Low-Fantasy Occultist Isekai-Chapter 122 - 117

Nick shut off his senses with a yelp. Marthas' power was strong enough to render [Wind God's Third Eye] useless, making the experience strikingly similar to staring directly into a solar eclipse. Given how stressed his body already was, he didn't need to add that damage to the list.

For a moment, the entire battlefield froze. The clangor of steel on steel, the thunder of spells, the shouts of men—everything seemed to hush as they beheld the two figures. Soldiers from both sides halted mid-swing. Even the formidable Guardian paused in his duel with Arthur, turning his hulking head to regard the new arrivals.

Marthas' upper body was bare, with runes on his chest and arms that blazed with radiant golden flames. His eyes were lost in the glare—two hollows of pure, scorching light. Just looking at him from half a mile away made Nick's skin turn pink from the heat.

And across from him stood the most beautiful being he had ever seen, which was saying something. Her skin was as pale as moonlight. Her hair, green with shimmering gold threads, flowed behind her as if carried by a gentle breeze. The ground beneath her feet burst forth with blooms and plants, each turning to face her as if she were the sun. Her eyes were as deep as the night sky, sparkling with mischievous, ancient wisdom. Whatever illusions or glamours the fae could conjure, her majesty could not be faked.

Their eyes met, the Prelate's blazing one and the fae woman's star-filled orbs. If the tension had been thick before, it now became something tangible, an almost physical force pressing against Nick's lungs. He had to consciously remind himself to breathe. Even the Guardian and the Hunt leader stood off to the side, mere observers in the shadow of this new confrontation.

Marthas straightened, lifting his head high. "Hear me, denizens of the hidden realms and watchers of the ephemeral coil. I am Marthas, Grand Exorcist, Hand of the Ever-Burning Goddess. You have been judged and found wanting. I shall conduct your extermination."

His proclamation rumbled across the battlefield. Men clutched their weapons and shook as if kittens in a rainstorm, and even the surviving fae—from hardened knights to cunning mages—seemed momentarily struck dumb. Such was the power in his words that none could deny his ability to carry them out.

The fae stepped forward with equal majesty, sweeping her arms open in a gesture of benevolent welcome as a soft warmth rippled outward. Across the scarred earth all over the battlefield, new growth sprang up—ferns uncoiling and blossoms sprouting amid bloodstained soil. Vines spilled from the cracks in the ground, weaving spiraling filigree patterns. Her voice, though quiet, carried everywhere. "I am the Daughter of Fate, Queen of the Court of Deep Summer, Maiden of Bounty. Any who step within my realm shall face my judgment."

Nick felt something stir. The fae knights he had been draining—whose existence depended on the strange resurrection field—began to tremble violently. Their shallow breaths caught, and their eyes widened. The moment the fae announced her titles, Nick sensed the unraveling of the unnatural effect that had sustained them.

He watched, transfixed, as the flicker of energy that animated them simply collapsed. Their eyes dulled, and they all died instantly; there was no thrashing, no final scream, just an abrupt end to life. It was as though the cord tethering them to existence had been severed with a single stroke of scissors.

All around the battlefield, the same event unfolded. Fae knights who had resurrected multiple times stumbled, disintegrating. Instead of drifting off into the ethereal plane, motes of light that Nick suspected were their souls streamed visibly toward the Daughter of Fate. She inhaled softly as if savoring the essence.

The System flared in his peripheral vision:

Trait [Blasphemy] has been activated to defend from a High-tier Mystery's aftereffects.

Even with that protection, Nick shuddered under the residual pressure of her presence.

He tried to parse the meaning, but the terminology was unknown to him. He could only guess that she wielded something similar to a domain; though not exactly divine in origin, it was powerful enough to be recognized by the System, like what the demon Marthas had exorcized had.

The Prelate appeared completely unimpressed by the spectacle. If anything, the golden flames that crowned him surged higher, brightening until they threatened to blind those who gazed upon him. The heat radiating from his position licked at Nick's skin even from this distance.

A standoff lasted several seconds, and the tension rose to an unbearable extreme. Somewhere behind Nick, a soldier whimpered, his knees buckling from the overwhelming pressure. Then, at last, the tension snapped like an overwound cord, and the two paragons clashed.

It was less a duel than the unleashing of two natural disasters. Marthas raised a hand, and from thin air, he summoned an entire company of flaming knights—each formed from molten copper-hued flames, brandishing swords or spears of blazing light. Simultaneously, great winged dragons, also wrought from that same golden fire, burst into existence overhead, shrieking as they dove at the Daughter of Fate.

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She, in turn, gestured with an elegant movement. Towering oaks and massive yew trees, newly sprouted out of the battlefield's ruined ground, groaned and unrooted themselves. Their branches bent, forming living weapons as they lurched forward to meet the flaming knights. More vines snaked upward, tangling with the fiery dragons in midair.

Nick hurried to retreat, clenching his jaw as the heat lashed at him. "Fall back unless you want to be incinerated!" He called out to the battered men nearby. They needed no second urging; soldiers, wounded knights, and adventurers scattered like ants, desperate to evade the lethal crossfire.

The golden flames burned through living wood. Yet each time a towering tree collapsed into cinders, fresh blooms burst forth from the ashes, as the Daughter had pushed the resurrection field onto them. She laughed, a lilting, almost giddy sound. Nick caught the edge of her voice, brought to him by a whisper of wind, "From the ashes of a wildfire, life begins anew. Oh, Hand of the Ever-Burning, your fate is written—your flames only herald the next generation of growth!"

Marthas' composure never wavered. If her words affected him, it did not show. The copper-hued knights hammered ceaselessly at the reanimated trees, eventually turning them into charcoal stumps, which sprouted blossoms again. But each cycle took its toll; while the vegetation rebirth slowed, the conflagration continued to intensify. If Nick hadn't been almost a mile away, he would have been roasted alive.

Despite what looked like a looming victory, Marthas decided to change the tempo. A swirl of his hand recalled the fiery legions, condensing them back into his golden aura. With a single step, he crossed the distance, fists wreathed in coruscating flames.

The Daughter raised a graceful hand, conjuring swirling leaves as a barrier. Nick saw the swirl of embers and green entwine for a split second before Marthas' punch slammed home. Or so it should have. At the moment of impact, the fae flickered, vanishing with a twist of reality, reappearing ten feet away with an amused smile.

Marthas' blow tore a furrow in the earth, spraying molten rock and ash into the air. Without missing a beat, he pivoted and charged again. This time, he threw an uppercut that carried enough force to rattle Nick's teeth from hundreds of yards away. But again, she flickered out of existence, leaving the Prelate's punch smashing empty air.

At first glance, it seemed like some kind of teleportation, but Nick's eyes, boosted by his high mental stats, picked up something that made it impossible. Marthas's blow connected each time, tearing through the Daughter's frame. And yet, a fraction of a second later, it was undone. Reality blinked. The damage never existed.

With the fae's propensity for illusions, he was tempted to think that was all there was to it, but he knew, deep down, that wasn't true. Marthas could not be fooled by such flimsy tricks, which left only one possible outcome, no matter how absurd it seemed.

She's rewriting the past! Nick realized with dawning horror. That's how she resurrected her army and the Hunt—no necromancy, just changing their fate so they never died!

He could hardly comprehend such godlike power, much less hope to challenge it. He felt so small that he had to restrain a hysterical chuckle. Well, it's good that I don't have to fight her then. I'm arrogant, but not that much.

The show of might escalated with each exchange. The Daughter conjured swirling seeds that exploded with enough force to rattle the entire clearing while Marthas punched through mighty oaks as though they were trifling illusions. The heat and energy heated the air, forcing Nick to retreat further. People across the battlefield stumbled away from the epicenter of the conflict, some collapsing from the sheer magical pressure. Nick did what he could, hauling dazed soldiers up by the arms and half-carrying them to relative safety.

At one point, Marthas seemed on the verge of victory. The Daughter staggered as she was encircled by a wave of flame twenty feet thick, unable to escape even as she blinked away. Just when Nick thought it was over, a flicker of silver appeared out of nowhere.

The Guardian crashed into the fires with a thunderous blow from his silver glaive, splitting them and allowing her to escape. He then turned to Marthas and thrust his weapon, unleashing a beam of silver light. Nick's heart lurched, fully expecting to see Marthas severely injured.

Yet the blow that would have pulverized men and even battered Arthur merely scraped across his flesh. A faint trickle of blood welled up at his side—barely a scratch. The Guardian jerked back in disbelief, but Marthas reacted without hesitation. His eyes flared, and he roared with a voice so loud that it caused people to pass out, "Burn!"

The Guardian's silver armor burst into golden flames, and he let out a deep, agonized howl that resonated across the battlefield. Clawing at his own torso, he desperately tried to douse the fire, but it clung to his metal plates like molten tar. Soon, the towering figure sank to his knees, writhing in unbearable pain.

The Daughter cried out. Nick could not tell whether her scream was of anger, despair, or some unfathomable cocktail of emotions, and she stretched a hand toward the Guardian. Another wave of power surged from her, and Nick's [Blasphemy] flared again, shielding him from the worst of its intangible effects. The ground roiled with fresh green growth as she tried to anchor her champion's fate to life once more.

Yet Marthas' command was absolute. The Guardian's tortured screams kept coming, and the golden flame continued devouring him, even as he returned to his uninjured form. Gritting his teeth, Nick pulled two more collapsed soldiers back. Each second the fight continued, it would lead to more damage done to the men.

Even as the Guardian burned alive before their eyes, the Daughter gathered arcs of kaleidoscopic energy about her. Threads of color, trees, and thorns flashed into existence around her. She was far from finished.

Nick cradled the soldier in his arms, half-burned and delirious, whispering urgent reassurances as he dragged him beyond a ridge of scorched earth. He had the presence of mind to cast a hasty [Force Barrier] to protect them from stray debris.

Sparks cascaded into the sky like fireworks from some messed-up festival. A whirlwind of cinders churned. Nick braced himself as the ground keened under the strain, expecting another cataclysmic wave of magic at any instant. The Daughter's power soared, resonating with the pulses of dying fae, while Marthas's aura brightened to near-blinding brilliance.

Nick could only watch in awe—and creeping dread. The spectacle before him was more than the final showdown of a campaign. It felt like two fundamental forces clashing, uncaring about anyone caught in the middle. For all Nick's cunning and power, there was no place for him in that stratosphere of conflict. All he could do was ensure the men under his father's command didn't die like ants.

Soldiers and fae alike across the field sank to the ground in wonder or fear. Even Arthur and Eugene finally backed away.

Both forces of nature seemed unbreakable, unstoppable. And yet, someone had to win.

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