Wyvern Versus Last Seeker Of Truth

Klaus forced a grin, though his body tensed with the cold realization of just how utterly screwed he was.

This… wasn't part of the plan.

His mind raced through possibilities. Teleport? Not an option. He could only manage about ten kilometers, and even if he drained his last core, it would leave him completely defenseless. Worse, Cormac would track him down before he could recover. And under the island, his companions waited aboard the flying ship. If he ran, Cormac would slaughter them too.

Yeah… he was probably dead, huh?

Slowly, he turned, facing the man who had just spoken—Saint Cormac. The air itself seemed to shrink under the weight of his presence. The man was in his thirties, his face cold, his dark eyes unreadable but ruthless. His black armor was battered and worn from weeks of navigating the Death Zone, cracked in places, held together by sheer willpower rather than craftsmanship. He carried no legendary weapon, no artifact of destruction. And yet, his mere existence was enough to freeze Klaus in place.

A Knight of Valor. A zealot to the bone. One of the most dangerous beings on this Isles.

Klaus licked his lips, trying to keep the edge of nervousness out of his voice. "Hey there, Saint Cormac. What a—uh—pleasant surprise."

Cormac didn't look amused. If anything, he looked… annoyed. Like a man who had already decided everyone in the room was going to die.

"Klaus Zakharov," he said flatly. "You've been causing a lot of problems lately."

Klaus's grin widened shamelessly. "Oh, by the way, no need to worry! I already killed Mordret. So how about we just sit down, talk like civilized people, maybe over a nice cup of coffee?"

Cormac smiled.

It wasn't a pleasant smile.

Before Klaus could react, the man disappeared.

For anyone else, it would've been instant death. But Klaus had the Divine Eyes of the Void. His perception slowed time to a crawl, his mind catching every shift in the world around him. Even then, he barely saw it.

A shadow flickered. A distortion in the air.

His eyes burned from the strain, blood trickling from the corners, but he managed to react—just barely.

A translucent barrier formed between them, stopping Cormac's strike an inch from his skull.

Cormac skidded back, frowning.

A cold wind howled as a new presence materialized beside Klaus. The air grew thick with eerie pressure. From the void of nothingness, blue flames ignited in empty sockets. A skeletal figure took form, its bones wreathed in faint, flickering light.

Lich had arrived.

Cormac's eyes narrowed. A Transcendent Echo?

That complicated things. But not by much.

"This is unexpected," Cormac muttered. "An Echo of this level… But it doesn't matter. You'll still die."

Klaus, however, wasn't listening.

He was too busy grinning like a madman, bouncing on his heels in excitement.

"Go, Lich! You're the best! Kick his ass with your skeletal feet!" He clapped his hands together, his grin widening. "I'll just be… right here! You know, cheering you on. Like a cheerleader! Wait—cheer girl? No, no, wait… If all of us are cheerleaders, then who's actually leading? Damn, that's a paradox. Now I'm confused."

Then, without an ounce of shame, he vanished.

Lich sighed. Or, at least, he made a noise that sounded like a sigh, if one could imagine a sigh coming from a skeleton.

His master was… unique. But it didn't matter.

Unlike Nightmare Creatures, Spirits were different. They weren't simple monsters. Their bodies, minds, souls, shadows, and flesh were fused into one. When Klaus created a Spirit, he didn't just purify them—he remade them. It was a process beyond understanding, a rebirth into something greater.

That was why Spirit Creatures could absorb essence so easily. It was why Hemera and Miseria, despite being far from Transcendence, could grow so absurdly strong.

And Klaus's Soul Sea…

Now that was something truly bizarre.

A vast, cosmic expanse. Stars, nebulae, galaxies, supernovas, pulsars, cosmic singularities—it was as if the entire universe had been compressed into a single boundless abyss. No up or down, no left or right. Just an endless, shifting void, burning with untamed power. His Soul Cores burned within it, spheres of light containing countless colors, illuminating the darkness like celestial bodies.

It was magnificent.

It was terrifying.

And at the center of it all, Klaus stood—a being far more dangerous than he let on.

Lich had surrendered willingly to him, embracing the transformation rather than resisting. After all…

He was a Spirit King.

Now, standing before Cormac, Lich's skeletal grin widened, blue flames flaring in his empty sockets. His voice was a whisper of death, crawling into the Saint's mind.

"Hmmm… lowly, clueless Lizard?"

Cormac sneered.

Then, with a roar, his body twisted and expanded, bones stretching, muscles warping.

His black armor cracked apart as his form grew monstrous.

Dark scales spread across his body, each one gleaming with a faint, abyssal sheen. His arms thickened, claws erupting from his fingers, his legs warping into powerful limbs built for destruction. His back split open as massive wings unfolded, each flap of them sending out shockwaves. His head elongated, crowned with twisted horns. His mouth opened, revealing rows upon rows of razor-sharp fangs. Deep within, fire burned, crimson and furious, an inferno caged within an indestructible frame.

A Wyvern.

A true monster of war.

His glowing red eyes locked onto Lich, his voice a guttural growl that sent tremors through the ground.

"You will die again, corpse."

The mighty wyvern launched itself forward, its monstrous form blurring with speed. Wings beat against the air like the crashing of thunder, and its roar—feral and deafening—shook the island to its core.

But before it could reach its target, its massive body slammed into an invisible force.

A shimmering barrier flared to life, halting Cormac mid-flight with a concussive boom. The impact sent ripples of energy through the air, revealing a web of intricate, glowing runes encircling Lich. Arcane symbols pulsed ominously, weaving themselves into the mist like an impenetrable cage.

Snarling in frustration, Cormac's maw gaped open, revealing a swirling inferno in his throat.

Then he breathed.

A torrent of crimson flames erupted, a wave of annihilation engulfing the land. Trees, rock formations, even the hidden Nightmare Creatures lurking in the shadows—all turned to ash in an instant. The air itself seemed to ignite, boiling with raw heat.

Saints weren't just warriors. They were cataclysms given form.

Yet, when the inferno cleared, Lich remained.

His bony fingers were raised, an orb of dark amethyst light shimmering in his palm, shielding him from the destruction. The flames raged around the sphere, pressing in with overwhelming force—until, with a final shudder, the barrier cracked. The protective sphere shattered like fragile glass, fragments of violet energy dissipating into the wind.

Lich tilted his head, his empty sockets alight with eerie amusement.

"Not a total weakling, hmm?"

Cormac's fury surged. With a furious snarl, he slammed his tail into the ground, sending shockwaves rippling through the island. The earth splintered beneath him, jagged fissures spreading outward.

But Lich was no longer there.

His skeletal form dissolved into a swirling mist, vanishing like a phantom.

Cormac's pupils contracted. An illusion? No… a diversion.

A flicker of movement—behind him.

Predictable.

The wyvern whirled, wings carving through the air as he dived toward his elusive prey—only for agony to explode through his body.

Spears.

Hundreds of spectral spears materialized mid-air, impaling his armored hide before he could react. He crashed into them headfirst, his own momentum working against him. The weapons didn't merely wound—they burned, their ethereal edges searing through his scales like molten iron.

A trap.

He roared in pain, his wings beating furiously as he wrenched himself free, sending shattered spears flying in every direction. His rage was incandescent, his mind ablaze with the sheer audacity of this skeleton.

"You dare toy with me!?" His voice was a guttural snarl, thick with unrestrained fury. "Show yourself, coward! You are nothing before a Knight of Valor!"

But Lich, of course, did no such thing.

The mist thickened, slithering through the battlefield like a living entity. It swallowed the land, creeping into every crevice, every shattered ruin, twisting the island into a labyrinth of shadows and death.

Cormac's claws flexed. His instincts screamed at him—he couldn't trust the ground, nor the air. Every surface, every step was a potential death sentence.

Damn that skeletal bastard.

This wasn't a battle—it was a war of attrition.

And Cormac was being hunted.

Lich knew he couldn't overpower the Saint in direct combat. He wasn't a brute-force warrior—he was a sorcerer, a scholar, a seeker of knowledge. Battle was never his first choice. But Klaus, as always, had a remarkable talent for finding trouble, and it was his duty to clean up the mess.

Buy time. That was the only goal.

But for how long?

Cormac wouldn't play this game forever. If he lost patience, if he stopped treating this like a fight and started treating it like extermination…

He'd obliterate the island itself.

And then, all this stalling would be for nothing.

Cormac's wings spread wide, his rage no longer a controlled fire, but an inferno.

"You think you can trap me!?" he roared. "You think I am prey!?"

His muscles tensed, preparing to unleash devastation upon the land.

And Lich, hidden within the mist, simply observed.

Time was slipping away. But perhaps… just perhaps… they had enough.