“Evacuate the people,” Morgan ordered sharply, her voice leaving no room for debate. Tristan and Yvolt exchanged a glance but obeyed without hesitation, darting off as Morgan sprinted toward Burn.
Without breaking stride, a crown of radiant light materialized around the black portal, its glow slicing through the oppressive darkness. She reached Burn, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade: “Pull!”
Burn didn’t hesitate. Whatever reckless impulse had driven him to reach into the portal—something entirely out of character for him—was now replaced by calculated determination. The risks were massive, but the potential gain outweighed them.
With every ounce of his Force, he pulled, channeling his power to counter the corruption surging through the portal.
But, of course, corruption never played fair. The darkness spread into him, seeping through his veins like poison. He gritted his teeth, his iron will refusing to falter even as the man behind the portal recovered from his initial shock.
The tug of war that followed was vicious and unrelenting, a battle of strength and will locked in perfect balance.
Then—
SLASH!
Burn staggered backward, almost losing his footing. His arm was gone, severed cleanly at the shoulder, and the dark voice within the portal erupted in laughter, full of amusement and disbelief.
“Pffff—HAHAHAHAH!”
Burn’s jaw clenched, his fury barely contained.
“Not yet. Not today,” the voice growled through gritted teeth.
With his remaining hand, he reached forward again, intent on dragging the figure to the surface, arm or no arm. But before he could make contact, the portal vanished, leaving nothing but silence and a deep, simmering rage in its wake.
Except... his severed arm remained on the other side.
Still gripping the collar of the man from the portal, the dismembered limb seemed almost defiant. The dark figure was about to pry it away when he felt it—an overwhelming heat, as if a thousand suns had ignited in his palm.
BLAAAAAAAAAAAST!!!
The explosion ripped through the void with unrelenting fury, a shockwave of searing heat and blinding light that turned the surrounding space into a swirling vortex of destruction.
The dark figure staggered, shielding his shifting visage with a tendril-like arm of black mana. The sheer force of the blast drove him back, his form flickering violently as he fought to maintain cohesion.
It wasn’t the fire itself that got under his skin—it wasn’t like his twisted form hadn’t endured pain before. No, it was the sheer audacity of the situation. Being blasted by a severed arm? An arm?! The indignity of it burned hotter than the explosion itself.
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He hissed in fury, molten black ichor dripping from the charred, cracked edges of his form. His entire being radiated an unstable energy, struggling to reabsorb the corrupted mana he’d been forced to sacrifice in defense.
The air was thick with suffocating heat and crackling remnants of the blast, the very fabric of the void trembling under its residual force.
The explosion wasn’t just devastating—it was absurdly overpowered. That severed arm wasn’t a mere appendage; it was laced with the condensed heat energy of a dying sun. Even now, his body screamed under the strain of countering it.
That man. What was he made of? Carbon material that could cleave through gods? The figure’s thoughts churned as suspicion took root. Probably cutting off an arm of a god wouldn’t cost him this much.
Had Burn let his arm be severed deliberately? Was this some cruel ploy? The figure shuddered at the realization that he might have been outplayed. If he hadn’t guarded himself with everything—every ounce of corrupted mana he could muster—he would’ve lost far more than he cared to imagine.
“That damned son of a bitch,” he muttered, his voice dripping with venom and something bordering on begrudging respect. “Even dismembered, he’s an obnoxious thorn.”
The blast had left him exposed, his surroundings in complete ruin. Smoke rose in tendrils from the scorched remnants of the void, an acrid stench clawing at what passed for his nostrils. The corruption that had once flowed like a living entity now felt hollow, weak—an insult to his power.
As he adjusted himself, his flickering form finally stabilizing, his glowing eyes narrowed with fury barely restrained. The humiliation lingered, festering alongside his anger. “Next time,” he hissed, voice like grinding stone, “I’ll make sure there’s nothing left of him to explode.”
***
Tristan and Yvolt stood in stunned silence, their earlier determination to evacuate the civilians now feeling almost… redundant. The threat had retreated, metaphorical tail firmly tucked between its legs.
They’d half-expected Burn to drag the demon out of the abyss. Instead, Burn had his own reasons to let him slip away—or so it seemed.
“That didn’t kill him,” Burn said flatly, his voice laced with frustration as he incinerated the corrupted parts of his body with cold precision. Morgan, beside him, worked frantically to purify the lingering traces of thick black mana, her usually serene demeanor replaced with tense focus.
It wasn’t the first time Burn had taken a risk like this, and Tristan and Yvolt knew it wouldn’t be the last. Just as the demon lord gambled an equivalent of a continent’s worth of corruption to trap Morgan in a mind prison, Burn had gambled his own body to try and drag his enemy to the surface—or, at the very least, leave a parting gift with his severed arm.
To land even one decisive blow.
“Kiss me,” Morgan said abruptly, her tone devoid of tenderness and calm, replaced with something darker, heavier.
Burn paused, his gaze meeting hers. He didn’t need to ask why. He knew. She knew. This recklessness wasn’t like him. He wasn’t one to lose his cool and pull stunts like this—except when it came to her. He held a great grudge after the last loop.
He leaned down, lips meeting hers, the purest form of mana radiating from her soul flooding into him. Slowly, the corruption burning through his veins began to dissipate, the divine energy purifying what remained.
As the corruption faded, his arm began to regenerate, forming anew from the light and heat energy he had once amassed from the White Dwarf.
Morgan, however, was clearly not satisfied. Her hands glowed with relentless divine energy, and the look in her eyes was downright zealous. If she could, she’d dunk him into a tub of holy water and scrub him with her soul until not even a speck of corruption dared remain.
And Burn, ever the picture of composure, savored the moment in silence. It wasn’t every day you were kissed back to health by a goddess in all but name.
“I’m fine now. Let’s clean this up,” Burn pulled away, arm restored. He turned to the pair of Round Table Knights standing behind them, “Let’s return and check on you first.”