But Tharen didn't stop. He didn't look back. He didn't even hesitate.

All he wanted was to get back—to the human continent, to safety, to civilization.

He never noticed the shadow streaking toward him from the front, fast as a phantom.

Shlick—

In the blink of an eye, Laura appeared right in front of him—so close he could see the reflection of his own stunned face in her eyes.

Her razor-sharp claw blade had already pierced his chest.

Tharen's body went rigid. His eyes locked onto Laura's face, wide with shock. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Instinct kicked in. He grabbed her mechanical arm, trying to push her away with what little strength he had left.

His remaining ice-type power surged, frost forming along her arm.

But it was too late.

Laura's claw was just a hair's breadth from his heart. One more inch, and it would be over.

She looked at him—this dying human clinging to life—and smiled.

It was a sweet, innocent smile. The kind a girl next door might give you on a sunny afternoon.

Then the crystal core embedded in her mechanical arm lit up, energy pulsing white-hot.

BOOM!

A deafening blast echoed across the battlefield.

Tharen's chest exploded open, a gaping hole the size of a dinner plate blown clean through him.

He looked down slowly, as if trying to understand what had just happened.

His eyes dimmed.

He staggered back two steps, then collapsed to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut.

His eyes remained wide open, staring up at the sky, filled with despair and disbelief.

Another human powerhouse had fallen—another warrior lost to the cursed land of Necroterra.

"Tharen…" Howard's voice cracked as he watched his comrade fall. His eyes widened in disbelief, his breath caught in his throat.

It felt like something inside him had been torn apart.

Like his heart was bleeding.

"We lose the will to fight, we die. That's the truth," Gareth said beside him, his voice low but firm.

He was talking about Tharen—but also reminding Howard.

Howard clenched his fists, forcing the grief down, locking it away. He took a deep breath, eyes sharpening as he scanned the battlefield.

The fight wasn't over.

Bloodveil watched it all unfold, a cruel smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

From the very start, he'd been on the back foot—outnumbered, outmatched, constantly under pressure from the humans.

But now?

Now the tide had turned.

With himself, the Two-Headed Zombie King, and Laura—three Voidborn Undying on the field—the balance had shifted.

The humans only had two left.

"Finally… the roles are reversed," Bloodveil muttered, his voice low and venomous. "Now you'll understand what real cruelty feels like."

The air was thick with killing intent. The Zombie Kings radiated bloodlust, while the remaining humans stood their ground, eyes burning with resolve.

The final battle was about to begin.

But just then, a massive energy surge erupted from another part of the battlefield.

Stone shattered. The ground split open.

A figure crashed down from the sky, slamming into the earth with bone-jarring force.

But before the dust could even settle, that figure turned into a bolt of lightning and shot away at high speed.

A second later, Ethan descended like a meteor, landing where the figure had just been. The force of his arrival, amplified by the terrifying power of the Domain of the Dead, was like a star falling from the heavens.

BOOOOM!

The ground shook violently. The entire area was reduced to rubble.

Harren barely escaped in time—one second slower, and he would've been crushed.

"This Zombie King… he's this strong?" Harren muttered, his brow furrowed, chest heaving.

He was exhausted. The fight had drained him. And yet, he hadn't gained the upper hand.

But what truly unsettled him was the question burning in his mind:

Why was a Zombie King this powerful in Southvale?

It didn't make sense.

His thoughts drifted back to thirty years ago—to the war against the Zombie Kings of Heartland.

Back then, only a handful of them had this kind of overwhelming presence.

Ethan didn't press the attack. He simply stood there, calm and composed, his gaze drifting toward the distance.

"You see it now, don't you?" he said, voice low but clear. "You've already lost two SSS-ranked powerhouses."

Harren clenched his jaw, his heart twisting with grief. Serah and Tharen's deaths still weighed heavily on him—but more than that, he knew Ethan was right.

The tide was turning. And not in their favor.

Ethan continued, his tone almost casual. "Won't be long before the other two fall, too."

Harren said nothing, but the silence spoke volumes. That was exactly what he feared.

Howard and Gareth—no matter how strong—weren't enough to take on three Voidborn Undying. It was only a matter of time before they were overwhelmed.

"Time's running out…" Harren muttered under his breath. He knew Ethan was trying to mess with his head, to shake his focus—but it didn't matter. The urgency was real.

And Ethan… he was still holding back.

Harren had studied the footage from the Battle of the Skywall countless times. He knew Ethan possessed the Blood Rite—an ability that could amplify his power to terrifying levels.

This whole time, Harren had been trying to force him to use it. Only by pushing Ethan to reveal all his cards could they hope to win.

But even now, Ethan hadn't tapped into it.

That was a problem. A big one.

Harren's eyes flicked toward Howard and Gareth, still locked in brutal combat with the other Zombie Kings. They were giving it everything they had—but it wouldn't be enough.

They couldn't afford to wait any longer.

He exhaled slowly, steadying his breath. Then, without a word, he closed his eyes.

Lightning began to dance across his body—silver arcs slithering like serpents, crackling with barely contained fury.

But his aura… it changed.

Gone was the wild, chaotic energy from before. In its place came a deep, focused calm—like the stillness before a storm.

Then he spoke, voice low and resolute.

"Let me show you… what it really means to be the Thunder Warlord."

Ethan's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't look surprised. He'd expected this.

He knew Harren still had something left in the tank. After all, no one survived Heartland without a trump card.

BOOOOM—

Suddenly, the sky roared.

Thunder rolled across the heavens like the bellow of a furious god. Bolts of lightning tore through the clouds, growing thicker, faster—until they wove together like a web of pure destruction.

And at the center of it all—was Harren.

"Wrath of the Thunder God!"

His voice cracked like a whip, and the sky answered.

Thousands of lightning bolts rained down, striking the mountains, the ground—everything in their path. Stone turned to ash. Earth split open.

The world trembled.

Pillars of lightning surged into Harren's body, and he became the eye of the storm. Blinding light engulfed him, so intense it washed out all color, turning the battlefield into a sea of white.

Then—his body began to change.

His once-withered frame swelled with power. Muscles bulged, skin tightened. His thin, graying hair darkened, thickened, until it was jet black and wild.

In the blink of an eye, the frail old man was gone.

In his place stood a warrior in his prime—broad-shouldered, towering, radiating raw power. His eyes burned like twin suns, and his presence was overwhelming, divine.

He looked like a god of war descended to earth.

Gasps echoed across the battlefield.

"Look! Is that… is that Harren?!"

"No way… I've seen the statue in the memorial hall! That's him! That's the Thunder Warlord who shook the continent!"

"My god… I never thought I'd live to see this with my own eyes!"

Even Howard and Gareth were stunned, their hearts pounding.

"He's going all in," Howard said, voice tight with awe. "That's Harren's full power."

Gareth nodded slowly. "Let's just hope… he can hold it long enough."

Above them, the sky crackled with fury. Lightning danced like wild spirits, the air thick with energy.

The blinding light flickered, casting sharp shadows across Ethan's face. He stood still, watching the figure emerge from the storm.

His black eyes gleamed.

"Now that's more like it…"

...

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