Vol. 1 / CH. 1 - Part 4

The night breeze whispered softly, carrying with it a chilling silence over Peaceful Valley. Roulin halted, his sharp gaze locking onto the lone figure standing in the distance. The silhouette merged with the fading dusk, exuding an air of mystery and impending danger. "One man," Raoulin muttered, his voice laced with disdain. "How dare he stand before the Zuvia army."

Behind him, the soldiers shifted their weapons uneasily, waiting for his command. They knew Roulin rarely granted his enemies a chance to speak, yet something about this moment made their commander unusually wary.

"I'll speak with him first," Raoulin muttered, more to himself than to his soldiers.

He took a few steps forward, then raised his hand, halting his troops in place. The mysterious figure remained motionless, watching Raoulin's approach in silence. Narrowing his eyes, Raoulin gauged the strength of his opponent. Again, he felt something off. The figure's dark aura hung heavy in the air, an almost palpable, invisible threat.

When Raoulin drew near enough, he stopped, fixing the dark knight with a mocking glare. "Who are you?" Roulin's voice came out rough, laced with scorn. "You dare stand in the path of the Zuvia Empire? If you think you can stop us alone, you're a bigger fool than I imagined."

The figure gave no response. His dark helm remained slightly bowed, catching the fading light of dusk. The silence pressed down even more, suffocating. Normally quick to anger, Roulin found himself held back by something, an unfamiliar restraint.

"Don't keep me waiting, stranger," Raoulin's voice rose, sharp with impatience. "Who do you think you are? What business do you have here?"

Finally, the figure stirred. Slowly, he lifted his head, revealing a helm glinting in the last rays of sunlight. His voice, deep and calm, echoed from beneath the metal, yet it wasn't the menacing tone Roulin had expected.

"I am... not the enemy you seek."

The words resonated with quiet conviction. Roulin paused, momentarily shaken. The figure's reply carried neither fear nor a plea for peace.

"What do you mean?" Raoulin growled, his muscles tensing as frustration gnawed at him. "You stand before a thousand soldiers of the Zuvia Empire, and you think those words will save you?"

The figure remained unshaken, not a flicker of doubt crossing his posture. "I stand here... because my presence was foretold."

Raoulin felt the blood boiling beneath his skin, but just as he was about to bark the order to attack, something held him back. Something strange. It wasn't fear, but the aura surrounding this mysterious knight felt larger than any mere physical threat.

Behind Raoulin, his soldiers shifted uneasily, bracing themselves for the command to strike. Yet it was as if time itself had slowed, forcing them all to wait on their commander's next move. Raoulin despised riddles, and he hated feeling like he was part of one now.

"If you're not an enemy, then prove it," Raoulin snapped, his voice cutting through the thickening tension. "Or I'll take your head here and now!"

The mysterious figure bowed his head slightly, as if in thought, then spoke with a voice deep and resonant, "I did not come to fight you, Raoulin of Zuvia. I came to witness. What transpires here... will shape the fate of us all."

Raoulin took an involuntary step back. His heart, which normally pulsed with blind conviction in the power of brute strength, now trembled with the unfamiliar weight of doubt.

"Who are you, really?" he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost unsure.

The figure did not answer, instead stepping closer to Raoulin. The cold aura emanating from the dark knight thickened, as if the very air around them had stopped breathing, waiting for what would happen next.

From a distance, the last light of dusk finally disappeared, leaving Peaceful Valley cloaked in darkness.

Raoulin narrowed his eyes, an uneasy feeling gnawing at him as he watched the subtle movements of the mysterious figure. When the figure stepped forward once more, Raoulin raised his hand sharply, issuing a firm command.

"Stop!" he barked, his voice reverberating, pushing against the heavy air. "Don't come any closer, if you value your life."

The figure complied, halting with a calm, deliberate composure. The distance between them was still wide enough to prevent immediate confrontation, yet the tension was thick, like a string pulled too tight, ready to snap at any moment.

Raoulin's gaze remained fixed, his instincts telling him to hold back the attack—at least for now. Something was bothering him, something that had plagued his thoughts for the past three days.

"The mysterious symbol," Raoulin said, his voice low, simmering with restrained fury. "The symbol that appeared here three days ago. You know what happened, don't you?"

The mysterious man, though his face remained obscured by the helm, paused momentarily. An uneasy silence fell between them before he finally spoke, his tone sincere yet tinged with confusion.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he replied slowly, as though he too was struggling to make sense of the situation. "A symbol? Three days ago? I… know nothing of it."

Raoulin's eyes narrowed dangerously, his rage rising, convinced the man before him was toying with him.

"Do you take me for a fool?" Raoulin's voice thundered, echoing through the air. "You stand exactly where that symbol appeared, and you DARE claim ignorance? Do you think I can't sense deceit from this distance?"

Yet, the mysterious man stood unshaken, though his speech betrayed a growing bewilderment. "I swear," he said, his voice calm in the face of Raoulin's mounting anger, "I genuinely don't know what you're accusing me of. I just arrived in this realm moments ago."

The words caused Raoulin to hesitate, his confusion swirling with his anger. "This realm?" he growled. "What do you mean by 'this realm'? You think you're in another world? Do you expect me to believe such ridiculous lies?"

The mysterious man tilted his head slightly, as if struggling to find the right words. "I come from a different realm. A place the ancient seers of my world call the 'Realm of Modesty.' They spoke of this world—your world—as the 'OverRealm.' I only just arrived… mere minutes ago. I've yet to fully comprehend where I am."

Raoulin's confusion deepened, though it did nothing to quell his fury. For a soldier whose life was anchored in war and bloodshed, talk of realms and other worlds sounded like utter nonsense. Seething, he stepped forward, his anger bubbling dangerously close to the surface.

"What nonsense is this? 'Realm of Modesty'? 'OverRealm'? I don't care about the fairy tales you're spinning!" Raoulin growled, his anger rising as confusion and frustration gnawed at his mind. "You appeared exactly where that symbol was seen three days ago, and you DARE claim you know nothing?"

The mysterious figure remained calm, unmoved by Raoulin's obvious fury, raising his hand slightly as if offering peace.

"I speak the truth. If there was a symbol here, I know nothing of it. I have only just arrived, summoned through a ritual conducted by the 'The Three Old Grandmothers, Keepers of Ancient Knowledge' in my realm. They spoke of this place—of the OverRealm—a land beyond ours. But I am unaware of what occurred here three days ago." The man's voice was steady, almost serene, though Raoulin could sense the sincerity in his words.

But this did nothing to douse Raoulin's wrath. "You don't know...?" he repeated, his voice thick with incredulity. "You dare to stand here and claim ignorance of the symbol that threw this land into chaos? I should slit your throat for your insolence!"

Raoulin's blood surged, his anger boiling over with every word the stranger uttered, clouding his thoughts further. To him, the stranger's arrival coinciding with the symbol's appearance was too suspicious. In Raoulin's brutal, war-torn world, there was no such thing as coincidence—only fate, or deception.

The mysterious figure stood tall, undeterred by Raoulin's threat. "If you choose not to believe me, that is your decision. But I did not come here to fight you or your army. I am here seeking answers of my own."

Raoulin gritted his teeth, his right-hand tightening around the hilt of his great axe. His heart wavered between unleashing his fury and obliterating this stranger or restraining himself long enough to uncover the truth.

But then...

He erupted into laughter, a cold, cruel sound that echoed through the valley. It wasn't the laugh of amusement but one steeped in malice and madness. His eyes glowed with a savage light, fueled by a hatred that had been smoldering for far too long.

"Haha! You truly entertain me, stranger!" he bellowed, his voice dripping with mockery. "But why should I care about your story, or where you've come from? I didn't come here for fairy tales—I came to spill blood!"

Straightening, Raoulin fixed his piercing gaze on the mysterious figure. The rage burning within him had now transformed into an insatiable desire for combat. For a moment, he had nearly forgotten his purpose here. But now, clarity returned—he hadn't come to Peaceful Valley simply to unravel the mystery of the symbol. He had come to fight, to crush anyone daring enough to stand in his path. And this stranger had just become the perfect target.

"One thousand soldiers! Prepare yourselves!" Raoulin commanded, his voice cutting through the air with authoritative force. With a single wave of his hand, the 1,000 troops of the Zuvia Empire fell into formation, their ranks poised to charge.

The mysterious figure, who had been calm, now exhibited subtle signs of tension. The face hidden beneath his helm betrayed a flicker of unease. This was not the battle he had sought, nor the confrontation he had anticipated. Yet, before him stood thousands of Zuvia soldiers, weapons drawn and ready to strike.

Despite his arrogance, Raoulin adhered to a warrior's code of honor. Brutal and uncouth though he was, he believed that a true fighter should introduce oneself before the clash of battle.

"I am Raoulin, 'The Berserker of the Zuvia Empire!'" he declared with pride, his voice echoing through the valley. "My enemies know me as a destroyer, a merciless butcher on the battlefield. Before you meet your end by my hand, tell me who you are, stranger! Reveal your name and title—if you have one—so I may know who falls beneath my great axe!"

The mysterious figure hesitated, his gaze locked on Raoulin and his battle-ready troops. He knew that avoiding this conflict was no longer an option. With a measured breath, he raised his right hand slowly, his movements calm yet infused with concealed power.

"My name?" the mysterious man murmured, his voice a deep, resonant whisper. Suddenly, a shadow emerged from behind him, as if tearing through the veil of reality.

The mysterious figure lifted his right hand, reaching slowly behind him. From the void, a dark rift appeared. His greatsword, seemingly summoned from emptiness, emerged—crafted from an unfamiliar, obsidian metal that radiated a cold, foreboding energy. As he grasped it, the air around him shifted, growing heavier, more ominous.

The mysterious figure grasped the Greatsword, drawing it from the void as if pulling it from an unseen chasm. As the blade's tip touched the ground, a thunderous roar resonated, heightening the weight of his formidable presence. He then lifted his head, his gaze locking with Raoulin and his thousand soldiers.

The mysterious figure stood tall; his gaze unshaken even as hundreds of soldiers closed in with weapons drawn. The black greatsword in his hand felt heavy—not from its weight, but from the gravity of the inevitable confrontation before him. His heart drummed like warbeats in his chest, yet his face betrayed no trace of fear.

His voice, when it finally broke the howling wind that whistled through the valley, resonated deeply. What had once been cold now grew louder, richer, and filled with a chilling authority.

"Do you know," he began, his words slicing cleanly through the silence, "the nature of the world you fight for? You, who bear swords and raise spears—do you truly understand the essence of strength?"

Raoulin's soldiers faltered. Their eyes locked onto Atherton's still figure, and within their hearts, a flicker of doubt began to take root. Who was this man?

"I," Atherton declared, his voice now steely and laced with an eerie majesty, "am Atherton, The Vanquisher of the Abyss. I have conquered a darkness beyond your reckoning. I have walked through the void, watched worlds fall to eternal night, and returned from the brink… to test the courage of men like you."

Atherton's gaze bore into the very souls of the warriors before him as he continued, "I do not seek this battle, but should you force the hand of fate, prepare yourselves to witness something far beyond war. You will behold the destruction dealt by one who has vanquished the Abyss."

With those words, he stood as though the world itself was but a stage for his grandeur. His voice, his presence, weighed upon the air, and Raoulin's men felt the pressure. They knew then—the foe they faced was no mere man.

The word "Abyss" fell from his lips like dark sorcery, its impact palpable in the charged air. The Zuvia soldiers froze, their eyes widening in dawning terror. Even Raoulin, engulfed in rage and ferocity, felt a foreign sense of doubt creeping into his heart.

"Abyss?" murmured a soldier from the rear, his voice quivering. "Abyssal beings? It can't be..."

A murmur of fear rippled through the ranks, echoing like a chilling breeze. The Abyss, creatures from the darkest depths of existence, were legendary horrors beyond ordinary comprehension. The Abyssals were such a dire threat that even the strongest nations shuddered, as they brought devastation, chaos, and an unimaginable darkness.

Raoulin sensed the growing unease among his men, but for him, fear was merely fuel for his resolve. The name only strengthened his determination. If this man was truly from the Abyss, he had to be eliminated immediately—before the darkness could spread further.

"So, you're one of them, huh?" Raoulin sneered, his lips curling in disdain. "Abyssal creature... no matter what you are or where you come from, you will die here, at our hands!"

Roulin drew his Great Axe from his back and, with a commanding voice, ordered his troops, "Charge! Destroy him!"

The ground shook with the thunderous advance of a thousand soldiers as the inevitable clash began. Atherton, gripping his Greatsword, stood resolute, ready to confront the onslaught of the Zuvia Empire's forces.

With a piercing gaze and unwavering resolve, Atherton braced himself for a battle that would determine everything.

The war in Peaceful Valley had begun...

------------------------------------------

Amid the encroaching twilight mist, the rhythmic clatter of hooves resonated along the winding path leading to Peaceful Valley. Gilbert, a seasoned assassin and sorcerer with a wealth of covert missions behind him, rode his steed with acute vigilance. Following closely were his two trusted aides, Brielle and Ethan, ever ready to heed their leader's commands.

Their mission, assigned by Archbishop Lucius of the Holy Albion Kingdom, was clear: to monitor the movements of Raoulin and his forces, who had inexplicably marched toward Peaceful Valley following the appearance of a mysterious symbol three days prior. For Gilbert, this was no ordinary reconnaissance—this was a mission that could shift the balance of the impending conflict between their kingdom and the Zuvia Empire.

Gilbert spurred his horse to a faster pace, having fallen significantly behind Raoulin, who had already reached Peaceful Valley. As they sped along the rocky trail and through the dense forest, an unsettling sensation suddenly gripped Gilbert. Without warning, he yanked on the reins, bringing them to an abrupt halt. His keen eyes narrowed as he surveyed the distant horizon towards the valley.

"Stop!" Gilbert commanded firmly; his voice low but laden with authority.

Brielle and Ethan, deeply respectful of Gilbert, immediately reined in their horses without question. They exchanged puzzled glances, wondering why their pursuit had suddenly halted.

"What is it, Lord Gilbert?" Ethan asked, his face betraying impatience. Brielle, usually more reserved, nodded in agreement.

Gilbert did not respond immediately. His gaze remained fixed on Peaceful Valley. An aura of immense, dark, and overwhelming power had suddenly emanated from the valley, something he couldn't ignore. It was not an ordinary force, nor was it something he had ever encountered before. An uneasy knot of anxiety tightened in his gut.

"There's something..." Gilbert murmured more to himself than anyone else. "I can feel it."

Brielle tilted her head slightly, her eyes filled with curiosity. "What are you sensing, my lord?" she asked softly, yet with respectful concern.

"A force," Gilbert replied firmly, his voice heavy with unease. "Something immense... formidable. And it's coming from Peaceful Valley."

Ethan, young and spirited, raised an eyebrow. "A great power? Could it be from Raoulin and his forces? Perhaps they've uncovered something?"

Gilbert shook his head, his expression deepening with worry. "No. This is no ordinary power. It's far beyond that—too sudden... as if it has just manifested there." He turned his gaze toward his two trusted aides. "I've never felt anything like this before."

The two aides exchanged another glance, understanding without words that Gilbert, with all his experience, would not have halted without a significant reason.

Brielle, always sensitive to subtle shifts in her surroundings, sensed an underlying anxiety in Gilbert's words. "Lord Gilbert," she said quietly, "could this signify... danger?"

Gilbert contemplated for a moment before responding. "I don't know. But one thing is certain: we cannot proceed any further at this time."

Ethan sighed; frustration evident in his voice. "So, what do we do now, my lord? Should we turn back?"

Gilbert recalled Archbishop Lucius orders. Their mission was to gather information, not to engage in combat. They had been instructed to return safely, without shedding blood. Gilbert knew that if they ventured further now, they might become entangled in something far beyond their control.

"No," Gilbert replied firmly, his gaze steady. "We won't retreat, but we can't proceed either. We'll wait here. We'll wait until... that force dissipates, or at least until we understand what's happening."

Brielle and Ethan nodded, though their curiosity remained unsated. They understood not to question Gilbert's decision further. They trusted him implicitly, and if Gilbert said they should stop, there was undoubtedly a good reason behind it.

"We'll wait here," Gilbert repeated, his eyes fixed on the distant horizon. "And we'll keep a close watch. Whatever is happening there is not something we can confront right now."

The evening wind blew softly, carrying with it the heavy, enigmatic scent of the valley. The three of them waited in silence, their horses standing still, while in the distance, the ominous aura still lingered, hanging in the air like a dark shadow poised to strike at any moment.

They had to be patient, for Gilbert knew that sooner or later, they would uncover the truth hidden behind Peaceful Valley—and the formidable power that lay within.

------------------------------------------

The thunderous footfalls of Raoulin's army echoed across the battlefield as half of them began advancing toward Atherton. Hundreds of soldiers in heavy armor, brandishing their weapons, surged forward, breaking through the thin mist that veiled the valley. Atherton stood alone in the field, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. His sharp eyes tracked the approaching troops, but within his mind, anxiety was taking hold.

His left hand—usually a source of immense strength—felt numb and unresponsive. Left-handed. He cursed silently, recalling the warnings of the 'three old grandmothers.' They had warned him of the potential side effects from the interdimensional travel ritual he had undergone. He should have heeded their advice and rested, but now he was trapped in a perilous situation. The battle ahead was unavoidable, and the pressure was mounting.

As Raoulin's forces closed in, Atherton swiftly shifted his greatsword to his right hand. The massive blade felt alien in his grasp. "Damn it!" he cursed inwardly, knowing that his left hand's dominance was crucial to his fighting prowess. But there was no time to waste. The Zuvia soldiers were too close, and retreat was no longer an option.

"I don't have time to lament my fate now," Atherton muttered, his voice barely audible.

With a powerful swing, he sent his greatsword slicing through the air. Though wielded with only one hand, the strike unleashed a wave of dark energy of tremendous force. The black aura radiating from the sword erupted with astonishing speed, sweeping through half of Roulin's forces in an instant.

Craaaack!

The screams of the dying pierced the air as the attack struck. In a fleeting moment, soldiers were cleaved in two, their bodies crashing to the ground with a bone-chilling, thunderous sound. Blood sprayed in all directions, staining the cold valley floor. The entire Raoulin army, including their leader, stood in stunned silence.

The roar of the devastating attack echoed through the valley, leaving only the mournful whisper of the wind. Raoulin's eyes widened, his mind grappling with the horror he had just witnessed. Half of his army had been obliterated in an instant, as if they had never existed.

"W-what just happened?" Raoulin stammered, his voice trembling. Panic began to creep across his face. He had seen many horrors in his life, but this—this was beyond anything he could have fathomed.

Atherton, too, felt the repercussions of his colossal attack. As the dark wave of energy dissipated, he collapsed to his knees, wracked by violent coughing fits. His body trembled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. His breaths came in ragged gasps, a clear sign that the tremendous exertion had drained his already exhausted body.

"Damn... I was reckless," Atherton whispered hoarsely, his voice laced with regret. His body was not prepared for such an immense strain. Each muscle screamed in agony as the aftereffects of the ritual spread, a grim reminder of the three old grandmothers' warnings.

Atherton could no longer rely on such an attack for a while. If he pushed himself further, his body might not endure the strain. He struggled to his feet, fighting to maintain his balance. With one hand gripping the greatsword, he glared at Raoulin and the remaining soldiers.

"Leave!" Atherton shouted; his voice hoarse but firm. "If you wish to survive, retreat now. Forget what you've witnessed here!"

Despite the fear gripping Raoulin's heart, he refused to retreat. Instead, he noticed Atherton's evident weakness—his ragged breaths and sluggish movements revealed his condition. This is our opportunity! Raoulin thought.

"Do you see that?!" Raoulin shouted to his remaining troops. "He's powerful, but not invincible! He's injured—meaning we still have a chance to win!"

The remaining soldiers, though still reeling from the loss of their comrades, began to regain their courage. Raoulin, despite his own fear, held onto his pride as the "Berserker of the Zuvia Empire." He would not allow this enemy to escape, not after the heavy sacrifices they had endured.

Raoulin raised his great axe high, his voice cutting through the tension, "Attack again! We will vanquish him!"

The surviving troops, though still shaken, had no choice but to follow their orders. With renewed determination, they advanced once more, moving cautiously but with resolute purpose. Their eyes were locked on the solitary figure of Atherton, who stood alone and unsteady.

Atherton knew there was no time to retreat. He had to fight, despite the agonizing pain wracking his body. He steadied himself, gripping the greatsword with only one hand. Yet, to Raoulin and his troops, Atherton remained an unexpected menace—an enigma from another realm.

"Atherton, The Vanquisher of the Abyss," he whispered to himself, his voice barely audible but steadfast. For now, he had to rely on the most fundamental of his skills.

"Come...! if you seek death," Atherton growled, his gaze locked on the approaching soldiers. His dark eyes burned with fierce determination, undeterred by his weakened condition.

Raoulin and his forces surged forward. The imminent clash promised to be a brutal test of endurance. Atherton had no choice but to fight with every last ounce of strength he had, gripping his enormous sword tightly with one hand.

The mist shrouding Peaceful Valley began to dissipate as hundreds of Raoulin's soldiers advanced with heavy, resolute steps, brandishing swords, spears, and axes, their battle cries echoing through the valley. Though they numbered in the hundreds, only one figure stood in their path: Atherton.

Atherton, though weakened and gripped by pain, raised his greatsword with a single hand. His eyes, unwavering and fearless, fixed upon the advancing throng of soldiers. His breath was steady, yet the internal agony grew more intense. As The Vanquisher of the Abyss, he had confronted darkness far greater than this, and he would not waver now.

With a calm but resolute stride, Atherton advanced toward the encroaching horde. The ground beneath him trembled under the advance of hundreds of soldiers, but he remained steadfast, as if the very earth bowed to his resolve.

As they neared striking range, Atherton sprang into action.

Wushh!

He swung his sword with one hand, cleaving through the air with a speed nearly imperceptible to the naked eye. The massive blade should have been unwieldy with one hand, but in Atherton's grip, it was as though it was weightless. Each swing produced a sharp, deadly sound. His movements were fluid, swift, and precise, as if he had practiced for eons.

The first soldier to close in had no time to react. Atherton twisted his body slightly and swung his sword sideways. In a single, decisive motion, the soldier was split from shoulder to waist, blood spraying through the air before the lifeless body hit the ground. The corpse had scarcely touched the earth before Atherton was already in motion again.

Craack!

Another soldier swung a large sword at him, but Atherton effortlessly sidestepped, as if he had predicted the attack. In an instant, his sword arced upward, severing the enemy's head with pinpoint accuracy. Fresh blood cascaded down like a crimson storm, yet Atherton's gaze remained calm, focused, and unshakable.

Atherton moved like a shadow—unstoppable and flawless. Every step he took radiated confidence, and each swing of his sword was lethal. The Raoulin soldiers, advancing in vast numbers, seemed to be caught in a storm they could not escape. One by one, they fell before him, unable to fight back or even comprehend what was happening.

Another soldier, armed with a spear, tried to attack from a distance. Atherton evaded with minimal effort, merely shifting to the side before striking back with brutal efficiency. The spear shattered instantly, and the soldier's body fell, cleaved open before his eyes. Atherton's right hand, though not his dominant one, wielded the sword with expert precision.

Twenty soldiers... Thirty...

The count of the fallen continued to rise, and blood began to soak into the ground around him. Bodies, cleaved, wounded, and lifeless, began to pile up. Yet Atherton did not slow. It was as though every movement was part of a flawless war symphony—rhythmic, deadly, and precise.

"It's impossible...!" a Raoulin soldier cried out in terror as he watched his comrades fall one by one. "He's not human!"

But the fear came too late. Atherton was already upon him, and with a swift motion, the soldier fell, cleaved by a strike that seemed to come from every direction.

The Raoulin forces, once eager to charge, were now paralyzed by fear. They began to retreat in panic, but Atherton offered them no reprieve. He advanced relentlessly, slicing through their ranks like an untouchable shadow. Each movement, each step was a dance of death—beautiful yet horrifying.

The soldiers' attacks seemed futile. Each time their weapons neared, Atherton effortlessly dodged, blocked, or deflected them, as if he could foresee their every move. No soldier could touch him—not a single one.

As spears and swords rained down, Atherton spun gracefully, evading with fluid precision and cleaving through two soldiers with a single strike. The clash of metal and the spray of blood became a relentless spectacle. The remaining soldiers, their resolve wavering, began to question if their foe was a deity of war.

One hundred... Two hundred...

The number of surviving soldiers dwindled. The battlefield was now littered with lifeless bodies, forming a grim tableau beneath Atherton's feet. Yet he pressed on. Every moment was a battle, not only against his enemies but against his own weakening body.

With swift, precise strikes, Atherton continued to dispatch the last of the Raoulin forces. His sword remained deadly, despite the pain that gripped him. In the end, the final soldier fell, cleaved cleanly by Atherton's greatsword.

Now, only two figures stood amidst the blood and corpses: Atherton and Raoulin.

Raoulin, watching from a distance as his entire army was wiped out by a single man, stood frozen. Fear crept within him, even as he tried to mask it with the pride of being a Berserker of the Zuvia Empire. Yet deep in his heart, he knew—this was an enemy not to be taken lightly.

Atherton, breathless and marked by the effects of the interdimensional travel ritual, though not visibly from the outside, stared at Roulin with a piercing gaze. His large sword was still raised in his hand, ready for the next battle.

Raoulin brandished his large axe and took a deep breath. He knew this would be a defining duel. No more troops remained, only he and The Vanquisher of Abyss.

"You've killed them all..." Roulin muttered, his voice low and seething with anger. "But I am not like them. I am Roulin, Berserker of the Zuvia Empire! And now, you will experience true power!"

Atherton merely offered a faint smile, despite the pain gnawing at his body. The duel between the two of them was about to begin.

------------------------------------------

Amidst the dense forest, under the shadow of trees swaying in the night breeze, Gilbert's team rested warily.

Gilbert, a seasoned assassin and sorcerer dispatched by Archbishop Lucius of the Holy Kingdom of Albion, had entrusted his two loyal companions, Brielle and Ethan, with setting up camp. Ever alert, Gilbert remained on watch, his gaze fixed on Peaceful Valley, where he could sense a disquieting presence looming in the distance.

Brielle, a woman whose composure was as steady as her keen instincts, quietly attended to the fire and pitched the tent. Ethan, a young man full of energy and determination, worked beside her with enthusiasm, though his mind was restless, unable to quell the growing curiosity about the task ahead.

As she stoked the fire, Brielle broke the silence, her voice soft yet steady. "Ethan, aren't you worn out from all the traveling? I know we need to stay sharp, but there's no harm in taking a moment's rest."

Ethan, spreading out the bedrolls, glanced at her and shook his head. "I'm fine. But honestly... I can't stop thinking about what Lord Gilbert senses. It feels like something big is about to happen."

Brielle's gaze drifted to the flames, their flicker mirrored in her eyes. "I feel it too. All we can do now is trust Lord Gilbert's judgment and be ready."

Ethan sat beside Brielle, his gaze fixed on Gilbert, who stood silently, lost in thought.

"What do you think he's sensing?" Ethan murmured, curiosity and unease threading through his voice. "He's been through so much, but this feels... different. Like something far beyond what we've faced before."

Brielle exhaled softly, choosing her words with care. "I can't be sure. But if Lord Gilbert feels something this overwhelming, we have to trust his instincts. You know how cautious he is—he wouldn't react like this without reason."

Ethan sighed deeply, frustration flickering across his features. "But what if we're wasting time? We might lose the chance to uncover crucial information if we just sit here doing nothing."

Brielle turned to him, her expression calm but resolute. "Lord Gilbert has his reasons for everything. We need to be patient. Our mission is to gather intel and return in one piece. That's our priority."

Ethan nodded slowly, though doubt still clouded his gaze. "But what if the threat is greater than we're prepared for? What if we're not ready?"

Brielle gave him a small, reassuring smile. "We'll be ready. Lord Gilbert knows what he's doing. All we can do is trust him—and trust ourselves."

Gilbert, though only half-listening to their conversation, kept his focus fixed on the unsettling aura pulsing in the distance.

He weighed the risks they might encounter if they ventured further into Peaceful Valley under such ominous circumstances. After a long, deliberate pause, Gilbert spoke with firm resolve, his voice cutting through the quiet night.

"We'll set up camp here for the night. The power we're sensing is volatile... dangerous. We need to be certain of our safety before taking the next step."

Brielle and Ethan nodded, though curiosity and unease still gnawed at their thoughts. The two worked swiftly, setting up camp with practiced ease, yet the questions swirling in their minds refused to settle.

As the camp quieted, Gilbert's attention remained fixed on the distant aura. An insidious dread tugged at him, the gravity of his decision weighing heavily on his mind. He knew this choice could determine not only the outcome of their mission but also their survival. Yet Archbishop Lucius orders were absolute, and their safety had to be the foremost priority.

As night deepened, the trio sat enveloped in the uneasy silence of the forest. The wind whispered through the trees, its voice eerily hollow against the tense quiet. Each of them, in their own way, silently hoped that Gilbert's decision would prove to be the right one. For now, all they could do was wait, gathering their strength for whatever lay ahead in the dark, unknown depths of Peaceful Valley.

------------------------------------------

Back in Peaceful Valley, the confrontation between Atherton and Roulin's forces has reached its zenith.

After a brutal and epic clash, only Atherton and Raoulin remain on the battlefield. Atherton stands amid the wreckage of the conflict, his breath labored and his face etched with profound exhaustion. Yet, his resolve remains steadfast.

Raoulin, observing Atherton's fatigue and suffering, feels confident that the moment to vanquish him is at hand. He readies himself for the ultimate duel, prepared to face Atherton directly.

With Raoulin's remaining forces vanquished, the climactic duel between Atherton and Raoulin is set to begin, marking the pinnacle of this intense and action-filled confrontation.