Everything from this point wasn’t difficult to piece together, and the revelation seemed less shocking the longer Northern dwelled on it.
Initially, he wanted to berate himself for not suspecting something of this magnitude. But how could he have? The possibility of Koll still drawing breath—let alone lurking within the Central Plains all this time—had never crossed his mind.
Now that he’d uncovered Koll’s presence in the Central Plains, theories crystallized in his mind like frost forming on glass.
He reconsidered Rughsbourgh’s elaborate scheme. Before, Northern had wondered how Koll had bee entangled in this web of intrigue. He’d dismissed Koll as merely collateral damage—an unintended consequence of Rughsbourgh’s machinations.
But now, the truth dawned on him with chilling clarity: that very plan might have existed because of Koll himself.
After all, Koll’s design had always been to foment conflict—whether among monsters or humans mattered little. The world needed to drown in bloodshed, a slaughter vast enough to tip the delicate balance between war and peace.
That balance was phantasmal, a concept so ethereal that most dismissed its existence entirely. Under normal circumstances, perhaps it wouldn’t matter. Northern certainly felt it shouldn’t.
The horrifying plication was the creature—stronger than anything humanity had ever encountered—buried within that conceptual boundary. A man—if such a being could be called one—who could obliterate the entire Central Plains with a mere thought.
And so with every battle fought, with every drop of blood spilled, the scales tilted further, the balance fractured more deeply.
Contemplating such consequences—imagining what Koll must have been scheming throughout these years—sent a tendril of fear through Northern’s spine. The Central Plains teetered on the precipice of annihilation, an imminent devastation that could shatter everything they’d built.
Despite all his power, Northern wasn’t certain he could shield them all from what was ing.
He fixed Koll with a hardened gaze, irritation dancing across his features.
Koll remained unnervingly silent, his face an emotionless mask after Northern had reduced his century-worth of meticulous planning to nothing but futile endeavors.
Not that he couldn’t have simply hunted down the child of prophecy whose glimpse he’d caught a decade ago. But discovering how to harness the child’s power—to channel it into his master’s insatiable hunger—had filled his heart with savage delight. The Origin of Chaos would be immeasurably pleased with such an offering.
So why settle for the simpler path? Koll had never been one to extinguish potential threats prematurely, not when they promised such magnificent rewards if manipulated correctly.
At last, the Prophet’s lips curled into a smirk as he raised his head, his hair swaying gently in the bitter wind.
Around them, chaos reigned. Clashes and inhuman roars echoed across the expanse. The once-grand Coliseum had metamorphosed into a theater of carnage—humans fighting desperately against four-legged beasts that resembled wingless dragons. The creatures wielded extraordinarily spiky, elongated tails that sliced through the air with lethal precision, impaling anyone in their path.
The arena bathed in blood and pandemonium while countless souls battled for mere seconds more of life.
Northern’s jaw tightened at the hellish tableau, acutely aware of what each death was feeding. He turned back to Koll, brows knitting together as he finally broke the silence.
"I have a question."
A delightful smile unfurled across the Prophet’s face like a blooming poisonous flower.
"We are not close enough for you to be asking questions."
He paused, savoring the moment before adding:
"Perhaps if you had shown proper fear, trembling before me, I might have considered answering... merely for the exquisite pleasure of superiority."
Northern stared at him, expression vacant yet penetrating. Confusion and curiosity wrestled within him—what could drive a man to such madness? To such unreasonable extremes? The Central Plains housed 4.7 billion souls, and this man contemplated their extinction with casual indifference, all to bring back a single being.
Though Northern harbored no particular attachment to humanity, a fundamental sense of proportion—something beyond mere morality—resonated within him. He respected certain boundaries, even if he wasn’t bound by conventional ethics.
Northern exhaled slowly. As his breath dispersed into the cold air, obsidian sparks materialized around him, dancing across his form like midnight fireflies before weaving themselves into a metallic sheen that enveloped his body.
The Night Terror armor’s helmet encased his features, its quartet of azure eyes igniting with a cold, piercing glow.
"Remember this?"
Northern’s gloved fingers traced the jagged dent marring his armor’s otherwise perfect surface.
"This is my favorite armor, and you’ve scarred its beauty. This fight will be personal, Koll."
The Prophet’s eyebrows arched in mock surprise.
"Oh my! Fight?"
He fluttered his hands dramatically, shaking his head in exaggerated dismay.
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no. We shall battle most definitely—but not now. My work here is plete. However, I must leave you with a parting gift. I can’t simply abandon you empty-handed, not after you’ve been such a persistent thorn embedded in both my life and my carefully crafted plans."
Northern’s expression darkened to a vicious grimace as Koll began retreating. He instinctively moved to pursue—then halted, shifting backward instead as the air before him distorted.
Two figures crashed to earth between them, landing with military precision. Their eyes—cold and vacant as winter graves—fixed on Northern without blinking. Both wore identical black military uniforms: one crowned with a regulation cap pulled low, the other’s wild obsidian spikes lashing against the wind like angry serpents.
The grimace etched into Northern’s face carved deeper as he peered beyond flesh and bone into the sou; of these interlopers.
Both of them were...
’Ascendants... tch.’
This, undoubtedly, was the elite squad Ilitis was talking about in the meeting with Paragon Raizel—the personal collection Lieutenant Dante had been cultivating for himself.
The pair moved in perfect synchronization, hands extending as weapons materialized from nothingness. Northern watched from behind his armor’s quartet of smoldering blue eyes, his stance shifting imperceptibly as he calculated his response.
Then he pivoted, shoulders angling sideways with deliberate contempt.
"Like hell I’m going to waste my time on mobs like you."
His form dissolved into a streak of midnight—there, then gone, leaving only displaced air where he had stood.
The two Ascendants erupted into motion as one organism: the first raising a gleaming spear skyward, the second crossing twin daggers before his chest. Tendrils of sapphire and crimson light ignited around their weapons, promising devastation—
Then nothing.
Their faces contorted with identical expressions of bewilderment. Something was terribly wrong.
The familiar surge of their talent abilities failed to materialize, leaving them clutching ordinary weapons where power should have flowed.
And Northern was already upon them.
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