Because this was happening in the desert, the faith of the desert folk gave the Scarlet King an extra surge of power.
At first glance that should have meant little—after all, the Scarlet King had been dead for centuries; faith in a long-departed god is a weaker thing. But now the situation escalated.
As time passed, the spectators swelled to over a thousand people. Most of them were desert-born, and the Scarlet King's aura stirred a primitive, almost blood-deep reverence in anyone from those sands. It was like looking upon the ghost of some ancestral emperor—an admiration that could not be quelled by reason.
Idris and the Scarlet King were roughly evenly matched as it was. But what happened when you stacked a thousand believers' faith on top of the Scarlet King's strength… Nahida understood in an instant: this could become troublesome for Idris.
Idris and the Scarlet King felt it too. The Scarlet King paused, sensing his own power swelling, then laughed.
"Haha—this is unexpected. Idris, this is… somewhat unfair to you now."
Idris slid back through the air a few steps, on guard, smiling faintly.
"You won't refuse that power, will you?"
"Of course not!" the Scarlet King answered without hesitation. "A king is judged by victory! Faith is my ancient reserve. I can use it now to unleash my full strength. Idris, will you yield now?"
"No," Idris replied.
He understood why some of the old gods had said they saw the Scarlet King in him. If the Scarlet King unleashed ten-tenths of his might, Idris might have trouble holding the line. But he would still take it head-on.
"Come, then. If I cannot withstand the desert king's full strike, then I will not claim the title of desert king," Idris said arrogantly.
"Good!" the Scarlet King roared, and the two drew apart, giving every onlooker a clear view of the duelists in the sky. More people hurried closer, astonished—both men bore faces worthy of kings. The Scarlet King's sovereign bearing made sense to the desert folk, but that Idris also looked kingly left them stunned.
The two crowns of power—man and god—vibrated in the heavens; the crowd fell silent, eyes wide.
The Scarlet King gathered all his strength: the desert's energy, his own divine force, and the believers' faith. Everything fused, peaking in a single moment.
"Receive this!" he thundered. "Ideal Golden Holy Spear!"
The golden spear he hurled was more than a weapon; to the onlookers it appeared as a shining golden metropolis—a dream of a gilded city, each person in the crowd seeing their private utopia reflected in its light. The vision filled them with longing, and Nahida, sensing the mental tug, snapped at the others:
"Close your eyes! Don't look!"
Ying blinked, startled. "What is this move?"
Nahida answered, calm but grave: "I don't know for certain. But this may be the Scarlet King's ultimate strike. It carries not only tremendous divine power but also a nearly irresistible mental assault. This is the Scarlet King's true Golden Dream. Those who sink into it will be consumed by the pursuit of illusion. The desert folk, because of blood and faith, are less susceptible—but you mustn't look too long."
Paimon nodded anxiously. "But… can Idris win against that?"
Nahida's mouth tightened. She knew Idris still had a secret defensive card—a holy shield—but that shield mainly defended against physical and environmental attack. The Scarlet King's strike was suffused with spiritual assault; a simple shield might not be enough.
Above, under the pressure of the incoming strike, Idris's hand brushed the hilt of his black blade and he murmured:
"Frostmourne— I am now a king.
Spirits bound within the cursed blade, appear!"
At his words, a massive frost-bone dragon—an icy skeletal wyrm that had long been bound within Frostmourne—roared out. Because the blade demanded a true king as the key to awaken its resident spirit, the summon required no slight: Idris met that requirement.
The bone-dragon burst forth and collided with the Golden Holy Spear. For a moment it seemed the spear would overwhelm the dragon—its brilliance and weight pressed hard—but Idris had not summoned the beast merely to trade strikes; he'd bought time.
"Fire-Eyed Golden Gaze—see through it!" he shouted.
The dragon took the hit and began to fall, shattered by the spear's force—but that was by design. As the dragon broke, something flickered in Idris's eyes: a red-gold glare—the Fire-Eyed Golden Gaze—and the illusory metropolis began to fracture. The golden dream was a lie; an illusion can be torn apart by sight that pierces deceit.
Idris had been waiting for the right moment to use that vision—now was it. He honed in, found the dream-city's weakest node, and struck.
"Forest-Requiem Sword Domain—open!"
From the desert floor rose blade-like vines that coalesced into a towering greatsword midair—the culmination of Idris's sword arts and his life energy. With a clean, enormous swing he cleaved at the Golden Holy Spear and the dream-city—breaking the mirage like glass.
"Golden dreams, no matter how beautiful, are only regrets now," Idris cried. "Whether the golden city or the fabled dream you offered—the truth is you never realized them! I will create reality. I will lead this nation to heights your dream never reached. Watch closely!"
With that, the illusory city shattered; the Golden Holy Spear tumbled from the sky and landed in a nearby dune.
As the dream broke, the desert people shook off the enchantment. Their faces went from rapture to a complicated mix of relief, loss, and awe. No one spoke—yet a shift had passed through them.
Idris pressed forward. Frostmourne slashed again; his grass-elemental wings beat fiercely as he closed on the Scarlet King. Even without his weapon, the Scarlet King smiled—pleased more than afraid. He raised his fist and charged like a king who fought for the sheer joy of it.
"You speak of failure—but I would rather die proud than live dishonored," the Scarlet King bellowed. "If I have another life to burn, without her beside me, I'd rather not continue!"
He threw himself into the brawl, but he was already stripped of his spear—the outcome lay skewed. The wicked blade sang across the Scarlet King's throat, but it did not sever his head as some expected. Instead, the Scarlet King's form loosened like sand. From his feet outward, his body began to disintegrate into drifting dust.
"You—Sumeru's king… you have won."
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