He managed to drag himself back onto his feet, his weight entirely supported by the jagged edge of his blade.
Luke forced his breathing into a steady rhythm, clamping down on the panic clawing at his throat. Across the ruined plaza, Albatron watched him, a slow, sadistic grin stretching across his face, thoroughly amused by the human's desperate display of defiance.
"The so-called hero, savior of the human race... frightened by the mere sight of me," Albatron taunted, his voice dripping with ancient malice.
"Enough," Cerci cut him short, her tone a lethal drop in temperature. "Leave the boy out of this."
Albatron sneered, his red eyes flashing with contempt. "Who do you think you are to dare order me? Are you so confident in yourself that you think you can take me on by yourself?"
*'I am a liability.'* The realization hit Luke like a physical blow. Even as a late-stage Monarch gifted with the latent power of a hero, his senses could barely register the blur of their movements. Standing between these two titans, he felt entirely insignificant—a fragile insect caught in the periphery of gods.
A fraction of a second later, the Demon Lord vanished.
Reality fractured. Time seemed to drag, stretching thin as space itself distorted under Albatron's velocity. Yet, before the blow could reach Luke, Cerci was already there. She intercepted Albatron's hand inches from Luke's face, the impact triggering a concussive shockwave that shrieked through the air.
Without sparing him a glance, her voice cut through the ringing in his ears.
"Luke, run. Run as far away from here as possible."
He didn't hesitate. He didn't think twice. Pushing his body past its absolute limits, he tapped into his 9th-circle core, flashing through the ruined streets. He grabbed survivors where he could, but his primary directive was raw, desperate survival—fleeing from the nightmare unfolding behind him.
Behind his back, the capital unraveled.
It was a systematic erasure of reality. Buildings did not simply collapse; they were pulverized into fine dust by the residual shockwaves of their collision. Stone, steel, flesh, and bone were wiped away indiscriminately, killing demons and humans alike in a cataclysmic sweep of power. *'How?'* Luke's mind screamed as he sprinted. *'How is a Great Sage capable of tearing apart the fabric of the world like this? There is no depth to her power—it is an abyss.'*
He did not stop running until the horrific echoes of their clash finally faded into a heavy, ominous silence. His legs buckled beneath him. The merciless desert sun offered no quarter, beating down its cruel, blistering rays upon his bleeding, exhausted body.
Then, the dread returned. A cold, suffocating premonition that spiked his adrenaline.
Only his hyper-tuned reflexes and acute mana sense saved him from decapitation. A phantom wind hissed past his ear, leaving a deep, weeping gash along his side. Another projectile followed instantly—too fast to evade. Luke swung his sword in a desperate parry, connecting with the invisible strike.
The recoil nearly shattered his arms. He reeled backward, dropping to one knee as visible cracks spiderwebbed across the blade of his sword.
"Didn't your father tell you just how futile it is to run from him?"
Albatron's voice echoed like a death knell, sending a freezing shiver straight down Luke's spine.
With a casual flick of his wrist, Albatron tossed an object through the air. It rolled across the dust and came to a stop against Luke's boot. Luke's breath caught in his throat, his eyes widening in absolute, paralyzing horror.
It was Cerci's head. Her golden hair was matted with blood, her lifeless eyes staring blankly at the sky.
> *"What becomes of your hope now that Cerci is dead?"*
>
The question hung in the ash-choked air, heavy and absolute.
Luke's hands shook uncontrollably. The grief was a physical weight crushing his chest, threatening to drown him in madness. But beneath the terror, a cold, hard ember of survival sparked. He forced his muscles to lock, steading his grip, clearing his mind of all distractions until he reached a state of absolute, chilling battle clarity.
If he was to die here, he would not break.
He called forth the ancient, slumbering authority within his blood—the terrifying, radiant legacy of the hero.
AETHELGARD'S MANTLE.
An explosion of blinding, ethereal light erupted from Luke's core, painting the desolate landscape in pale, divine. The mantle flared to life—emerald runes etched themselves upon his skin, thick layers of mana wrapped around him like a second skin. Yet, despite the legendary power surging through his veins, the oppressive weight of Albatron's presence felt like an entire mountain range pressing down on his shoulders.
Albatron tilted his head, watching the golden radiance flicker over Luke's frame with a look of profound, chilling amusement. The Demon Lord didn't even bother to assume a stance.
"Did you truly believe that parlor trick would change the outcome?" Albatron's voice resonated directly within Luke's skull, cold and absolute.
"Look at your pathetic struggle, little hero. Every drop of blood you spill, every breath you waste clinging to that fragile, childish illusion of hope, is utterly meaningless. You are a candle raging against an endless night. There is no salvation coming for you. There is no miracle waiting in the dark. You are entirely, hopelessly alone."
Albatron took a slow step forward, the ground cracking beneath his boots as the air itself seemed to recoil from his malice.
"And because you refuse to break,"* Albatron whispered, a sadistic grin stretching across his maw, *"I am going to take pleasure in ripping every single limb from your body, one by one. I will watch you scream until your voice gives out, and I will show you just how worthless your defiance truly is."
Luke didn't flinch. The bright light of Aethelgard's Mantle flared brighter, burning against the despair. He gripped his cracked sword, his knuckles turning white, and prepared to face the abyss of a demon lord.