The Lord Of Justice

The squad scrambled through the fortress, the prophets' relentless attacks tearing through the walls and corridors behind them. Explosions of ice, blood, and writhing tendrils filled the air, forcing them to move with everything they had. Lao Zhigou, using his nimble ninpo arts, flipped and dodged through the chaos, but even he knew that survival against this many prophets was impossible.

"We need to split them up!" Lao commanded, his voice sharp over the din of battle.

One by one, the prophets peeled off, pursuing their targets. The prophet of ice focused on Kouneli, relentless in their pursuit. Kouneli propelled himself forward with a burst of bloodrend, carving through the air with frightening speed. But the prophet grew weary of the chase and, without a single incantation, unleashed a simple First Art. In an instant, half the fortress froze over, jagged towers of ice spiraling into the sky, trapping Kouneli's escape route.

Elsewhere, the squad fared no better. The prophet of blood hounded Velvet, their veins pulsing with an unnatural red glow. The puppeteer's tendrils slithered through the shadows, snaring Leo's movements at every turn. The prophet of darkness warped through the battlefield, their very presence sucking the light out of the air, making Ubel's calculations difficult. It was a massacre waiting to happen.

Then, in one decisive moment, they were flung from the fortress. Snow and ice blasted outward as the prophets stood victorious, surrounding the injured squad. The air was thick with bitter cold, their bodies aching from the battle. Their doom was inevitable.

From the ruined halls of the fortress, the first prophet emerged, his bright red eyes locked onto them. The sheer weight of his presence crushed the air around them. He stepped forward with the calm certainty of a god about to pass judgment.

Lao gritted his teeth, knowing what had to be done. He positioned himself in front of the squad, his ninpo sharpening in his hands. "I'll buy you time. Run."

But before the inevitable clash, the air pulsed.

An enormous ether surge rippled through the battlefield. Lao's eyes widened, his senses screaming at the incoming force.

A portal tore open in the sky.

Evengarde Rest and Arcanos Duskweaver stepped into the frigid battlefield.

Evengarde's eyes flicked to the squad, then to the prophets. Without hesitation, he calculated the squad's position, their injuries, the distance between each threat. His decision was immediate.

He raised his hand.

A resonance has three stages of evolution beyond the deepchime.

The first is the awakening—the discovery of its core ability.

The second is inversion—learning to amplify the resonance by manifesting its opposite force.

The third is conquering the spirit itself—unleashing the full potential of the resonance. This is the birth of an ultimate art.

Evengarde began his chant, his voice filled with absolute authority:

"The one who sits upon the throne of justice…

The ruler whose hands weave fate itself…

By decree of the divine, the wicked shall be judged…

For I summon the lord of celestial retribution."

Ether surged around him as he released his ultimate art—Justice Lord Michael.

A blinding golden orb, surrounded by celestial angels of destruction, materialized in the sky. Their wings pulsed with divine radiance, their swords gleaming with pure judgment. The heavens themselves seemed to bow to the impending strike.

The first prophet turned his gaze upward.

"Stand back," he ordered the other prophets.

They obeyed without question.

The golden light struck.

The explosion roared through the icy wasteland. The fortress shuddered, its very foundation cracking from the impact. For a brief moment, it was as if the world itself had been severed in two.

When the dust cleared, the first prophet stood in the center of a crater, half his body erased from existence. Blackened ether crackled where flesh had once been, his form barely holding together.

Yet he was still alive.

With a grim smirk, he regenerated. Flesh wove itself back together, restoring his form. He let out a slow exhale.

"If I hadn't focused every ounce of my ether into absorbing that attack…" he mused, looking down at his hand. "I'd be dead."

His eyes glowed with intrigue.

"This confirms it," he muttered. "I am not yet ready to face him."