......

While the two factions of the Church of Terror stood on the verge of turning their blades against one another, a sudden change immediately drew everyone’s attention.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

A series of crisp fractures echoed throughout the desolated forest.

The gigantic crimson barrier surrounding the sacrificial altar had finally begun to give way.

Thin cracks rapidly spread across its surface like a shattered mirror, while the endless rivers of slaughter energy crashing against it grew increasingly violent with every passing second.

"Oh?" Mordrake slowly turned toward the altar before a wide grin gradually spread across his face. "Looks like our little friend is finally reaching his limits."

His deep laughter echoed throughout the battlefield.

The gigantic warrior casually rested his battle axe on his shoulder before shifting his gaze toward Henrick and Agata.

"I suppose I should thank the two of you on behalf of my master." His grin widened even further. "Once the Grand Sacrificial Ritual is finally completed, Lord Malzareth’s standing within the Church will undoubtedly rise even higher."

"I wonder..." He deliberately paused for a brief moment before speaking each word slowly. "...when that time comes... whose influence will be greater?"

"Your master—the Arch Heretic... or ours—the Dread Executioner." Every word landed like another slap across Henrick’s face.

Even Velkris, who rarely showed any emotion, allowed the corner of his lips to curl into a faint smile.

It was not merely confidence, but the smile of someone already convinced of the outcome.

Henrick and Agata, however, remained completely silent. It was not because they had accepted Mordrake’s words, but because they could not refute them.

Their master, Dragulia, had already fallen at Diablo’s hands.

Meanwhile, Malzareth—another existence standing on the same level as an Arch Heretic of the Demonic Church of Terror—had never even revealed himself throughout the battle.

He had patiently remained somewhere within the ruined forest, silently waiting for the perfect moment to harvest the fruits of everyone else’s efforts.

Henrick’s fists gradually tightened until his fingernails dug deeply into his palms.

This operation was supposed to become the greatest achievement of his entire career within the Church of Terror.

The success of the Grand Sacrificial Ritual should have elevated not only Dragulia’s status, but his own as well.

With his master now defeated, Henrick had even seen a rare opportunity for himself.

If this operation succeeded under his leadership, he might have earned enough merit to ascend within the Church of Terror, becoming one of its highest-ranking figures—a title that stood alongside an Arch Heretic or a Dread Executioner.

Unfortunately, that glory was about to be stolen right before his eyes. And the ones stealing it were the very people he despised the most.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

The cracks spreading across the crimson barrier multiplied with every passing second.

Each new fracture caused the expressions of the surrounding Demonic Players to brighten with excitement.

Victory was finally within their reach.

Mordrake slowly raised his battle axe before waving it toward his subordinates. "Spread out!"

The remaining elites of the Church of Terror immediately responded.

Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!

They rapidly dispersed in every direction, completely sealing every possible escape route around the altar.

No matter which direction Diablo chose to flee, he would inevitably be met by a wall of enemies.

Everything had been prepared for the final assault.

Just as Mordrake was about to swing his battle axe and issue the order—

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

A series of deafening gunshots suddenly echoed across the heavens.

The sound arrived first while the bullets followed a heartbeat later.

Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!

Countless crimson streaks descended from the sky like a torrential rain of death, tearing through the battlefield before anyone could even understand what had happened.

"Argh!"

"Ugh!"

"Ahhh!"

Blood instantly blossomed throughout the battlefield.

Several Demonic Players had their heads pierced before they even realized they were under attack, while others collapsed after their hearts and throats were riddled with crimson bullets.

The carefully assembled formation immediately descended into complete chaos.

Before anyone could recover—

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Another volley erupted from above.

This time, Mordrake finally reacted. "ROAR!"

He violently stomped the ground.

BOOM!

The earth exploded beneath his feet as an enormous shockwave erupted outward, ripping gigantic slabs of rock from the ground before hurling them into the sky.

Boom! Boom! Boom!

The massive boulders collided with the incoming bullets one after another, exploding into countless fragments that scattered throughout the battlefield.

At the same time, Henrick, Agata, and Velkris instinctively prepared to counterattack... only for their instincts to scream in alarm.

A freezing chill suddenly crawled down their spines, making every hair on their bodies stand upright.

Without the slightest hesitation, all three immediately abandoned their offensive intentions and activated their strongest defensive techniques.

A split second later—

Shing! Shing! Shing!

Several black flashes silently sliced across the battlefield.

No one saw where they came from, nor saw where they went—all they saw were countless black lines weaving between the remaining Demonic Players before vanishing just as abruptly as they had appeared.

Henrick barely twisted his body aside, allowing the black slash to graze past his shoulder.

Agata hastily erected multiple layers of demonic barriers, only for every single one to be cleanly severed before the remaining force barely missed her neck.

Velkris unsheathed both demonic swords in a blur, desperately parrying the incoming slash before the tremendous impact sent him skidding dozens of meters backward.

Among the four, only Mordrake remained standing at his original position.

His enormous physique endured the majority of the attack head-on as he instinctively crossed his battle axe before his vital points.

BOOM!

The terrifying impact still forced the gigantic warrior several steps backward, leaving two deep trenches beneath his feet.

Unfortunately, the rest of the Demonic Players possessed neither their strength nor their reflexes.

One after another, their bodies quietly split apart—some were severed at the waist while others lost their heads before they even realized they had been attacked.

Several were even cut into multiple pieces, their bodies collapsing silently onto the corrupted earth.

Silence gradually returned to the battlefield as the smell of fresh blood filled the air.

Only then did the four executives slowly lift their heads, their pupils immediately contracting a second later.

Everyone was dead—aside from the four of them, not a single Demonic Player remained standing.

Whoosh!

Immediately, a strong gust of wind suddenly swept through the entire battlefield, sending the rising cloud of dust away.

That was when the four saw two figures standing between them and the massive altar.

One was a tall gentleman descending from the heavens while being wrapped in a long crimson coat that danced wildly against the violent winds.

The coat reached well below his knees, its heavy fabric constantly billowing like flowing blood behind him with every flap of his enormous crimson wings. Black belts tightly secured parts of the coat around his torso and waist, while silver buckles gleamed faintly beneath the crimson glow of the slaughter energy filling the sky.

A wide-brimmed gentleman’s hat rested firmly atop his head, casting a deep shadow over the upper half of his face. Only a pair of scarlet eyes could be seen beneath the brim, calmly overlooking the battlefield with the composure of a predator observing helpless prey.

Resting casually over his right shoulder was an exceptionally long sniper rifle forged entirely from condensed blood.

The crimson weapon possessed an elegant yet sinister design. Veins resembling flowing blood continuously pulsed beneath its polished surface as if the rifle itself were a living creature. Every subtle fluctuation released an oppressive aura capable of making ordinary Players instinctively lower their heads.

Meanwhile, his left hand rested lightly upon the ornate silver rapier hanging at his waist.

Unlike the monstrous rifle, the slender blade appeared almost gentlemanly. Its polished silver guard contrasted sharply against his blood-red attire, while the narrow sheath gently swayed with each movement, patiently waiting for the moment its owner decided to draw it.

Standing amidst the sky, clad in crimson from head to toe while carrying both elegance and death in equal measure, Alucard resembled an ancient noble attending a banquet rather than a warrior entering a battlefield despite his somewhat tattered state.

Unfortunately for those below, he had come to attend their funeral.

Beside the crimson gentleman stood another figure.

He wore a dark-gray cloak that quietly swayed with the wind, its torn edges bearing countless traces of the fierce battle he had experienced not long ago. The ancient emblem embroidered upon its back—a giant sun slowly being swallowed by endless darkness—released an indescribably ancient aura that seemed completely detached from the current era.

His right hand loosely held a gray katana.

The blade neither reflected the crimson glow filling the heavens nor the raging fires consuming the battlefield. It silently rested at his side, as though waiting for the moment its owner decided to draw it once more.

But none of those were what captured everyone’s attention.

It was the mask that was briefly revealed due to the strong fluctuations of the wind.

Half of it laughed while the other half wept.

Its black-and-white colors formed a strange yet unforgettable contrast that had long since become synonymous with a single existence throughout the Atlas World.

The Angel of Death and the Emperor of the Night.

The Grim Reaper of the Shunkai Forest.

And the Devil Strategist of the Empyrean Talons.

Battle God Sickarius.

The moment Henrick recognized that mask, his pupils contracted violently. "Impossible... That mask..."

Agata’s breathing instinctively halted. "This..."

"How can he be here?" she muttered almost unconsciously. "Why now... of all times?"

Even Velkris, whose expression had remained unchanged throughout the entire battle, slowly lowered his center of gravity. His fingers quietly tightened around the hilts of his twin demonic swords.

Mordrake’s grin gradually faded. "The Battle God..."

For a brief moment, none of the four dared make the first move.

Not because they feared the crimson gentleman standing beside him, but because the silent man wearing the smiling-and-crying mask was someone whose reputation had been built upon countless impossible victories.

Within the game, the appearance of that mask signified only one thing.

When the man wearing the smiling-and-crying mask stepped onto a battlefield... someone’s fate had already been sealed.

...