Chapter 93: Angel

The phoenix wobbled as it descended toward a corner of the Glory Fortress, its massive wound pushing its body to the brink of collapse. Suddenly, a burst of flames erupted from its form—not the magical fire it had previously exhaled, but flames consuming its very being. Engulfed in the raging inferno, the firebird's body rapidly shrank and withered away. When the flames finally dissipated, the phoenix was gone, leaving behind only a heap of ashes.

Seeing this, the priests erupted into cheers once more, with many rushing toward the pile of ashes.

From atop the grand Glory Hall, the Pope also witnessed the scene. However, rather than showing joy or relief, he lifted his head in astonishment, gazing skyward.

With his keen perception, he could sense that an immense amount of fire-elemental energy still lingered in the air. Suddenly, all of it surged toward a single point, as if drawn by an overwhelming force. It was not just the ambient fire elements—flames that had been burning throughout the area also abruptly detached from their sources, transforming into hundreds of fiery streaks that converged upon the very spot where the phoenix had perished. Even some fire-elemental mages below cried out in alarm, sensing an unusual force pulling at the fire magic within them, nearly ripping it from their bodies.

The Pope turned his head toward the source of the disturbance, though he already knew the answer. There was no need to look—he could feel it. All the fire in the Glory Fortress was converging upon the pile of ashes left behind by the phoenix's self-immolation.

"Stay away from there!" the Pope shouted.

But it was too late.

Like a massive elemental black hole, the ashes absorbed all the fire elements in the area, and then they ignited once more. This time, the blaze was as if the gates of hell had been flung open, and the fire elements exploded outward with a force a hundred times greater than before. Flames shot up a hundred meters into the sky, so bright that they seemed less like fire and more like a piece of the sun itself had fallen to the earth. Everything within a hundred-meter radius was reduced to ash in an instant—including the priests who had rushed toward the ashes.

From within the blinding inferno, a massive figure soared skyward once more.

"The Undying Bird." The Pope's expression hardened like iron as he uttered each word with deliberate gravity. Slowly, he removed the ring from his finger.

Above, the reborn phoenix let out a cry that shook the heavens and the earth. The flames surrounding its body swelled once again, transforming into a raging inferno. It stirred the firestorm around itself and cast its gaze down upon the Glory Fortress. Then, with all the fury of an apocalyptic tempest, it dove once more—bringing with it a sea of fire that threatened to consume everything in its path.

The phoenix was locked onto the Glory Hall. If its massive body crashed down, not only would the Pope and the grand structure be obliterated, but everything within hundreds of meters would be reduced to nothingness in a hellish inferno. Cries of alarm echoed across the plaza. This time, no orders were needed from Cervantes—over a hundred spells were unleashed simultaneously, streaking toward the phoenix in a desperate bid to halt its descent.

But as the spells reached the raging inferno around the phoenix, the sea of flames first contracted and then violently expanded. In an explosion of fire brighter than anything seen before, the hundred spells vanished without a trace, devoured by the all-consuming blaze. The firestorm was so dense with elemental power that any magic that attempted to pierce it was torn apart and dissolved instantly.

Within the sea of flames, several patches of fire burned even more intensely than the rest, their shapes shifting and morphing. Then, as if given a will of their own, these flames detached from the main inferno and took on humanoid forms. Several fire-formed giants emerged from the blaze, descending alongside the phoenix in a coordinated assault.

The fire element had grown so concentrated that it was spontaneously manifesting elemental giants. Such a phenomenon was beyond the realm of human comprehension. The reborn phoenix had not only returned—it had ascended to an even greater level of power. Both its elemental energy and vitality had been enhanced.

Legends spoke of the undying bird, forever reborn from its ashes, each resurrection granting it even greater strength than before. Now, that legend was unfolding before their very eyes.

This was the ultimate summoning magic of the ancient elves, a legendary magical creature powerful enough to rival dragons. It was precisely for this reason that the black dragon Moriel had chosen to unleash this spell here. The undying divine bird, capable of continuous rebirth, was enough to reduce any human city of the present era to ashes. No human warrior alive could stand against it; in its presence, even the strongest were nothing more than insignificant ants, powerless to resist. This summoning spell was never meant to be something humanity could oppose.

The phoenix's colossal body, spanning tens of meters, was surrounded by an endless, rolling storm of fire. It was as if the very air itself had ignited. To those standing near the Glory Hall, the sky had been entirely consumed by the descending ocean of flames. Even without sight, they could feel the sheer density of fire elements pressing against their skin, an overwhelming presence that scorched with its intensity.

Everyone could already picture the impending devastation. If the fire phoenix, wreathed in its apocalyptic inferno, crashed into the city, nothing would remain—only smoldering ruins and the memory of what once stood.

Yet, amidst the raging flames and the phoenix's piercing cries, there was no panic, no despair in the hearts of the people. A voice, steady and unwavering, could still be heard—clear and distinct, despite the deafening roar of burning air and the impending destruction.

The voice was not loud. It was merely the murmuring of an old man, soft as a whisper. Yet, to the priests and believers, it was everything. It was hope. It was faith. It was the foundation of their spirits, the pillar that held them firm even as the inferno threatened to reduce them to dust.

"O Lord of the heavens, do You hear the voices of those who devote themselves to You? With all our hearts, with all our souls, with all that we are, we offer ourselves unto You…"

Upon the Glory Hall's roof, the Pope murmured his prayer. And though his voice was barely above a whisper, it resonated across the entire city of Glory Fortress. Many priests fell to their knees, turning toward the cathedral, their voices joining in solemn prayer.

The murmuring did not cease, unwavering and resolute. And as it continued, a faint glow began to spread across the city. It was fragile, barely noticeable, yet even the blazing sea of fire above could not fully drown it out.

The Pope continued his solemn chant, his voice steady and unwavering.

"With the boundless devotion of Your humble servants, we beseech Your protection and salvation..."

As he recited the prayer, he lifted his palm and cast the ring in his hand into the air. The ring, seemingly plain and unremarkable before, now shimmered with a radiant glow—not the glow of magic, but of faith and unwavering conviction.

The fire phoenix, wreathed in searing flames and divine wrath, was now mere moments away from crashing down upon the Glory Hall. The air itself burned, the Pope's robes already smoldering from the unbearable heat. Yet, his expression remained calm, his gaze fixed solely on the ring he had just released.

Then—BOOM.

A thunderous explosion shook all of Celeste to its very core. Flames burst outward, and scorching winds lashed in all directions. But the glory hall did not shatter. The priests and mages below were not incinerated into ashes.

Because the colossal fire phoenix had been stopped. Blocked. And the one who had defied its descent was no ordinary mortal. A giant, wreathed in resplendent white light, had materialized above the Glory Hall. It had appeared from nowhere, yet with an unshakable force, it had halted the mighty firebird in its tracks.

Majestic. Formidable. Such words were utterly fitting for this colossal figure.

He was a golden-haired man, magnified nearly a hundredfold, his entire form enveloped in the radiant glow of holy magic. His chiseled face bore no expression, yet his presence was overwhelming. His golden beard and hair shimmered like the very light of the sun, and his muscular frame was clad in a gleaming golden breastplate. In his left hand, he held a massive shield, while his right gripped a rippling executioner's greatsword.

But the most awe-inspiring feature of all was the enormous pair of pure white wings that unfurled behind him, spanning the sky. The air itself seemed to tremble with the faint echoes of celestial hymns.

All who beheld him were struck motionless, their minds unable to process the sheer divinity before them.

And then, almost as if guided by instinct, they fell to their knees in reverence.

This figure—this form—they had seen countless times before, in ancient scriptures, in murals adorning sacred halls, in their dreams and prayers. A true servant of the Almighty.

An angel.

The ruins of Glory Fortress still lay in devastation, with broken walls and shattered structures. Countless wounded and dying lay across the battlefield, and above them, the colossal firebird of destruction still loomed.

But none of it mattered anymore.

A thousand voices of clergy rose in unison, singing hymns of praise. This was a true miracle, an undeniable sign of divine grace and protection. The battlefield, still smoldering from fire's wrath, now felt transformed—as if a grand mass was being held under the open sky, illuminated by the holy radiance of white magic, filled with the sacred echoes of angelic hymns.

The angel raised his colossal shield, pushing forward with an effortless motion. The fire phoenix was thrown backward, flung high into the sky.

Dozens of flaming elemental giants, born of the phoenix's infernal power, screeched and broke away, lunging at the divine warrior.

Yet in the presence of this radiant celestial being, those towering elemental colossi, each the pinnacle of arcane mastery, seemed no greater than mere vermin.

The executioner's greatsword swung—just once. And those legendary fire elementals, conjured by the most powerful mages, were sliced apart like fragile paper, their burning forms scattered to the wind.

The angel raised his sword toward the heavens once more, his voice resonating in a deep, solemn chant, its meaning unfathomable yet carrying an undeniable divine authority.

His massive white wings spread wide, and in that instant, holy radiance erupted.

The night sky, once stained crimson and gold by the phoenix's infernal blaze, was now bathed in a pure white glow. From the clouds above, strands of gentle, luminous light began to descend, covering all of Celeste in a celestial embrace.

Within the Glory Fortress, the wounded could feel their gashes mending, their bodies restored by the overwhelming divine healing magic. Even those on the brink of death began to stir and groan, life slowly returning to them.

This white rain of light was not merely magic—it was an unparalleled miracle, an all-encompassing, sacred healing spell beyond mortal reach.

Every clergyman who felt its power fell to their knees, their faces streaked with tears. Their hymns and prayers grew louder, more fervent, their voices trembling with reverence.

For this was no ordinary white magic. This was divine intervention. No mortal priest or mage could ever wield power so vast, so pure. This was a true miracle—a testament to the presence of the divine. Almost everyone had fallen to their knees in reverence before this divine miracle.

Yet, a few remained standing.

Among them, atop the Glory Hall, the Pope stood unwavering. He gazed up at the colossal angel above him—not in awe, not in devotion, but with a face of utter detachment.

There was no reverence in his expression, no gratitude, not even a flicker of emotion. He simply watched, like a cold, indifferent observer.

If one's eyesight was sharp enough to carefully observe and discern, they would notice a striking detail—

Though the angel bore a thick mane of golden hair, its facial features bore an undeniable resemblance to the Pope.

It was as if the angel were a younger version of him—adorned in golden armor, wielding sword and shield, with massive wings unfurled—only magnified dozens of times over.