Vorthak was watching.
His eyes were closed, yet his vision was absolute.
Within the depths of his buried realm, he saw everything. The clash of steel and claw. The glow of Michael's sword cutting through endless waves of demons. Baldrick standing beside him, fighting like a war born king. The united armies of Vastyrion resisting what should have crushed them long ago.
Countless demons were dying.
Even so, Vorthak did not move.
Half of his body remained buried within the realm itself, fused with its twisted foundation. The land around him pulsed slowly, feeding him. With every passing moment, the realm granted him more power, more awareness, more reach. Being buried did not weaken him. It refined him.
Beyond the countless dimensional realms he already commanded, beyond vast planets and blazing stars linked by impossible wormholes, Vorthak existed on something deeper. His presence was not limited to space or matter. His will moved through pathways unseen, threads of intention woven through existence itself.
Where thought formed, he felt it. Where balance shifted, he sensed it. Where possibility bent, his influence followed.
Nothing needed to call his name. Nothing needed to see him.
He watched the armies of the Vastyrion Realm fight his forces. He watched his demons fall in great numbers. He watched rivers run dark with blood and skies burn with battle.
Slowly, a smirk formed across his monstrous maw.
"Fools," he murmured, his voice echoing through the realm without sound.
"Struggle all you want. This realm will be mine."
His mind drifted to the past, to the Ninth Sentinel. A being who stood on a plane no one else could reach. A being backed by forces that claimed to maintain balance above all else. Even then, demons had failed.
But this time was different.
"The Tenth Sentinel is young," Vorthak thought. "Unfinished."
He remained confident.
What he did not know was how much Michael had already grown.
On the battlefield, Michael continued to fight without pause. Demons fell by the hundreds, then thousands. His movements were precise, controlled. He moved faster than perception allowed, yet held back with deliberate restraint. Every strike was measured, every release of power carefully limited.
He would not destroy the Vastyrion Realm. He would not let collateral erase what he was meant to protect.
The glowing sword in his hand responded to him more naturally now. Its light was steadier, heavier, sharper. With every battle, Michael understood it more, and it understood him.
Nearby, Baldrick fought without injury. His potions flowed through his body, enhancing strength, endurance, and reaction. His long hair and beard whipped violently as he moved, slashing and stabbing demons without hesitation. Flying demons attempted to seize him from above, but he rose into the air, meeting them head on. Kicks shattered torsos. Blades split wings. Bodies fell burning into the snow below.
The battlefield roared.
Then Michael felt it.
A pressure. A gaze. Something vast, distant, yet unmistakably focused on him.
His senses reacted instantly.
Michael turned slightly and raised his palm. He released a force outward, not as a projectile, but as a pushing wave of power. The air bent violently. Demons caught within it were erased in an instant, crushed and scattered as if reality itself rejected them.
Michael's expression remained calm.
Someone was watching him.
And the war was far from finished.
Vorthak already knew.
The moment Michael sensed him, the Rendmaw felt it ripple through the pathways of his will. From within his buried state, Vorthak watched closely, his awareness fixed on the young Sentinel. He saw the brief hesitation in Michael's movements, the subtle confusion caused by the presence he could not fully understand.
Vorthak smirked.
The energy Michael had felt was not natural. It did not belong to any ordinary realm, nor to simple power or force. It came from something older.
His attention shifted to the small glowing stone Michael carried.
An ancient relic.
A remnant tied to forgotten cults that once worshiped demons not as rulers, but as symbols. That stone had been lost for ages, slipping through history after Vorthak's defeat. Long ago, he had tried to claim it, believing it to be the key to ascending beyond his limits.
But the Ninth Sentinel had stopped him.
Now fate had placed it in the hands of the Tenth.
Vorthak's desire sharpened.
That stone was not meant for a child Sentinel. It was meant for him. With it, he could reach what had once been denied. A higher plane. A state beyond what even balance allowed. A world shaped only by his will.
Demons meant nothing to him.
They were tools. Time buyers. Disposable pawns.
Their deaths did not concern him. As they fought and died, Vorthak remained buried, drawing power steadily, refining himself into something far more dangerous than before.
Soon, he would rise.
And when he did, he would face the young Sentinel himself.
Back in the Vastyrion Realm, the war raged without mercy.
Michael cut through demon ranks with relentless precision. He slashed through bodies and limbs, dodging combined attacks as massive demonic arms stretched outward, releasing shockwaves meant to crush him. With a single controlled strike, Michael severed arms and heads alike, the glowing blade leaving clean, decisive cuts.
On the distant hills, the Big soldiers continued their stand.
Their formation never broke.
With pikes held firm, they struck down wave after wave of flying demons. The ground beneath them was littered with burning corpses, wings torn apart, bodies shattered upon impact. Still, they advanced step by step, unyielding.
At the trenches, demons attempted to force their way through, but failed again and again. Cannon fire tore into their ranks, explosions ripping through clustered bodies. Archers released endless volleys, arrows cutting down creatures before they could reach the defenses. Cavalry units followed with swift charges, finishing what remained.
On the eastern flank, the alliance forces that had been pushed back began to reclaim ground. Aldervain divisions reinforced them with precise cannon support and aggressive cavalry strikes. Demons were overwhelmed, cut down, crushed, and driven into retreat.
Their screams filled the battlefield.
Victory, however, came at a cost.
Many alliance soldiers lay dead. Generals and officers fell among them, their sacrifices etched into the blood soaked earth. Those still standing fought on with grief and fury, praying to the higher beings for strength, for survival, for hope.
The war was brutal. Unforgiving. Relentless.
Yet they fought on, believing that this battle would decide more than just a realm.
Far above it all, unseen and unmoving, Vorthak continued to watch.
And the true confrontation had not yet begun.