Round 45: Expulsion

A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.
The lightning split the dark clouds, plunging downward like a silver-white giant serpent. Its pure and immense energy struck the burning earth—not with overwhelming force, but like a magnet drawing everything around it toward its point of impact: steam, smoke, flames, and even rocks that hadn’t yet burned completely. Even the massive form of the Flame Lord trembled. Amidst the storm swirling in all directions, the Flame Lord turned away from the 47th, who now seemed like a trapped mouse in his eyes, and bent toward that sacred light.

The scorching black flames surged toward Anton like an avalanche. Though the Flame Lord did not understand the principle that even the strongest dam can collapse from a single crack, the rapidly increasing instability in the abyssal passage suggested that one of those ants, which he had long ignored, had caused serious trouble.

The Flame Lord utterly despised talking to such people. As one of the most powerful demons, second only to the Devil Grand Duke who ruled the Nine Hells and the Eight Demon Generals, he had long avoided the intrigues and malicious schemes of hell, preferring to engage in small-scale battles in bloody fights for pleasure and to enhance his strength. In his eyes, nothing was more important than growing stronger, and nothing commanded greater respect than overwhelming power. If not for what this entity possessed, which made him greedily desire it and left the abyss much sooner than expected, he would never have deigned to descend to this filthy, stinking realm of the primary material world—let alone allow himself to be outmaneuvered by these insignificant vermin!

“Run!” Eirwen retreated in panic, her beautiful face covered in blisters from the heat. She weakly looked around, trying to use her last strength to protect the other elves.

A fire meteor pierced through the smoke and flew toward her. It wasn’t the Flame Lord deliberately attacking her; it was just that there were countless burning meteors descending with him, flying randomly. But by the time Eirwen turned around, it was already too late to dodge.

Kastor leaped over like a leopard and pushed her away abruptly. The meteor that followed struck him, leaving a deep trench filled with dust and smoke as he was pushed to the ground.

“Kastor!” Eirwen got up from the ground, covered in dust, and rushed to his side.

The elf warrior’s entire body was torn to shreds, like a rag that had been tightly twisted, emitting a terrifying smell of burnt flesh. He barely raised his head before collapsing weakly.

Zaridan glanced back at Eirwen’s trembling shoulders. Would she feel guilt and regret for what had happened? Perhaps she would correct her mistakes, or maybe not. Only heaven knew. Her intelligence and sharpness made her noble, but also arrogant and willful. No matter how long she lived, growth meant making mistakes, but at least she deserved a chance to correct them.

Kastor, my comrade, I swear by your name—I will live up to the glory of the elves and not fail as a warrior!

Zaridan fixed his gaze on the Flame Monarch. He stood firm, braving the scorching heat as he moved forward—until he stood before Anton. By then, Milia had already thrown down her sword and was curled up behind Anton, almost unconsciously.

“I’m here, you angry bastard.”

“Warrior Leader…” Anton called out hoarsely, holding his sword.

Zaridan didn’t turn around.

“I regret not being able to protect my people with my own hands… but I can’t accept the fate of kneeling before demons.” He recited in ancient Elvish, “Since destruction is inevitable, at least I must prove that it isn’t only humans who have the courage to stand tall in the face of evil and fear.”

He stepped forward toward the Flame Monarch, his towering figure beginning to catch fire—but Zaridan continued to stagger forward, his steps resolute. He stretched out his left hand in an attempt to block the Flame Monarch and provide some protection for Anton, until he was completely consumed.

Watching Zaridan burn to ashes, Anton seemed to gain some strength. It seemed as though Zaridan’s tenacious will and unyielding spirit merged with Anton’s sacred power, unleashing a brilliant light. The wind seemed to part, and the flames weakened slightly. Anton chanted loudly, striving more urgently to close the abyssal gap maintained by the Flame Monarch, trying to drive him back.

Yet the Flame Monarch descended without any hindrance. He paused in front of Anton. Even with his power, he couldn’t completely ignore the light emitted by a holy warrior who was burning himself to death—damn this Material World! If it were in the Abyss… anywhere! The Flame Monarch raised himself like a giant serpent, ready to deliver a fatal strike.

Another serpent descended from the sky.

Forty-seven, trailing flames, slammed into the Flame Monarch, causing him to let out a surprised cry.

A brilliance even fiercer than the sun spread across Forty-seven’s entire body. The ash-hard shell the Flame Monarch used to bind him burned away completely. That brilliance was completely different from the Flame Monarch’s black flames, yet they seemed to lead to the same outcome—interweaving and devouring each other. But no matter how you looked at it, it seemed as though Forty-seven was constantly biting into the Flame Monarch’s body…

Waves of flame storms spread outward—those were the Flame Monarch’s roars. This situation was clearly beyond his expectations. Originally, as long as he stabilized his position, the Phaethon True Fire emitted by this construct wouldn’t be a problem. He could regain the upper hand with his abundant flame energy. But the problem was that there was also a damned holy warrior constantly trying to seal off the spatial passage to drive him away—like a person with a noose around their neck. Although it would be easy enough to pull the rope off, someone below was kicking the stool hard!

This approach was not worth it—the Material World was a damned place where nothing could be replenished and only constant depletion awaited! After weighing the pros and cons, the Flame Monarch decided to retreat voluntarily.

But not without conditions.

Dark storm clouds spun rapidly as he made one last effort to take away this construct with precious blood—during his time in the Abyssal Iron Castle, he had missed an opportunity due to shock, surprise, and the interference of demons. This time, it wouldn’t be that simple!

Forty-seven was involuntarily floating in the air. Flecks of white light shone chaotically yet persistently on him, with an unprecedentedly fierce intensity. His body gradually melted under the pressure, just as it had in the Iron Lake—molten iron gushed out like sweat, causing his form to dissolve continuously, and he couldn’t escape no matter how hard he tried.
“Well, you’d better kill me in one go. Otherwise, even if you tear Hell apart, I’ll crawl back!” Forty-seven raised his left arm, concentrating all his True Fire energy in the construct cannon. He wouldn’t let this bastard get his way, even at the cost of his life. What was death? He had died countless times on interstellar battlefields already.
Defense magic? A green shield pulled Forty-seven out of the dark clouds for a moment before disappearing. Eirwen’s eyes shone like stars, and tears streamed down her once-beautiful face before quickly drying up.
Anton roared as the light of holy power reached the sky, causing the ground to shake violently.
“Go back to hell!” The construct cannon in Forty-seven’s hand emitted white, scorching light, breaking through the dark clouds and completely destroying the Flame Monarch’s body, scattering even the dust.
Amid the collapsing storm, the Flame Monarch’s voice sounded like thunder from hell: “—Don’t get too proud! This isn’t anything! The time when we meet again won’t be long! I’ll wait for you! I’ll definitely wait! The blood of Phaethon must belong to me!”
“Wait slowly, you bastard.” Blowing away the smoke from the cannon, Forty-seven acted like a Western gunslinger who had won a duel.
The red-robed female mage on the aircraft watched the swirling clouds around her indifferently, seemingly completely uninterested.
“Is it over?” Dagulas kept staring down below, drenched in sweat. Without strong magical defenses, they would have been burned to death long ago while above the battlefield.
The female mage turned her head and saw Dagulas pulling back her gaze, looking at her with a smirk.
“Not yet, but it’s over for us.”
“It was so thrilling! Thanks to that construct… But what just happened? It seems like someone tampered with it—was it some kind of spell resonance? Yes! That must be it! But what spell made that construct act as if it had taken stimulants?” She acted like an incurable scientist.
“I don’t care. The data has been collected. We should go back. This place is too hot.” The mage rarely removed her hood; she was also sweating profusely.
Dagulas exclaimed excitedly, “It’s so hot! My clothes are sticking to my body. I miss bathtubs and hot springs—let’s head back!” She waved her arms, her mage robe clinging tightly to her, revealing her curves. If it weren’t for surviving the ordeal, the control room would have been covered in blood by now.
“Oh right, dear. I heard you chanting just now. It seemed like some rare magic… What was it?”
“Of course, it was defense magic in such a critical moment.”
“Hm? You seem to be lying… Come on, don’t be so stingy.” Dagulas’ coquettish voice was probably irresistible to most men, but it had little effect on the female mage. Fortunately, she didn’t mind.

“You must have heard wrong.” The female mage walked past her impatiently, seemingly tired of Dracula’s nonsense.
“That style of chanting… it seems to be those primitive spells that the barbarian tribes have secretly passed down since ancient times? Or maybe it’s the dwarves? …Wait!” Dracula tapped her chin, as if realizing something.
“Huh?” The petrification sword pierced her body, triggering Dracula’s defense—snow-white magic runes flashed all around her.
“What do you want?!” She stared in shock at the red-robed mage behind her, incredulous, before suddenly understanding the truth.
“To kill you.” The female mage gathered her strength.
“As I thought… you bitch, you’re really ruthless. But do you think a petrification spell will work on me?” Dracula shed her delicate appearance, her face twisted in fury.
“…” The female mage fired several magic projectiles, which were easily blocked by Dracula’s shield. But she clearly didn’t expect this to work against Dracula, nor did she intend to deal with her personally.
The tentacles on the flying craft suddenly writhed, and the eyeball crystals emitted flashes of magic. Though this couldn’t be used against Dracula—there wasn’t even time to aim before Dracula stopped her—it was enough to fire.
All sorts of magic rays were fired aimlessly, but they all hit the vortex of flames formed by the Flame Monarch.
“You—” Dracula screamed, but Malier had already launched a dimensional anchor at her as she jumped out of the flying craft.
The disturbed fire clouds, like a giant octopus stretching its tentacles, wrapped around the flying craft, dragging it along with everyone on board into the vortex, swallowing Dracula’s hysterical screams along with it.
The clouds exploded, throwing dust and smoke higher into the sky—those were the forms left behind by the Flame Monarch, no longer needing a medium in the material world.
Those who were lucky enough to survive felt a bone-chilling coldness—the ashes swirling around them were utterly devoid of warmth. The Flame Monarch had taken away all the heat it had brought, returning to hell.
Anton still held his sword firm, like a beacon of light.
Ildris stared at him blankly, ignoring the forty-seven creatures circling in the sky—this old holy warrior had truly sealed the abyssal rift!
When Milia woke up, she was surprised to find herself unharmed, aside from her clothes being badly burned. She got up to look for Anton—and finally, she saw the old holy warrior still standing not far ahead, almost buried.
She pulled Anton out of the thick ashes. The old holy warrior was very light, like a feather.
Anton had his eyes closed, as if he were just asleep. But Milia’s tears kept flowing. He began to gradually turn into powder, indistinguishable from dust—only his lips still bore a victorious smile.
A faint ripple reached Milia. She opened her tearful eyes and saw that Anton’s simple sword now flowed with a life-like color. She reached out and touched the inscriptions that had just appeared on it.
“What we defend with our lives isn’t faith, but justice.”