“Who exactly are you? You bear no mark of the demon race—no trace of that cursed lineage—but rather, you seem to be a knight of illustrious renown. Why then, do you conspire with the lord of all fiends, consorting with monsters to bring ruin upon your own kind? How many humans have suffered under the bloodlust and enslavement of these creatures? And yet you choose to embrace endless power by joining with demons?”
Sir Famas staggered upon the shattered stones, barely holding his ground. In the fierce, intimate clash, he had discerned with grim certainty that the Netherlord’s back bore no demon’s sigil; thus, with seething anger he confronted his mighty adversary.
“Are you of our own kin—mere insects amongst us?” The Netherlord’s pallid lips curled into a disdainful sneer as he drawled these words.
“From where I stand,” Sir Famas retorted bitterly, “the abominations wrought by mankind are far more loathsome than any fiendish creature. You slay your brethren in a merciless quest for resources, nearly annihilating all that is left. Do not forget that without the protection of Saint George in the last great war, you would have perished long ago!”
The Netherlord, his gaze lofty and contemptuous, swept his eyes over those who dared to look up at him. “So you claim? It appears you, like Garison Peso, have descended into extremism.” He spoke as Sir Famas deftly swung his sword, while the Blue Shield Knights at his side maintained a vigilant guard.
“Know this,” the Netherlord continued, his voice rising in an unholy timbre, “all of you, insignificant insects, are nothing but servants of the divine. I now, in the name of the gods, shall make you vanish—your countless grievous sins, your revolting deeds, have been forgiven by our Lord Jesus time and again, yet you never repent! Divine retribution is inevitable. Hear me well—I am Chronos, master of eternal time! The scourge of divine wrath is upon you; this time even Saint George shall not rescue you! I am one of the architects of this very planet, having witnessed, through eyes that span the torrents of time, the annals of countless eras upon this world. I love it more than any mortal, and I will brook no force that seeks its destruction. And you, humans, are nothing more than a cancer upon this orb!”
In that moment, a shudder ran through all present as they beheld an impossible sight: upon Chronos’s brow, a crucifix of black light pulsed, and above his head, a faint halo of white radiance appeared—reminiscent of the saintly aura that once heralded the dragon-slaying visage of Saint George.
Not only did the knights of the final crusade tremble at this revelation, but even the military and clerical dignitaries monitoring the battle from distant command centers via satellite and drones were stricken with awe. They could scarce believe that one of the three great lords of the demon realm was in truth a member of the divine—a notion so blasphemous it shattered the certainties of even the most devout souls. For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to halt; the air turned oppressively still save for the ceaseless roar of wind and flames.
Sir Benjamin, recovering from his own shock, slowly advanced toward the Time Lord Chronos. He emerged from his single-soldier mecha with solemn purpose, planting his sword into the scorched earth before him. Retrieving the platinum cross from his breast, he held it aloft before his brow, then knelt in reverence according to the sacred rites of the Church. “In the presence of the Holy Spirit at the grand Cathedral of Kaiblet—witnessed by the Pope and hundreds of knights and priests—I have, in my humble fortune, seen our saintly Lord Saint George manifest. With his boundless chivalry and magnanimous love, he rescued us and bestowed upon us strength. He promised, in the name of the Heavenly Father, to safeguard humanity’s final hope. How can you now contravene that ancient vow?”
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“Saint George represents no one but a servant of our Lord Jesus,” the Netherlord countered with a sneer, his tone dripping with contempt. “You are nothing but dust—insignificant as a blade of grass—and do you truly believe that your wanton trampling comes without consequence? I am your judge!”
“If this truly is the Day of Judgment,” Sir Famas interjected sharply, “then no one in the name of God shall dance with demons!”
Sir Famas spoke without deference to the Time Lord, for the southern principalities had long embraced the cult of the Holy Knights, venerating Saint George as the wellspring of their fusion power.
“Humankind is ever so arrogantly convinced it can fathom all mysteries, yet every creature in this world is bound by the inexorable cycle of cause and effect. Today marks your ultimate demise; your resistance is futile. If you truly adhere to divine oracle, then you should renounce defiance and accept the judgment of God!”
High above, in the firmament, Chronos’s eyes glinted with a cold, unyielding green—a gaze as impassively icy as the marble effigies in ancient Roman temples.
“Permit me to speak plainly,” Sir Famas declared, his voice resonant with righteous fury. “We, the knights of the Kingdom of North Lanstown and our brethren across the southern realms, are devout followers of the Holy Knight Church—Saint George alone is our true lord! As for the other Christian realms, they shall surely brand you, who dare seek to exterminate humanity, as a traitor among the divine, and in the name of divine wrath, bring slaughter upon you. Your nefarious, meticulously contrived ambitions have long been laid bare!”
Sir Famas was renowned throughout North Lanstown—a knight whose valor in the Third Great War, commanding tens of thousands against the relentless onslaught of the Peso Doctrine’s armies, had never wavered, whether facing gods or demons.
“I, too, shall continue the fight on behalf of the Kingdom of Xiwier,” Sir Famas vowed. “I wish to bestow upon every child beneath the heavens a tomorrow imbued with hope.”
After a moment of somber reflection, Sir Benjamin rose. In the hallowed halls of St. Mary’s Cathedral at Kalm, he had sworn an oath to be the guardian of countless children—a creed he had faithfully upheld all his life.
“Since you have chosen to strike against insurmountable odds,” Chronos intoned, his green pupils contracting in a moment of divine severity, “then I shall grant you your wish.”
At his command, the shield-like ‘Moment’s Emblem’ transmuted into hundreds of razor-sharp, ashen lances—ready to deliver a fatal blow to the unprotected knights. In the ensuing crisis, six knights of the Blue Shield order swiftly converged upon Sir Famas, channeling their fusion powers to stave off this deadly assault. Meanwhile, Breton piloted the ‘Grass Python’ fighter in a precipitous dive from the stratosphere, skimming the jagged mountain ridges with breakneck agility.
“Engine power at 85 percent, velocity 2.75 Mach,” reported Arthas, his eyes fixed on the tracking display as the targeting reticle locked onto the gleaming, lethal threat.
“Push the engines to their utmost—initiate the main cannon,” Breton ordered coolly. At that moment, Arthas deftly exploited a “backdoor” in the system to override the fighter’s controls, preventing an overload-induced lockdown.
“Main cannon engaged with charged energy; engine output now at 504 percent!”
Before Arthas could finish his report, a shrill red alarm erupted from the HUD, filling the cockpit with urgent clamor. Following a serpentine evasive maneuver—a maneuver worthy of a cobra’s strike—Breton, seizing the precise instant as Chronos unleashed his array of lances, decisively pressed the main cannon’s fire button. The overloaded engine core diverted all its might to the cannon, its bombardment rivaling that of a dreadnought’s primary battery. Coupled with the fighter’s plunging speed, the particle cannon’s accelerated salvo surged forth like a torrential river breaching its banks.
Simultaneously, Sir Benjamin, Sir Famas, and six other Blue Shield knights unleashed their fusion powers in unison. Three ancient, ultimate forces—each echoing through the corridors of time—collided violently, the resulting shockwave nearly flattening the pinnacle of Lion Mountain. The ‘Grass Python’ fighter, having sacrificed every ounce of its power to fuel the main cannon, was hurled into chaotic turbulence by the overwhelming recoil.
“Every component on this aircraft is screaming alarms—Brother, find a way to regain control!” Arthas bellowed, his gaze fixed upon the disintegrating airframe as the surrounding metal shrieked in tortured distortion.
“Quickly—find a means to restart the engines!”
Breton clutched the control stick with steely resolve as the fuselage shuddered violently. Yet the ‘Grass Python’ remained ensnared in a vicious spiraling stall; within the cockpit, alarms beeped incessantly in a dissonant dirge.