Chapter 694 Joanna vs Five Pillars

The shadows of night fell thick over the ruins of Gaia, but at the heart of the Court of Misbirth, the world no longer recognized black and white. Only the colors of embers, blood, and ash painted the shattered sky above.

When Joanna announced the judgment, the angels fell silent, and the people held their breath. However, the Five Pillars of Dominion Earth stepped forward, refusing to back down.

Amidst the noise, Joanna felt as if the world was spinning around her. The sound of her heartbeat thudded loudly, signaling the tension creeping within her. "You can do this," she whispered to herself, though doubt gripped her heart, recalling all the sacrifices she had to face.

General Gael shouted, his spear glowing black, summoning the power of Oblivion Lance. "Your blood is not angelic, Joanna! You are a child of Fitran—void in your blood unworthy to lead the heavens or the earth!"

Joanna felt each of Gael's words like thorns piercing her, trying to shake her conviction. Deep down, she knew she was not just a child of a dark legacy. With a deep breath, she resolved to shine brighter even as darkness threatened.

Lira, the sorceress, spread a glyph of time disruption, creating a temporal vortex swirling around Joanna, trying to sever her connection with the fire of Michael and his angels.

Bronn, wielding the Crimson Flood hammer, roared—waves of blood swept the arena, attempting to drown Joanna amidst the memories and deaths of fallen guardians.

Every sound, every shadow was a memory she could not forget. Her guardians, faces filled with hope, surged within her mind, providing both strength and pain. "I am not alone," she whispered. "I carry them with me."

Kestral unleashed automatons and hunter glyphs, creating shadows of assassins in every corner, while Valen recited the Heavenbane Seal, hoping to suppress the essence of the angels clinging to Joanna.

Joanna felt the weight on her shoulders, a burden of hope and uncertainty intertwining. "If I fall, I will fall fighting," she affirmed in her heart, channeling all her strength. Her fighting spirit burned brighter, proving to the world and to herself that she would not back down.

Joanna remained still, yet her aura grew denser, wrapping around her like wings of fire and lightning. As the Oblivion Lance pierced toward her, Joanna deflected it with the Blade of the Second Dawn, a manifestation of Michael's will, yet with dark energy at its edges, a spiral of void dancing in the flames. Within her heart, doubt churned. The war within her was more brutal than the battle outside: between the desire to be a hero and the fear of the dark power that might turn her into a monster. The voices in her mind whispered softly, constantly challenging her to surrender to the darkness that promised strength.

Lira's attack slowed time, making sounds and movements echo far into the depths of her being. But Joanna split the illusion, using Fitran's blood to open a locus between time—pulling Lira into a timeless space, where only truth could resonate. In these moments, Joanna felt the weight of hope and fear simultaneously. She knew that every decision would determine the fate not only of herself but also of others. Amidst the chaos, she promised herself: she would not let darkness take over, nor would she allow the sorrows of her past to destroy a future that could be filled with light.

Bronn charged, his hammer striking the ground—but Joanna stepped over the blood, burning all the bad memories to ash, igniting the world's anger to rekindle the twisted justice. Looking ahead, she counted every second, feeling the flow of essence around her like the heartbeat of the world vibrating. Every attack from the enemy became a reminder of the losses and sacrifices she had endured. She felt her determination seep through the blood flowing in her veins. "This is for those who fought," she whispered to herself, gathering courage she never knew she had.

Kestral's automatons fell one by one, scorched under the Judgment Fire that was no longer sacred but deadly. The hunter glyphs scattered, Valen was thrown back, his seal melting under the pressure of an existence now a mixture of angel and void. As the battle raged on, Joanna occasionally stole glances at Valen, feeling a bond to his struggle. "Valen, thank you for believing in me," she sighed in her heart, realizing that Valen's friendship and sacrifice were the energy that pushed her to endure, even when the shadows of despair lurked in the corners of her mind.

On the side of the arena, the Seven Heavenly Angels trembled. Zadkiel, Uriel, and Remiel whispered among themselves, afraid to look directly at Joanna. Worry enveloped them, as if they could feel the tension filling the air. "Joanna has always indicated great potential, but now… have we made a mistake? Have we created a monster with hope?" Zadkiel asked in a somber tone. In his time, he recalled the past; was there anything more precious than this hope?

Zadkiel whispered, "The light of Michael strengthens, but there is a shadow within it. I see the spiral of Fitran, a power that once defied heaven…" Uriel shook his head, "What does this mean? Isn't Joanna our last hope? Or… has she become a new instrument of destruction?" Despite the rising fear, in each of their hearts lay a longing to believe in goodness. Is it possible, in the deepest darkness, that there is always a light that never goes out, waiting to shine again among the shadows?

Remiel added softly.

Zadkiel whispered, "The light of Michael strengthens, but there is a shadow within it. I see the spiral of Fitran, a power that once defied heaven…"

"Not just a spiral," Uriel replied in confusion. "I sense something darker, a power seemingly born from suffering and loss. Joanna must handle this carefully." Uriel's expression was tense, reflecting the mental burden he bore. A question spun in his mind: can an angel do more than just follow a predetermined fate?

Uriel shook his head, "What does this mean? Isn't Joanna our last hope? Or… has she become a new instrument of destruction?"

Remiel added softly, "The line between justice and destruction has blurred. If Joanna is a child of Fitran, that void blood—can she withstand the curse of a wrongful birth?"

There was a deep doubt in Remiel's heart, as if he spoke not only to express his fears for Joanna's fate but also for his own and the other angels. Would they witness destruction or produce miracles? In this situation, everything could change in an instant. He hoped, at least, that if Joanna fell, she would not fall alone.

Some angels even turned to the people, as if seeking justification for a war that had turned into a trial of existence. Some began to distance themselves, fearing that if Joanna lost control, they too would fall alongside the angels who had been erased from history.

In Joanna's heart, there was a deeper struggle. Guilt flooded her every time she remembered how the fate and hope of everyone depended on her. She recalled the moments spent under the moonlight, training hard for a day like this, and now all of it culminated in doubt. Was she capable of being a hero? Or would she bring about terrible destruction?

In the midst of the duel, Joanna realized. Every time she unleashed Michael's fire, at the edge of that attack was a black spiral—the Void that quietly whispered Fitran's name in every judgment. She looked at Gael, Lira, and Bronn, feeling hatred and pity mingling in the last breaths of the old world. Yet, among all she saw, there was a glimmer of hope that kept her going—love for her people, which relentlessly urged her to fight.

"This power can destroy or save," she thought, struggling to control the turmoil of her feelings. "But it all depends on me." Seeing the wounded faces forced to fight against her, there was a painful feeling that tore at her soul, reminding her that every decision she made would change the fate of many.

"If the world rejects birth, then the world only deserves to receive judgment," she whispered, half to her enemies, half to herself.

She lowered the Blade of the Second Dawn—in one slash, the pillars of the world trembled. Each strike of the sword felt like the cries of souls trapped between two worlds. Gael was thrown back, Lira fell, Bronn collapsed bleeding, Kestral lost automatons, and Valen froze in his own spell. That moment felt like the calm before the storm, where every angel faced the choice to stand beside or against their last hope.

Joanna's decision was now not just about winning or losing; it was about what it meant to be a leader and how much she would sacrifice to save others.

Yet this victory felt hollow—Joanna stood, her body ablaze with Michael's fire and the shadow of the void. Her steps were heavy, her breath ragged from the pressure of two existences within one body. She raised her hand, but in the eyes of the angels, there was now something foreign, something even heaven could not comprehend. In this terrifying silence, a thought crossed her mind, "Who am I really? What does it mean to belong to the heavens if I am alone in this emptiness?" Facing her own shadow, Joanna felt a wave of longing deep for something else—normalcy, peace, warmth.

Among the ruins, the people cheered and cried, but whispers of fear began to grow. The angels knelt, but in their prayers, there was a sense of doubt, fear, and regret. "Joanna, are you still there?" whispered one of the angels, her voice filled with hope despite the scent of despair. The Seven Heavenly Angels questioned each other—was Joanna still truly of the heavens, or had she become a mirror of the world's emptiness? Not only plagued by doubts about her identity, Joanna also felt that hunger, every gaze from them breaking her little by little.

Above all, Joanna gazed at the dark sky without stars, knowing that now she was not only an enemy of Earth—but also an enemy of heaven, the judge of the world, and perhaps, in the end, an enemy to herself. She felt a surge of emotion, trapped in the creeping darkness around her. With deep regret, she felt as if she were stuck in an endless maze of choices she had made, but also realized that she had the power within her to debate the truth—locked in uncertainty.