The beautiful woman floating above the devastation, the Healing Saintess, didn't wait for a response.

With a graceful sweep of her hands, a torrent of ethereal white-gold light streamed from her palms. This light instantly fragmented into hundreds of delicate, luminous threads, descending upon the battlefield like threads of a benevolent spiderweb.

These light-threads connected to every fallen, injured, and exhausted soldier of the Unified Race—from the bruised Aura Warriors to the shattered mages.

Mana, pure and revitalizing, flowed out of the Saintess and through the ethereal network, surging into the bodies of the defenders.

One after another, the soldiers whizzed and gasped for breath, pushing themselves up from the ground.

Their shallow cuts closed, broken bones knitted, and the agonizing exhaustion drained away.

The flow of healing culminated in the small group around Storm. Kane, Seraphina, and Rhys sat bolt upright, their eyes wide with renewed strength.

Storm was the last to stir. He groaned, his vision clearing as his shattered wrist and mangled shoulder rapidly reformed and healed beneath his coat.

"That's the Healing Saintess for you," the elder Gunslinger, the man with the cowboy hat and the massive double-barrel, remarked with a proud smirk, nodding toward the woman floating above. "A shame she's not a god, though. For the dead, there's no hope."

When Storm's focus snapped into clarity, his eyes fell upon the towering figure of the gunslinger standing between him and the crater.

"Grandfather!?" Storm screamed, scrambling awkwardly to his feet, his regenerated body protesting the sudden movement. "What… what are you doing here?"

A hearty, booming laugh escaped the elder man. "Hahaha! Came to check on you, boy, see if you've grown any since last I saw you. But seeing you struggle so badly, I had to intervene, didn't I?" He flashed a broad, knowing smile.

One of the nearby Aura Warriors, a veteran Kane had saved, turned to the others in awe.

"Grandfather? Then he's the…"

"He's the Gun Saint, Mollinger," the soldier clarified in a reverent whisper.

Kane, Seraphina, and the other surviving associates immediately pulled themselves into a weary but respectful bow, their hands pressed together in gratitude.

"Thank you for saving our lives, Lord Saint, Lady Saintess," Kael voiced the sentiment of the entire group.

Before Mollinger could offer a witty reply, a low, wet groaning noise emanated from the crater where Halmu lay broken.

The soldiers immediately tensed.

Halmu's ravaged body began to move. His remaining skin started to wriggle, and dense black smoke poured from the massive, gaping wound where half his body had been.

The skin rapidly stitched itself back together, the obsidian armor reforming in shimmering layers over the rapidly healing flesh and bone.

In a few agonizing seconds, Halmu took a deep, rattling breath, fully recovered. He slowly pushed himself up, retrieving the monstrous Annihilator from the dust beside him.

He looked at the two new arrivals—the serene woman and the man with the oversized gun. He didn't look defeated; he looked ecstatic.

His wide smirk returned, colder and more predatory than before.

"So," Halmu hissed, his voice raw and grating, "You're a Saint too, huh? This is far more entertaining than slaughtering students." He hoisted the Annihilator, its maw-like teeth glittering under the moonlight.

"Guess I'll finally be taking a trophy back, and also my revenge." His voice dropped to a level of icy, chilling menace.

The atmosphere intensified again, the stakes exponentially higher with the arrival of the Saints.

Halmu planted his feet and, with a heave of his fully restored, obsidian-armored body, hoisted the colossal, toothed sword—the Annihilator—up onto his shoulder.

The blade itself seemed to thirst for the battle, the jagged, metallic maw along its edge opening wider, radiating a terrifying, suffocating pressure that assaulted every individual on the shattered battlefield.

The students and revived warriors recoiled instinctively, sensing the immense power radiating from the weapon.

"Get ready to offer your head, Saint," Halmu mocked, his cold smile widening into a promise of brutal violence.

He launched himself forward, closing the distance between them in a demonic blur. The ground beneath his feet cracked and buckled under the force of his charge.

Mollinger, the Gun Saint, met the charge with unflappable calm. He simply smirked, the shadow of his cowboy hat obscuring his eyes. With a heavy, metallic clank, he cocked and loaded his humongous, double-barreled gun.

The twin barrels, radiating an intense, silver aura, pointed directly at the rushing Halmu.

As Mollinger aimed, a different kind of pressure descended upon the enemy—not one of physical force, but of absolute, divine judgment.

A sudden, suffocating density fell upon Halmu, a weight that tried to pin him to the earth, born from Mollinger's concentrated Aura and lethal intent.

Halmu's face twisted in momentary strain, acknowledging the formidable power of the Saint.

His speed flickered, but his resolve did not. He leaned harder into the assault, roaring defiance against the pressure, determined to crash into the Gun Saint and claim his revenge.

The collision was seconds away.

Halmu, undeterred by the oppressive pressure, continued his charge, a crimson and black blur against the moonlit ruins.

The Annihilator, a maelstrom of dark energy, was already arcing in a wide, horizontal swing, intended to cleave Mollinger in half.

Mollinger's smirk widened. He wasn't dodging.

The first barrel of his colossal gun roared. A gigantic, silver-aura-clad bullet, the size of a small cannonball, erupted from the muzzle.

It wasn't a piercing shot; it was a concussive blast, perfectly timed to intercept the Annihilator mid-swing.

BOOOM!

The impact was cataclysmic. A blinding flash of light and a deafening soundwave ripped through the battlefield.

Halmu's sword was not only stopped but knocked violently off its trajectory, sending the demon stumbling sideways, his powerful momentum momentarily broken.

Before Halmu could regain his footing, Mollinger was a blur. He didn't just move; he dissolved into a shimmering, silver afterimage, vanishing from his spot.

Storm, Kane, Seraphina, and Rhys watched, utterly speechless. Their grandfather, their savior, was moving with a grace and speed that defied his bulky weapon and his apparent age.

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