrace. He faced the falling debris with his back, taking hit after hit, muttering prayers as if that figure could truly hear him.
No joke, the Goddess was watching.
They had to put on a good performance.
The little girl who had already cried herself hoarse was held in a cultist's arms. She was no longer afraid, only looking up at Sophie in the sky. It was as if, as long as that white figure remained, nothing in this world was worth crying over.
The blacksmith with the broken leg was supported by two men as he moved into the light. Every step made him sweat from the pain, but he gritted his teeth without a sound, repeatedly looking back to check if anyone had fallen behind.
The mother holding her child finally held him tight. Her hand, which had been frozen in midair unsure of whom to protect, now gripped the sleeve of a stranger beside her. The stranger gripped her back. Under this collapsing sky, strangers leaned close to one another, using their body heat to resist the crumbling world above.
Under the Hero's light and the backs of the believers, they survived.
And in the sky.
The residual force of the Monarch's Sword finally descended.
After the starry greatsword pierced the dark-gold sun and ran through the entire vampire formation, its massive blade continued to sink along that irreversible trajectory.
An unstoppable, fated descent, as if from the very first moment it was unsheathed, this path had already been destined by a higher will, and no power could shift it even a fraction.
The phenomenon of a collapsing galaxy wrapping around the sword's spine poured out all the way. Stars were born and died in succession on the blade, as if someone had folded an entire starry river into this single strike, and was now pressing it down inch by inch toward Silvervein City along with the life and death of that river.
Every birth of a star was a creation, and every death of a star was an end. These countless creations and ends were all compressed within this slowly sinking strike.
Wherever the blade passed, spatial rifts appeared, slicing from the heavens all the way to the ground. Those rifts were like wounds torn into the world by the sword's momentum, bottomless, revealing a star-flowing light completely different from the outside world.
The remaining blood mist in the ruins was sucked in completely, charred debris was swept up by the air currents and shattered ruthlessly, and even the dust suspended in the everlasting night had no time to fall before being turned to ash under the residual power of the strike.
The entire sky was sliced by this sword, leaving a straight, blinding crack, as if even the darkness had been forced open—though at this moment, the sky was already devoid of darkness.
Silvervein City groaned deeply from its foundations, its ruined walls tilting toward the direction of the falling sword for an instant, as if even this land itself were bowing to the starry river sword.
The Vampire Ancestor hovered in midair, watching helplessly as the sword descended from the heavens.
He wanted to dodge.
A thousand years of instinct screamed at him to run, but he could not move.
He was in Fear.
He finally understood that this sword had never targeted physical flesh. It targeted the very concept of “vampires are invincible.” It targeted the supreme belief in order that he had held for a thousand years without a single shred of doubt.
The blood-red ring was gone.
The blood mist base was gone.
The Seventh Generation Dukes, the Eighth Generation Dukes, the Ninth and Tenth Generation Vampires, all gone.
The entire main force of the Vampire Council.
And the god-slaying array that should have wiped out half of Solitude, fueled by human fear, along with everything it enshrined, turned to ash under a giant sword that a young girl shouldn't have been able to hold, yet ultimately did.
Ah.
How brilliant.
The blue light dust scattered across the sky like a broken galaxy, carrying the faint light of star births and deaths, slowly falling toward the bright sky from which the night had been stripped.
It was the most beautiful sight he had seen in his thousand years. Ridiculously, this sight was blooming precisely for his funeral.
He had lived for a thousand years, seen the Blood Ancestor walk the mortal realm, seen order govern all things, and seen countless self-proclaimed experts turned to ash under the massive vampire array.
He had thought he had seen all the rises and falls, the honors and disgraces of this world, believing nothing could ever cause a ripple in his ancient eyes again.
He had never imagined he would have to look up at a Twelfth Generation Vampire one day.
Even less did he expect that day would be the last day of his life.
Sophie withdrew her hand.
She stood atop the collapsing staircase made of vampire corpses.
The steps beneath her feet were dissipating into blood mist layer by layer.
Her robe of the night billowed behind her in the windless air, her crimson wings slowly folding. Blue light dust fell upon her white hair, and upon her black robe.
Three cakes—she had just heard the New Moon Goddess bargaining with her.
If this was resolved, even thirty was fine.
Sophie's mood finally improved.
These bugs had been buzzing around while she was having a heart-to-heart with Miss Hero, annoying her to no end.
Just like Elizabeth's, this array was also Hiso's creation.
When he invaded the Demon Realm, he fought the demon god for three days and three nights, finally forcing the opponent to sign a humiliating, demon-demeaning treaty that turned all lava into spicy hot pot.
Now, she could finally have a good talk with Miss Hero.
...
At the same moment, the projection array in the grand hall of the Royal Capital finally couldn't withstand the residual power of that strike.
The light film dented inward first, then shattered into countless fragments like thin ice hit by a heavy hammer.
The court mages sitting around the magic ring didn't even have time to scream; their dry fingers were still pressed on the spell nodes as the light in their eyes went out one by one.
The backlash surged back along the mana circuits, draining their white hair, skin, flesh, and mana into empty shells in a single breath.
The entire hall shook violently.
Fine cracks split across the obsidian floor, silver lamps on the long table toppled, and flames licked scorched marks along the edges of the carpet.
Debris fell from the dome, crashing onto the shoulders of the mages who had already lost their breath.
The Green Mist King stood in the center of the array, his face almost transparently pale.
He spat out a mouthful of blood, his expression extremely grim.
He said nothing, only clenching his teeth bit by bit until blood seeped from the corners of his lips once more.
At the end of the long table, there was one final Wish scroll left.
The Green Mist King reached out.
And gripped that scroll tight.
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