Sylphaine drifted through the settling dust, her crimson eyes locked on the pinned giant. The gravity field she had generated was still crushing the floor, but as she reached out a slender hand to begin her feast, the atmosphere in the room shifted.

  The Seraphim-Cyclops’ bronze skin didn't just ripple; it began to emit a low, resonant hum that sounded like a choir singing in a vacuum. Suddenly, its large eye flared with a light so intense it bypassed the violet hue of Sylphaine’s gravity field.

  Sylphaine’s playful smirk vanished instantly.

  She tried to back off, her form flickering as she prepared to phase through the air, but the Sentinel was faster. The creature’s six wings didn't just flap; they erupted. A wave of pure, concentrated golden radiance exploded from its body—a burst of holy mana that acted as a physical and spiritual shockwave.

  "Sylphaine!" Aiven shouted, shielding his eyes with his right arm.

  The light was blinding, a white-gold wall that seemed to sear the very air. When the glare finally subsided enough for Aiven to blink away the spots in his vision, he saw the Cyclops hovering ten feet in the air, its wings unfurled and glowing with a divine, terrifying heat.

  Below it, the center of the gravity crater was a scene from a nightmare.

  The remains of Sylphaine were scattered across the broken marble. Only her bottom half—her black boots and the hem of her dark coat—remained standing, frozen in place. Her entire upper torso and head had been completely vaporized by the holy flare, leaving nothing but a faint, wispy smoke of burnt ozone.

  "GYAAAH!" Pelka let out a shriek of pure, unadulterated terror, dropping her briefcase and scrambling backward until she hit a pillar.

  For a heartbeat, the room was silent. Then, the wet, squelching sound of knitting flesh filled the hall. From the stump of the waist, crimson sinew and white bone erupted in a violent, high-speed blur. Within seconds, a spine formed, followed by ribs, a neck, and finally, the pale, defiant face of the vampire. Even the tattered fabric of her coat and blouse seemed to weave themselves out of the dark mana, appearing perfectly intact as if the destruction had never happened.

  Pelka let out another scream, her voice cracking as she witnessed the grotesque speed of the regeneration.

  Sylphaine stood up, cracking her neck until it gave a sharp pop. She clicked her tongue in annoyance, wiping a phantom speck of dust from her shoulder.

  "And that," she hissed, her voice a jagged line of irritation, "is exactly why I hate angels. So flashy, so sanctimonious, and so incredibly rude to my wardrobe."

  Vane, who had been catching his breath near Aiven, tightened his grip on his mana-claws. "As powerful as Miss Sylphaine is, I should have realized a legendary-class beast would not go down that easily," the Lion rumbled.

  Aiven looked up at the hovering giant. If this is what we’re facing, Aiven thought, what is Virelle fighting? She was stronger than any of them, but Pelka had said the dungeon was focusing its resources on her. Was she facing two of these? Or something even worse?

  The creature didn't give them time for a council. Its golden eye narrowed, and it fired two simultaneous beams of celestial energy.

  Sylphaine blurred through the air, avoiding the blasts with predatory speed, but the beams were relentless. A stray bolt slammed into the vaulted ceiling, sending a massive chunk of white marble and gold leaf crashing downward—directly toward the cowering Pelka.

  "Pelka, move!" Aiven roared.

  The analyst was frozen in fear. Aiven lunged forward, channeling mana into the Armvil Mark 4. The cyan etchings on his forearm screamed with light as he delivered a supercharged, upward punch.

  CRACK.

  The falling ruin, a piece of stone the size of a small carriage, was pulverized into dust by the impact of his obsidian fist.

  "T-Thank you, Sir Aiven!" Pelka squeaked, scrambling to her feet as Vane dashed past her to provide support to Sylphaine.

  Aiven stayed low, his eyes darting between the legendary beast and the floating obsidian pedestal at the far end of the room. "Pelka, can we just grab the Loom-Breaker without defeating the monster?”

  Pelka shook her head frantically, adjusting her cracked glasses. "N-no, I just checked the resonance! The mana-cage housing the Loom-Breaker is directly tethered to the its life force! It’s a biological lock. As long as that monster’s heart is beating, the barrier is impenetrable. We have to kill it!"

  Aiven looked at the golden-eyed giant and then at his glowing mechanical hand. If they wanted to leave the dungeon, the Seraphim-Cyclops had to fall.

  If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Vane snarled as he pushed his physical limits. He channeled every ounce of his remaining mana into his arms, summoning ethereal claws twice the size of his own torso. He navigated them through the air with a roar, the golden talons snapping shut around the Cyclops’s bronze forearms, attempting to restrain the giant.

  "Miss Sylphaine! Now!" Vane shouted, his muscles trembling under the strain.

  Sylphaine floated high above, her white twin-tails swaying in the turbulent air. She raised her palm, and a massive sphere of swirling crimson and black energy formed between her fingers. She hurled it toward the giant.

  But as the ball neared the Sentinel, the divine radiance emanating from the creature’s six wings intensified. The crimson sphere began to shrink, the dark energy hissing and evaporating into harmless motes of light as it entered the holy aura. By the time it reached the giant’s chest, it had faded into nothingness.

  Sylphaine clicked her tongue, her expression soured by a rare flash of genuine frustration. The holy element... she thought. It’s nullifying my offensive spells before they can even make contact. This matchup is truly disgusting.

  The Sentinel didn't give her time to recalibrate. With a surge of celestial strength, it flexed its arms, shattering Vane’s golden claws like glass. The giant’s golden eye flared, and a beam of pure light shrieked through the air. Vane narrowly rolled to the side, the heat of the beam scorching the stone where he had stood a second before.

  Before the Lion could regain his footing, the Cyclops beat its wings, blurring forward with terrifying speed. It slammed its massive bronze forearm into Vane’s chest. The impact sounded like a cannon blast, sending the elite Vulpine agent tumbling across the marble floor until he crashed into a far wall, leaving a deep crater in the stone.

  Sylphaine threw out her hands, attempting to manifest the gravity spell again, but the Cyclops was already acclimated to the pressure. It hesitated for barely two seconds before pushing through the field.

  "This is getting nowhere," Sylphaine groaned, her eyes darting around the room. She looked at Aiven and then at the pedestal. "I need more time to condense a higher-tier curse, and this hybrid monster isn't going to give it to me."

  Without another word, her form flickered. She phased through the solid marble floor, her mana signature vanishing as she retreated into the shadows of the dungeon’s lower levels.

  Having lost its primary targets, the Sentinel’s golden eye pivoted. It locked onto the two remaining figures: Aiven and the trembling Pelka.

  The giant unfurled its wings and launched itself toward them.

  "Eek!" Pelka shrieked. She grabbed her leather briefcase with both hands, holding it in front of her face as a pathetic, makeshift shield.

  Aiven stepped forward, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it felt like it might burst. He didn't have Vane’s strength or Sylphaine’s immortality, but he couldn't just stand there. He triggered the forearm socket on the Armvil Mark 4.

  SCHWING.

  A jagged blade of humming mana manifested from his wrist. Aiven lunged forward as the giant loomed over him, swinging the mana sword with all his strength. The blade connected with the Sentinel’s bronzed shin, but the sensation was like hitting a mountain. The mana edge sparked and fizzed against the divine hide, leaving barely a scratch.

  The Sentinel didn't even flinch. It delivered a downward strike with its massive fist. Aiven raised the Armvil Mark 4 in a desperate block, but the kinetic force was absolute.

  Aiven was smashed into the ground with the force of a falling star. The marble beneath him disintegrated into a small crater. His vision flared white, then went dark as the air was punched out of his lungs.

  He lay in the rubble, dizzy and broken. He couldn't lift his head; he couldn't even feel his legs. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, and a warm trickle ran down from his hairline into his eyes. All he could hear was the frantic, retreating footsteps of Pelka and her muffled screams as she ran for cover.

  This is it, Aiven thought, his consciousness fraying at the edges. Death’s door. Again.

  He waited for the familiar surge of the star in a bottle. He hoped for the miraculous healing, the blinding white mana that would let him stand up and erase the monster above him. He reached for it with his mind, pleading for the seal to break.

  But there was nothing. No light. No power. Only the cold weight of the giant’s shadow as it hovered directly above him, its golden eye charging for a final, lethal blast.

  Then, the air in the chamber suddenly turned cold—lavender-scented and heavy with a murderous, absolute pressure.

  BOOM.

  A violent, high-pitched impact echoed through the hall. The shadow looming over Aiven vanished instantly as the Sentinel was sent hurtling sideways, its massive frame crashing through three marble pillars before slamming into the far wall.

  Aiven blinked through the blood in his eyes. A pair of white boots, trimmed with silver runes, descended slowly to the floor just inches from his face.

  A figure knelt beside him. He felt soft, cool hands cup his face, and a brilliant, warm lavender light enveloped his body. The agonizing ache in his ribs began to recede, and the fog in his brain cleared as healing magic poured into his system.

  Aiven coughed, a spray of red hitting the floor, and slowly pushed himself up.

  Virelle was there.

  She looked worried—truly worried—her eyes searching his for any sign of lasting damage. She was a harrowing sight; her silver hair was disheveled, and her outfit was splattered with streaks of blood in half a dozen colors—red, green, blue, and black—the remains of the mythical-class distractions she had spent the last hour unmaking.

  She looked somewhat…tired.

  "Master?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "Are you...okay now?"

  Aiven looked at her, then at his own healed hands. He couldn't find the words to describe the relief of seeing her. He simply nodded.

  Virelle’s expression shifted instantly. The worry vanished, replaced by a cold, predatory smile that made the air in the cathedral feel like ice. She stood up, her skirts billowing as she began to float higher into the air.

  Across the room, the monster let out a divine roar, shaking off the rubble and taking flight once more, its golden eye glowing with fury.

  Virelle didn't look at it with fear. She looked at it as if it were a particularly offensive stain on a rug. Her prismatic orb began to spin with a high-pitched, aggressive whistle that drowned out the monster's roar.

  "You have been quite a nuisance, little temple," Virelle purred, her voice echoing with a terrifying, melodic authority. "You have dared to touch what is mine, and now I shall erase your very existence.”