Chapter 696 Council of Despair The Scorched Rebellion

After the Council of Despair disbanded aimlessly, night became a new battlefield for Joanna. She stood amidst the ruins of the palace, wearing battle armor that was now half-melted, her golden hair whipped by the wind, and her blue eyes burning darker than usual—the color of Michael's fire mixed with the aura of the spiral void. In the distance, the remnants of the Earth fleet—airships, steel automatons, and Bellator magic cannons—still circled above the debris, targeting the remaining shields and people scattered like shadows beneath the gray sky. The screams and the roar of explosions surrounded the atmosphere, adding weight to the emptiness that hung in the air, as if the world itself was holding its breath in tension.

Joanna raised her fiery sword, closing her eyes. The voices of angels and guardians echoed in her mind, but now only one voice dominated her will: Michael's voice—and her own new voice. In the darkness, she could feel the pulse of the thrilling battle, creating a terrifying atmosphere as if it were the end of everything. Hoping that hope could pierce through the torturous noise, her heart trembled with determination.

"If the world rejects hope, let me burn away all remnants of fear..."

She stepped toward the final battlefield—not as a guardian, but as the one who would determine the fate of a world reduced to ruins and cries. Her steps felt heavy yet brave, each footfall seemingly awakening a vibration of power that resonated with the rhythm of chaos around her.

In the night sky, the Earth airship fleet moved in a defensive formation, firing glyphs and magic bullets downward. Captain Efram, commander of the main ship Heaven's Lance, looked at the tactical screen anxiously. In his heart, a fear of potential defeat flickered, making him feel trapped in the noise of gunfire that tore through the silence of the night.

"Fire all cannons at the spiral zone! Don't give Joanna time to recharge her magic!" His voice was firm, yet a spark of uncertainty marred the urgency of his command. The clash between hope and despair mixed within his soul, as if their fleet was the last hope for humanity trapped in darkness.

However, Joanna had arrived before the final command was completed. She plunged Michael's fiery sword into the ground, creating a wave of heat that spread across the battlefield. The earth cracked, the air boiled, and pillars of fire soared, piercing the bellies of the airships. Steel frames melted; glyph sails shattered, battered by a storm of blue-golden energy. In an instant, the previously calm atmosphere transformed into hell, surrounded by screams and explosions marking the end of everything that ever existed.

The Heaven's Lance ship trembled violently. Efram shouted, "Evacuate! Release the automatons—don't let a single one fall into enemy hands!" With each tremor, the space around him seemed to fracture, feeling the impact of unimaginable power, as if the world itself was beginning to collapse.

But Joanna didn't care. She leaped into the air, fiery wings blossoming from her back. She swung her sword, cleaving through the approaching automatons like toys. Each fallen automaton scattered hot metal sparks, causing a chain reaction of explosions on the ground. With every flash that broke the darkness, terrifying shadows danced among the remnants of the fallen Earth.

The operators of the automatons—Earth's youngest soldiers, some merely teenagers—could only scream before their bodies vanished, burned by magic. In the panic that ensued, their gazes were vacant, realizing that hope had flown far away, and all dreams seemed to be mere illusions amidst the thick of battle.

Joanna hovered in the storm, her face cold. Her voice echoed among the debris and flames, resembling a decree from heaven that had lost its mercy: Behind every word, there was an unspoken weight of the universe, as if the entire world condemned the arrogance of humanity trapped in this power game.

"Enough of blood and machines. Enough of Earth's arrogance. You want a world without hope—I will give you a world without anything!"

On the eastern hill, the Bellator Ultima Prime magic cannon was ready to fire its final shot at Sanctuary Oda—the last refuge for civilians and guardians. The chief operator, a magus named Othello, recited the final incantation, his hands trembling with fear and exhaustion. A tense atmosphere enveloped the area, as if the air was filled with panic and fading hope.

However, Joanna had seen it from afar. With a single swing of her sword, she unleashed a wave of fire that split the sky, creating a straight path of light toward Bellator. The flames blazed like the void that devoured everything around it, casting a dark shadow from the ruins that had once been a beacon of hope. In an instant, the massive cannon exploded—safety glyphs collapsed, leyline energy detonated, and a hundred Bellator operators were reduced to ashes.

The massive explosion illuminated the night sky, swallowing the sounds of screams and the final thunder of war on the earth of Gaia and Oda. The ground shook, and fragments of Bellator scattered across three districts. Dust and smoke billowed high, shrouding the sky in dark hues, as if explaining how shattered the spirits of the remaining fighters had become.

In the Earth headquarters, King Ardaius fell to his knees, his face covered by his hands. The remaining generals exchanged desperate glances. In their minds, the vibrating echoes of shattered hope played, as if abandoned by the dimming stars.

"She burned everything. The ships, the automatons, even Bellator—what else do we have?"

Advisor Faedros wept, "We have nothing. Joanna has become more than an angel, more than a human—she is the wrath born from our own hope."

Some Earth soldiers dropped their weapons, choosing to hide or surrender. Some fled into the forest, while others tried to cross into the already barren lands. Among them, legends about the Goddess of Fire and the Void began to grow, not as a symbol of victory, but as a sign of final destruction. The sounds of explosions merged with distant screams, creating a symphony of death that echoed across the once-prosperous plains, turning them into silent ruins.

The angels—who witnessed Michael's fire within Joanna—now joined with the spiral forces—stood frozen. Zadkiel whispered, "I… have never seen Michael this ruthless. But I have also never seen a world so desperately in need of a miracle." In the sky, dark clouds gathered, as if mourning the fate of its inhabitants, preparing to shed their tears burned in the heat of battle.

Remiel bowed his head, feeling both fear and awe. "Perhaps this is the price of angels who trade the voice of hope for the voice of judgment." Each heartbeat felt heavy with sorrow, aware of the unspoken burden laid before them, like a dark cloth covering the laughter of the past.

Civilians and guardians hiding underground heard the explosions and the thundering of magic. Some screamed, some prayed, and others simply cried softly—uncertain whether what had just happened was a miracle, a curse, or the beginning of a truly new world. Behind the longing for peace, they felt a hollow vibration, as if every second brought them closer to eternal darkness.

After it was all over, Joanna stood atop the ruins of Bellator, her body smeared with the blood of enemies and her own cold sweat. She looked down—hands that burned, eyes that no longer cried. The space around her felt suffocating with shattered pieces of hope, while shadows of horror reflected in the faint glimmers scattered across the debris.

In her heart, Michael's voice whispered, "You have become something I never imagined..."

But Fitran's voice also echoed, even though Joanna had yet to hear her father's voice, she recognized it: "Do not let this world choose for you. Be your own will, or all sacrifices will be in vain."

Amidst those whispers, Joanna felt the grim rumble from the ruins around her, as if the earth trembled for every lost soul, every shattered dream calling her name. The bitter taste that enveloped her tongue only deepened her sorrow; her fingers still remembered the sensation of the drawn sword and the blood that soaked the ground. Cold sweat dripped from her temples, a silent witness to the battle that had just ended.

Joanna took a deep breath, gazing at the now empty night sky—without stars, without threats, only remnants of hope floating among the ashes.