Because the fight between the two had broken out with such blinding speed, the Sarkaz warriors guarding Theresis barely had time to register what happened before seeing their leader sent flying into the distance, with that dark shadow darting after him.
For the soldiers left behind, confusion reigned: should they rush to reinforce the Regent, or finish the battle here before finding a way to assist their leader?
In the end, they split up. A small detachment sprinted off toward the direction where Theresis had vanished, while the rest turned their hostile glares toward Talulah, who was currently commanding a horde of Wyrm-Dragons.
"She sure moves fast..." Talulah muttered under her breath, glancing in the direction Jeanne had disappeared before refocusing on the enemies surrounding her.
Even she had to admit that the combat prowess of these Sarkaz legionnaires was formidable. Trapped in a tight underground space against overwhelming dragon beasts, they were still coolly adapting and seeking ways to counterattack.
Farther down the sprawling subterranean hall, Theresis backed away, his expression calm and cold despite the sheer strength Jeanne had just displayed.
"Your power hasn't exceeded my expectations," Theresis remarked coldly, eyeing the dark Jeanne who stood before him holding her black flagpole. "Which means this battle remains entirely within my control. You can save your naive lectures for my sister."
He had wanted to test his blade against her for a long time—not just because she had systematically shattered his grand plans, but because he needed to defeat her to show his followers that she was not invincible.
Theresis swung his broadsword continuously, sending arcs of crimson blood-Arts slicing through the air with enough force to cleave a mountain.
Yet no matter how many heavy strikes he landed, Jeanne's flagpole deflected them with disturbing ease. He couldn't even fathom what material her weapon was made of; attacks that could easily cut a Steam Knight in half left not so much as a scratch on its surface.
Suddenly, Theresis sensed a sharp spike of danger. His eyes widened as he leaped backward just in time to dodge a cluster of jagged, iron brambles erupting from the shadow beneath his feet.
"Tricks!" Theresis hissed. Even as the bizarre Arts manifested, he refused to back down. He was determined to strike her down here and now.
"I am curious," Theresis said, taking a few steady breaths during a brief lull in their exchange. "Why go to such lengths to help Theresa? Do you truly believe the future she envisions for the Sarkaz can ever be achieved?"
"Who knows?" Jeanne replied smoothly, keeping up her relentless pressure and driving Theresis back step by step. "Maybe I just wanted to help out a friend. It's as simple as that."
Theresis found himself forced into a corner. What boggled his mind was that even in raw physical strength—an area where his massive frame should have given him a clear advantage—she completely overwhelmed him.
"What a ridiculous answer!" Theresis snapped. "Do you honestly think a trivial reason like that can withstand thousands of years of Sarkaz fury? You will be torn to shreds by our hatred!"
Theresis burst into a flurry of blindingly fast sword strikes, attempting to stall her advance.
He knew perfectly well he might not defeat her in a direct duel. That was why he had prepared a massive trap in the shadows—a weapon powerful enough to bring her to her knees.
Looking at Jeanne's unbothered expression, a sinister smile finally broke across Theresis's usually stone-cold face.
The next moment, a chorus of inhuman wails echoed throughout the ancient hall.
Spirits of the dead—drawn into the cavern by the dark rituals of the Confessarii—swirled into existence. They were the aggregated souls of ancient Sarkaz, summoned to vent their eternal rage and tear their enemies to pieces.
"I told you," Theresis said, watching the spectral horde drift through the air. "You will fall beneath the weight of Sarkaz fury."
Yet despite the successful activation of the spell, Theresis felt no joy. He knew deep down that this level of spirit aggregation might not be enough to kill her. Under his original plan, capturing Theresa would have allowed him to use the power of the Lord of Fiends to summon all the ancient souls of Kazdel.
Later in his campaign, he had even agreed to the Confessarius's dark ritual to use those soul-essences to puppeteer Theresa to their side—even if he privately viewed such methods as foul magic.
"Is... is the battle finally coming to an end?"
A figures crept out from the shadows—a weary Confessarius who had just finished casting the demanding ritual. He dragged his exhausted body forward, staring at Jeanne, who was now surrounded by dense, nearly solid masses of vengeful Sarkaz spirits.
Yet despite the impressive sight, the Confessarius's voice trembled with caution. Having studied Jeanne's unnatural abilities, he didn't dare lower his guard for a second, terrified of another unexpected turn of events.
Still, the ritual had gone smoothly—yielding far more spectral energy than even he had anticipated. The ancient souls had cooperated with his summoning with unsettling eagerness.
"Hard to say," Theresis replied smoothly, turning his gaze back toward the main cavern. "However, we can secure the two Dracos first. No matter how much she changes her demeanor, she will be forced to stop if her companion's life is threatened."
Theresis turned to leave, intending to deal with the easier targets rather than waste time bashing his head against a brick wall.
Suddenly, he froze mid-step.
"Do you feel that? The temperature in here is rising at an abnormal rate!" Theresis muttered, looking around.
"It must be the Draco's Originium Arts," the Confessarius suggested quickly. "Dracos are naturally gifted in fire-based Arts—"
"No! The heat isn't coming from the Draco," Theresis interrupted, turning back in horror. "The heat source is right in front of us!"
Black flames erupted around Jeanne, swirling into a towering inferno. That terrifying, suffocating heat wasn't coming from a dragon—it was her own power!
Before either of them could react, the tide of black fire surged toward them like a crashing wave.
Jeanne stood in the center of the raging inferno, closing her eyes as she listened to the wailing spirits.
She could feel the overwhelming rage and hatred woven into the very fabric of these ancient Sarkaz souls—emotions so bitter that they had chained these spirits to the physical realm for millennia.
She had tried to commune with them, only to realize they had long since lost the capacity for rational thought. They were nothing more than wraiths, trapped in an endless loop of vengeance.
Yet beneath that blinding rage, Jeanne sensed another, deeper emotion: a profound, weary longing for death. Hundreds and thousands of years of carrying endless hatred had worn their souls to the bone. They were exhausted. They craved an end.
That was the real reason they had answered the Confessarius's call so eagerly. These ancient Sarkaz spirits had lived long enough in agony; they wanted Jeanne to give them release from this land.
As for what would become of the future Sarkaz... they were content to leave that burden to the living generations.
"Honestly..." Jeanne let out a soft, sympathetic chuckle, drawing the Sword of Saint Catherine from her waist. "How desperate must you be to pray for someone to burn you up as firewood?"
She raised her blade, letting the dark flames coat the steel.
"Very well. I shall grant you the wish you so deeply desire. Here, in the resting place of Victoria's ancient kings, let your anger rage one final time—"
[La Grondement Du Haine: Roar, Rage of Mine!]
The countless Sarkaz spirits dissolved into the jet-black fire, converting their lingering rage into raw fuel. This was their first, last, and only chance to pour out their centuries of built-up fury.
In the blink of an eye, the ocean of black fire exploded outward in all directions.
Before Theresis or the Confessarius could even process what was happening, they were hit head-on by the fiery wrath of their own ancestors.
The expanding wall of heat singed off most of Theresis's long hair. He stood there dazed, covered in soot and charred embers, staring at the golden-haired girl with pure rage as he ground his teeth together.
"You... you dared to use the souls of our ancestors as fuel!" Theresis roared, completely losing his composure. He was consumed by fury—unable to forgive her, and unable to forgive himself for enabling such a catastrophic blunder.
To a culture that held the sanctity of souls above all else, burning the spirits of their ancestors as firewood was no different from burning those ancestors alive right before his eyes—even if the spirits themselves had willingly surrendered to the flame!
"I'm merely freeing them from endless misery," Jeanne replied in a breezy tone, unbothered by his outburst. "Don't make me sound like some villain."
"DIE!"
Theresis cast aside his usual noble composure, lunging at Jeanne like a crazed, wounded beast, pouring every ounce of his strength into a frantic assault.
Meanwhile, the black flames carried by the ancestral spirits spread rapidly throughout the mausoleum. They climbed up the monumental statues of ancient Victorian monarchs, sweeping through every crypt and burning the royal remains within to ash.
Amidst the roaring flames, the faint, furious roar of a golden lion echoed through the subterranean halls. Yet Gawain knew there was nothing he could do to stop the inferno; he could only watch helplessly as the fire consumed the resting place of kings.
Farther back, Fafnir was still happily stuffing her pockets with gold. Gawain had even resorted to acting as her tour guide, leading her directly to the royal treasuries—reasoning that having the precious heirlooms fall into the young dragon's hands was far better than seeing them reduced to cinders.
All in all, Fafnir was having the absolute time of her life.