Chapter 638: The Last Wall

Day Five.

The crystal cluster giants surged forward like an unrelenting tide, monsters from the Holy Spirit Plains pouring in endlessly. And the strength of the defenders… was nearing its limit.

Arcane energy coalesced into wave after wave of lightning storms, destructive forces relentlessly lashing at the faltering energy barrier of the Great Shield over Saint Suniel. A deep, unsettling howl echoed throughout the shield’s interior—like the roar of thousands, or the earth itself cracking open to reveal a rift to the abyss. What was once a seamless, impenetrable barrier was now riddled with holes, vast patches of static noise blotting out the sky above the city. Those static patches, along with the howling within the shield, served as grim reminders to the city’s defenders: the shield was on the verge of collapse.

The volatile magical energies amassed above the plains had begun to affect the weather. Though it was summer, cold, biting winds swept through the city. The blue-and-gold banner of House Ansu snapped wildly atop the walls, whipped by the gale. Beneath the banner, battered and exhausted knights and soldiers huddled near catapults and massive ballistae, holding their ground behind the battlements with a numb, stubborn resolve as they stared out over the plains.

Stone projectiles and giant bolts still piled the walls, but fewer than a third of the siege engines remained operational—because the mages who enchanted the ammunition had long since run dry of mana.

Mana was far easier to exhaust than physical stamina, and far more vulnerable to environmental disruption. Mages needed relative calm to recover their strength quickly, but the entire city of Saint Suniel was now shrouded in a turbulent magical field. Human minds were not machines; meditation was impossible in such chaotic magic. The royal mages did their utmost to maintain the defensive firepower, but as this brutal battle dragged on day after day, more and more mid- and low-level mages lost the ability to control their magic. Their withdrawal marked the inevitable beginning of the defense’s collapse.

Without battle mages to support them, ordinary stone shots and bolts were nearly useless against the crystal giants.

Wales, clad in armor stained with blood and marked by fresh scars, gripped the King’s Sword as he slowly paced along the southern wall. The cold wind howled ceaselessly between the shield and the ramparts, tossing his cloak and the strands of hair across his forehead.

He passed a section of wall recently ravaged by fierce fighting—here, the shield had been breached. Powerful arcs of arcane lightning had shattered large swaths of stone bricks, leaving scorched blackened patches on the ground. Craftsmen and mages had rushed to reinforce the area, repairing the catapults. Fresh soldiers had replaced the fallen, holding the line.

A knight in battered armor leaned against a nearby battlement. The royal knight’s insignia was still faintly visible on his breastplate. His head tilted back slightly, face smeared with blood, utterly still—he seemed long dead.

Wales truly believed the knight was lost. But when the distant horn sounded and the monsters surged again against the barrier, the bloodied knight suddenly sprang to his feet, charging toward the nearest catapult to rally the soldiers for a counterattack.

The new king watched silently. He said nothing, continuing his inspection of the walls he had sworn to defend.

Another terrifying howl erupted from the shield, shaking all of Saint Suniel as if trapped inside a giant bell.

Moments later, the wind stirred, and Bertram Franklin, robed in the Arcane Eye, descended swiftly beside Wales. “Your Majesty, the southern shield node has just burned out.”

“I heard that howl…” Wales said calmly. “How much longer can it hold?”

The Duke of Bertram raised a hand, pointing to the rapidly spreading static patches above the capital. “It’s already beginning to collapse.”

The Great Shield of Saint Suniel was breaking down. Over the past days, it had endured pressures far beyond its design limits. Now, every node was partially or completely destroyed. Worse still, the magical focal point beneath the capital could no longer supply sufficient energy. This shortage triggered a chain reaction of shield disintegration, with nodes being consumed and melted by the very magic meant to sustain them.

Some on the walls noticed the shield’s collapse, but no one abandoned their posts. Wales simply watched the shield’s gradual disintegration in silence. After a few seconds, he spoke softly: “We should heed Duke Victoria’s advice—expand the scale of the magic network and link it to the Great Shield.”

“Too many still doubt Cecil’s technology. Now is the time to pay the price.”

Wales said no more. He lifted his gaze toward the Holy Light Cathedral.

A majestic radiance burst forth from the ancient cathedral’s spire, suffusing the air with solemnity and boundless grandeur.

The Great Shield would not hold until reinforcements arrived—that was expected. But after the shield’s fall, before human lives filled the breach, Saint Suniel still had one last line of defense.

“The divine authority has held sway over this capital for so many years. It’s time they fulfill their duty.”

The divine descent ritual had reached its final, critical stage. The Great Hall of Light was now a sea of holy radiance.

The sacred clouds that usually floated above the hall had descended to the floor, like a divine vision heralding the arrival of heaven itself. Bathed in this holy light, every pillar and statue in the hall seemed encased in crystal, as if the “City of Light” described in sacred texts had manifested on earth. Within this ocean of light, bishops clad in ornate vestments and crowned with golden diadems chanted devout praises to the God of Light. Layer upon layer of prayers swelled and surged alongside the luminous clouds, converging on the Pope standing at the hall’s center—

Saint Ivan III stood firm, gripping the platinum scepter symbolizing divine authority. Raising the scepter high, he struck it heavily against the ground for the first time:

“Praise be to the Lord! May Your will be done upon the earth, bathing it in grace, sheltering and forgiving all living beings!”

Light poured from the crevices of the Pope’s features, as if a powerful source of radiance dwelled within him, struggling to break free from flesh and bone.

Amid the bishops’ unified praise, he struck the scepter down a second time:

“Praise be to the Lord! May Your will be done in the heavens, illuminating the world, banishing evil, leaving darkness nowhere to hide!”

The light flowing from the Pope coalesced into a towering, vast apparition. Though it bore some semblance of his face, behind it rose countless overlapping shadows—faces and forms merging into a radiant giant.

Finally, he struck the scepter down a third time:

“Praise be to the Lord! You are the first refuge in darkness, the hope sought by mortals. All living beings shall forever pursue the light, just as You shall forever protect them—you are the origin and the end, eternal and unending. We pray for Your descent upon this world under Your protection, as in days past, so now—”

A pure, ethereal bell toll thundered, overwhelming all prayers and chants in the Great Hall of Light. The cathedral’s bell tower rang out in harmony, blending real and spectral chimes.

In the midst of the ringing, a dazzling luminous image detached from Saint Ivan III’s body. This image merged swiftly with the radiant giant behind him, growing rapidly—

Above the Holy Light Cathedral, a giant hundreds of meters tall slowly rose to its feet.

The divine descent ritual had succeeded.

On the walls of Saint Suniel, Wales Morn quietly watched the brilliant giant rise from the city, its radiance spreading swiftly toward the ramparts. He couldn’t help but feel moved.

“So this is the power of the gods…”

As he murmured, the Great Shield that had protected the capital until now finally reached its limit. With a series of strange howls and tearing sounds, vast patches of static rapidly engulfed the barrier, then shattered into countless glowing particles that rained down over the city. Almost simultaneously, the crystal giant opened its arms, and walls of crystal-like light pierced the polluted clouds above the plains, layering themselves to shield the entire wall.

The mindless crystal monsters showed no fear of this divine power. Instead, they grew more frenzied, roaring wildly as they attacked with lightning, their bodies, even self-detonations against the “new shield.” But the light-forged giant held its arms wide, the shield enveloping the city standing firm and unyielding.

This was Saint Ivan III’s divine descent—a “heaven on earth” that rendered the entire Ansu capital temporarily invincible!

Bertram Franklin gazed at the holy giant protecting the city, whispering regretfully, “If only Saint Ivan III were twenty years younger… no, even ten years younger, the divine descent could have lasted over three days. Saint Suniel would have held without fail until reinforcements arrived…”

Wales said nothing in reply. He furrowed his brow, eyes scanning the southern wall—bathed in holy light, countless weary soldiers found their strength renewed. Wave after wave of spiritual uplift filled them with joy and gratitude. Warriors pulled out holy light talismans and began to pray. Even those few without faith in the God of Light couldn’t help but praise His name.

He took a deep breath and raised his sword high. “Rest while you can! Eat, drink, check your weapons—don’t waste a moment!

“The divine descent has a time limit! When it ends, Saint Suniel’s defense will be nothing but our flesh and blood!

“This is our last chance to regroup—seize it, and hold fast until reinforcements arrive!”

At the king’s shout, the soldiers—immersed moments before in gratitude to the Holy Light—were abruptly jolted awake. They realized that the safety before them was fleeting. The Great Shield of Saint Suniel had collapsed. Now, the entire defense line was held together only by a dying old man forcibly channeling divine magic. Once this truth sank in, everyone on the walls sprang into action: drinking water, eating, seizing every moment to rest and steady themselves for the final battle ahead.

Inside the Cathedral of the Holy Light, in the corridor before the entrance to the Great Hall of Illumination, Veronica stood alone, quietly watching the tightly shut doors.

To ensure the divine invocation ritual went flawlessly, all attendants and lower clerics had been dismissed. Only a squad of ascetics and a unit of palace knights guarded the building’s exterior. The corridor leading to the hall was deserted—except for her.

“The divine invocation…” Veronica murmured softly. A solemn, sacred aura seeped from behind the great doors ahead, faintly echoing the holy light that shimmered around her. Yet, just as the two forces seemed about to merge, they parted clearly and distinctly. “This time, it truly is the purest sample in seven centuries…”

With a quiet self-whisper, the “Saint Princess” walked steadily toward the doors, then casually pushed open the Great Hall’s entrance.

A surge of radiant holy light flooded Veronica’s vision. Wave after wave of luminous energy surged toward her, but as each approached, it softened into gentle streams of light that silently dissipated at her side.

Inside the hall, the devout bishops in prayer seemed utterly unaware of her presence. Each remained frozen in their supplicatory pose, like automatons running on autopilot. Only the Pope, seated at the center, reacted to Veronica’s arrival. Now faintly merged with the Holy Light itself, his entire body coursed with countless streams of glowing energy. Slowly, he lifted his eyelids and spoke in a rusty, sluggish voice: “Veroni…ca… why… have you… come… suddenly…”

“Just to inform you that the experiment is over,” she replied calmly.

The Pope’s thoughts were clearly sluggish: “Experiment… project?”

Veronica smiled faintly, unhurriedly placing her hand on the platinum scepter held by Saint Ivan III. “Yes. The project concerning the nature of the gods and the laws that govern them.”

“What… are you… doing…” The Pope’s voice regained a trace of humanity, as if struggling to break free from mental fog. A note of panic crept into his tone. “You will… destroy everything… this city…”

Veronica gripped the scepter firmly and slowly pulled it from Saint Ivan III’s grasp. “No. The divine invocation will continue. This city will not be destroyed. But it will no longer have anything to do with your god.”

As the platinum scepter was wrenched away, Saint Ivan III’s voice finally cleared, filled with shock and fury: “Who… are you?!”

“Nothing more than a rebel,” Veronica said with a faint smile, lightly tapping the scepter’s head against Saint Ivan III’s chest. “The Norton royal family sends their regards to you and your master behind you.”

(End of chapter)