The Guardian gods Chapter 428

She barely had ti to scream before the abyss swallowed her whole.

"Burn the waters!" one of the harpies screeched.

A group of them raised their hands, wings trembling with exertion as they wove together flas. One harpy hurled the first ember into the spreading pools of darkness.

For a brief second—nothing. Then followed by the sound similar to when sothing is lit afla.

The battlefield erupted in spectral fire, gold and blue, clashing against the storm’s oppressive darkness. The creeping waters boiled and recoiled, writhing like living shadows before slithering back into the Zealots themselves.

The creatures howled in agony, their forms twisting as the spectral flas devoured them. These were no ordinary fires—their essence burned differently, searing not just flesh but sothing deeper.

Seizing the mont, the harpies attacked with renewed vigor.

A harpy clad in crackling light surged forward, his talons wreathed in arcs of thunder. In a single swift motion, he carved through two Zealots before they could even react. Another harpy, her body half-obscured in a shifting veil of mist, vanished and reappeared unpredictably, slicing through enemies with razor-sharp wind blades.

Despite losing their aerial advantage, the harpies adapted. A chain lightning spell they unleashed not only shocked the Zealots but also disrupted their ability to retreat into the otherworld.

The harpies spread their lightning like roots, snaking across the battlefield, locking the Zealots in place with surging currents. The immobilized enemies beca easy targets, and the harpies struck them down without hesitation. But just like on Ikem’s side, they were outnumbered. The strain was beginning to show.

And then, as with Ikem’s battle, one Zealot stood apart.

A single, monstrous figure among them—marked by his unnatural presence—had drawn the attention of the harpy commanders. Unlike the others, this Zealot fought recklessly, forcing the battle deeper into the heart of the harpy ranks, showing no regard for allies or foes alike. The harpy army leaders anwhile are doing their best to push the battle away.

With jagged rows of teeth stretching into a cruel grin, the Zealot slamd his hands together.

The storm above pulsed violently. Thunder cracked, and the wind scread through the battlefield.

Then—he opened his mouth.

A vortex of black water and lightning erupted forth, a concentrated maelstrom of destruction. It tore through the harpies’ ranks, shredding those caught in its direct path. So were ripped apart instantly—others barely managed to resist, their forms battered by the relentless, rciless onslaught.

As the battle raged on, harpies and Zealots clashed in relentless combat, their struggle painting the battlefield with chaos. Above them, the storm churned with unnatural fury. The acidic rain, once pouring in deadly sheets, began to change. Its dark hue faded, its relentless downpour easing.

Then, the clouds twisted. For a fleeting mont, the battlefield fell eerily silent.

Then—A roar.

It was not the crack of thunder.

Nor the wailing fury of the Zealots’ storm.

It was sothing deeper. A sound that rumbled through the very bones of those who heard it, shaking the battlefield to its core. A sound that sent the Zealots staggering in primal fear, while the harpies turned skyward, eyes filled with renewed hope.

Sothing massive moved within the storm, its form concealed by the swirling clouds.

Then—a flash of erald light. A colossal shape burst forth, cutting through the storm with effortless grace. Its scales glead like cut jade, its vast wings unfurling, each powerful beat sending hurricane-force winds surging across the battlefield, parting the storm as though it were nothing but mist.

Viridrigon.

The green dragon’s presence dominated the sky, so vast and commanding that even the harpies—beings born of the wind and sky—felt dwarfed beneath him.

But it was not just his arrival that changed the battle.

Viridrigon opened his mouth.

From his maw poured a wave of thick, vibrant green energy—not fire, but sothing more insidious. A tempest of erald wind, twisting unnaturally as it spread across the battlefield. It carried the scent of wild earth, of ancient forests, of untad nature reclaiming what had been lost.

Where it touched—The dark rain began to evaporate, purged by Viridrigon’s influence.

The shark-like warriors roared in fury, their connection to their god wounded by Viridrigon’s presence. So of the more powerful Zealots, clad in storm-forged armor, gathered their energy, hurling massive spears of lightning toward the dragon.

Viridrigon barely flinched.

With a casual swipe of his tail, the lightning was scattered, redirected into the sky with a crackling explosion.

The Zealots refused to yield.

Pooling their powers together, a group of them plunged their hands into the ground, summoning forth a massive wave of black water, twisting with raw elental fury, aiming to engulf the dragon in a prison of their god’s making.

But Viridrigon—laughed.

A deep, guttural rumble that echoed through the battlefield. Then, with a single beat of his wings, the wave of dark water collapsed.

He inhaled deeply, his massive chest expanding, the erald glow of his scales pulsating with barely contained power. The air around him warped, thickening with an unnatural pressure, as though the very world held its breath in anticipation.

Then—he exhaled. A thick, virulent green gas flooded the battlefield like a creeping tide, rolling forward in an unstoppable wave. It clung to the ground, curling around the feet of the Zealots, filling every crevice and choking every open space. The mont it touched their flesh, the effects began.

The first to succumb were the weaker Zealots—those whose bodies had already been strained by the battle. Their skin blistered instantly, the venom eating through their flesh like an unseen parasite. Their screams were muffled as their throats closed, their lungs filling with poison. They dropped to the ground, convulsing, foam bubbling from their lips before their bodies went still—their once-proud forms now rotting husks.

The stronger Zealots resisted, their divine-touched bodies struggling against the poison, but even they could not fully withstand it.

Their movents beca sluggish, their limbs numb as the toxins ate away at their nerves. So fell to their knees, gripping their throats as they choked on the invisible fire burning inside them.

Even those who thought themselves immune, those who had bathed in the darkest depths of their god’s abyssal waters, found their minds clouded, their vision warping as hallucinations began to take hold.

To them, the battlefield twisted.

The harpies no longer appeared as warriors but as monstrous entities—their wings beca blades, their talons gaping maws, their eyes endless pits of horror.

Panic set in.

The Zealots turned on each other.

Blinded by poison-induced visions, they struck at their own kin, their weapons tearing through flesh, their battle formations crumbling as chaos consud them.

The harpies, so taken back by the effect of the green gas, failed to realize they weren’t affected as they flapped their wings taking to the sky, where they imdiately began to counterattack.

So summoned whips of lightning, weaving through the thick poison clouds and electrocuting Zealots where they stood.

Others called upon the flas of the sun, their fireballs streaking through the green mist, igniting the gas into roaring infernos that turned Zealots into charred remains.

A select few, gifted with the blessing of the storm, gathered the remnants of the Zealots’ own tainted waters, purifying them before turning them into deadly spears of condensed rain, impaling their enemies where they stood.

Virridigon unlike Red who was excited for more seeing the turn around, flapped his wings as he took off once again.

On the southern continent, Roth stood apart from other demigods. While they focused solely on reaching their goal, he actively interfered in the battle—ensuring he lost no ground while doing so.

Unlike other demigods whose followers numbered in the millions, Roth’s people had yet to reach such numbers. Every single citizen under his rule was precious and had to be protected at all costs.

His interference made things far more difficult for the Zealots, despite their overwhelming numbers. With each step Roth took, thick, billowing mist poured from the robes draped over his colossal form.

For his people—the vampires—the mist was like water to fish. They moved effortlessly within it, cutting through the Zealots with deadly precision. But for the Zealots, the smoke was an impenetrable veil. Their vision was obscured, their perception distorted, leaving them unable to fight effectively.

Yet, the Zealots remained a formidable threat. Their warped forms had been blessed by their Crepuscular counterpart, granting them access to a twisted form of light—unfortunate for the vampires, as light was their greatest weakness.

This only reinforced Roth’s resolve to take action. No matter how effective the mist was at suppressing the Zealots’ use of light, his people would eventually be overwheld if left to fight alone.

Even when the Zealots attempted to slip into the otherworld and reappear elsewhere, they found themselves erging once more into the dense fog—with a vampire waiting to strike.

Unlike many other demigods, Roth had no intention of ascending. His priorities were entirely his own; he didn’t concern himself with ensuring the rune pillar reached its destination on ti.