And in that moment, Mujun moved.
A violet shockwave of light streaked out and struck the sword's trajectory, forcing it to shift. Nevertheless, the blade still flashed past, cleaving the guard beside Nestal in two with a single clean sweep.
Blood splattered.
Simultaneously, Mujun's incantation rose calmly amidst the chaos:
"Tier 8 Spell: Grand Violet Trajectory."
The sound of his chant should have been heard by Nestal, but it drowned before it could reach the Hero's ears. Not because of distance—but because there was something before Nestal that had seized all his senses at once.
Mujun saw it clearly.
The second Nestal's breath hitched. The second his shoulders tensed, not to prepare for combat, but to protect himself by sheer instinct. The second the Mana surrounding his body, which had been surging wildly… suddenly ebbed away.
His resolve has collapsed, Mujun thought. Not because of a wound. Not because of magic. Simply because he had finally looked upon something he could not cut.
The figure before them stood composed.
The Demi-human King's golden mane hung neatly, unruffled despite having just pierced through the battlefield. Mujun noticed how those golden eyes did not look on with anger, but with cold measurement. The gaze of a hunter who had decided the safe distance, the angle of attack, and the probability of failure—all before the first step was taken.
His body was tall and massive, yet not heavy. His center of gravity was low. The way his feet planted themselves let Mujun know one thing: this man was not just strong; he was accustomed to leading from the front without becoming a burden to his troops.
The black armor encasing the king's body did not reflect light. It swallowed it. Red lines creeping between the iron plates pulsed slowly and rhythmically—not a wild magical effect, but a design. A system. Like a king who never surrendered his life to luck.
The greatsword was not held high. It didn't need to be.
Mujun looked at the king's hands—his grip was loose, the angle of the blade low. A killing stance. The stance of someone who knows their opponent will not move.
"So this is the Hero of the human race…"
The voice reached Mujun's ears with unsettling clarity. Calm. Unhurried. As if this great battle were merely one small decision among many.
"It seems I was not mistaken in choosing to side with the Demons."
Mujun glanced at Nestal from the corner of his eye.
The Hero did not strike back.
His sword was still raised, but his wrists were trembling. The chin that had been held high earlier now dipped slightly—not out of respect, but because his neck refused to stay exposed.
He isn't thinking, Mujun realized. He is waiting for the world to grant him a miracle.
A thin smile etched across the Demi-human King's face. Not wide. Not excessive.
"If this is the quality of your Hero," he continued softly, "then the fall of humanity is only a matter of time."
Then, the sword moved.
There was no signal. No swelling Mana pressure. Not even a deliberately released killing intent.
Just a single trajectory.
Mujun saw it—and instantly knew that Nestal did not.
The Hero's face turned ashen. The eyes that were once full of light now dilated, hollow. The Mana around his body that should have exploded was instead stifled, like a flame choked by an invisible hand.
The distance is too close, Mujun thought rapidly. His Will won't have time to grow.
In that moment, Mujun understood with absolute clarity: a Hero can indeed conquer the world… but they can also crumble with a single step forward.
Death stood directly in front of Nestal. Not as a threat—but as a certainty.
Mujun moved.
His incantation slid out alongside Reina's and Pritty's. There were no shouts, no dramatization. Only a series of rapid decisions made by those accustomed to survival.
Waves of high-tier spells struck the Demi-human King from various directions, forcing his sword's path to shift. Yet even as he retreated, the king did not stumble. His steps were orderly. His eyes remained sharp.
Several of Mujun's attacks nearly pierced his defenses. A few trajectories made the black armor vibrate, and for a second—a very brief one—Mujun saw something resembling genuine wariness in those golden eyes.
If the Demi-human elite soldiers had been late by even a single breath, the king might not have had time to withdraw.
And the Demi-human King knew it.
He retreated not out of panic, but because the calculation was complete.
As distance was created, his eyes returned to Nestal—who still stood rigid, panting, his hands nowhere near stable.
The gaze held no hatred. Nor mockery.
Only a final assessment.
Unworthy.
That was how Mujun read it.
And in that moment, Mujun knew: it wasn't the Demi-human King's sword that had broken Nestal's resolve, but the fact that someone had seen him for exactly what he was.
They did not pursue the retreating Demi-human Kingdom's army.
Not out of fear, but because it was unnecessary. From Mujun's perspective, the decision had been final from the start. A main army is not an opponent one can touch in the open. Mersyah Fortress stood there as a tool—thick stone walls, layered defensive diagrams, and a geographic position that forced the enemy to pay dearly for every step forward. As long as they stayed behind those walls, even elite troops could only snarl from a distance.
So, they retreated back into the fortress.
And there, the true devastation awaited.
Mujun saw Nestal curled on the ground, clinging to one of his guards like a child lost in the middle of a storm. The Hero's pants were wet, and a pungent odor spread, impossible to hide. Tears, snot, and saliva mixed on his face, forming a sight that was hard to distinguish between disgusting and pathetic.
Mujun observed it all without a change in expression.
He knew that if this sight were seen by the ordinary soldiers, the army's morale wouldn't just collapse—it would be buried. The guards apparently understood the same. They moved quickly, shielding Nestal's body with their ranks, shouting for other soldiers to stay back.
They were protecting their Hero not from the enemy, but from a reality that was far too naked.
Reina and Pritty knelt before Nestal. Their voices were low and controlled, trying to pull back the remnants of courage that had shattered. They told him the Demi-human King had been repelled. That the attack had failed. That they were still standing.
All they received in return were insults.
With a pale face and a voice cracked by sobbing, Nestal cursed them—blaming their stupidity, regretting the opportunities he claimed had been squandered. He screamed for everyone to immediately retreat from Mersyah Fortress.
Reina refused.
To Mujun, the refusal made sense. The brief exchange earlier had caused almost no losses. With himself, Pritty, Reina, and—at least on paper—a Hero, Mersyah Fortress could not only hold out but strike back ferociously. The Demi-human Kingdom's main army could be made to bleed before reinforcements from the front line arrived.
The logic was clear.
But Mujun saw something else in Nestal.
The way his eyes flickered every time the sound of metal rang out. The way his breath hitched when the shadow of a beast's mane passed along the wall. Even the fur of a guard's mantle blowing in the wind was enough to make his body go rigid.
Nestal's resolve had snapped.
And the shards were stabbing back into himself.