The colossal evil spirit, its ethereal body towering like a mountain, roared in a mix of rage, sorrow, and eventually fear as it endured wave after wave of relentless bombardment from the ghost fleet.
Awakened from its slumber beneath the sea by the convergence of two worlds, the collision of their conflicting rules had altered parts of the spirit's essence.
Once calm and indifferent to external stimuli, the spirit had grown erratic and aggressive. It patrolled its territory and, upon encountering the ghost fleet, immediately launched an attack, seeking to drive the intruders away.
The response was overwhelming. The fleet unleashed a ceaseless barrage of deathly artillery imbued with elemental damage, an unending storm of destruction.
Even with its legendary resilience and regenerative abilities, the evil spirit found itself unable to keep up with the sheer scale of the fleet's assault. Its body was being torn apart faster than it could heal.
Meanwhile, its counterattacks proved woefully inadequate. Despite targeting dozens of ghost ships at once, the spirit found that their semi-ethereal forms rendered them nearly immune to permanent destruction.
The spirit succeeded in temporarily disabling over a hundred ships, but none were truly destroyed. Each damaged vessel simply retreated from the battlefield, replaced by others that continued the barrage without pause.
Realizing its dire predicament, the spirit began contemplating retreat, only to discover it was surrounded on all sides. The fleet had encircled it completely.
Desperation set in. The spirit attempted to tear open the fabric of space to escape, only to find that the overlapping worlds had made the local space exponentially more resistant to manipulation.
What's more, whenever the spirit tried to open a spatial rift, specialized artillery shells imbued with dimensional anchors would bombard the area, further stabilizing the surrounding space.
As the spirit struggled and wailed in its impending defeat, the ghost fleet's supreme commander frowned in dissatisfaction.
"Your Majesty, is something displeasing you?"
The subordinates closest to the shadowy figure—powerful undead born from the depths of the Sea of the Dead—trembled as they knelt. None could understand why their master would be dissatisfied when the fleet was on the verge of defeating a legendary evil spirit.
"It's not enough," the shadowy figure intoned, its voice carrying an edge of discontent. The darkness cloaking its body shifted as it spoke, revealing faint glimpses of a god-like visage.
"Not enough?"
The undead subordinates exchanged puzzled glances. Finally, a black knight, the mightiest of the spectral warriors present, dared to ask, "Your Majesty, what is insufficient?"
"The fleet's firepower," the shadowy figure replied. Its gaze remained fixed on the water mirror displaying the battlefield, where the legendary evil spirit still endured the barrage. "This level of force is far from adequate."
The undead were taken aback. They had always considered their fleet's power to be overwhelming, especially when hundreds of ships coordinated their attacks. But their master clearly had higher expectations.
"It's just a single legendary spirit, yet nearly 300 of the fleet's main battleships have been unable to bring it down quickly. That's unacceptable!"
The shadowy figure's voice grew colder, laden with unmistakable disappointment.
"This firepower is pathetic. If we don't enhance it, people might start thinking I brought you all here to go fishing."
The subordinates immediately knelt lower, their skeletal frames almost merging with the deck. None dared to question their master's decree. They only responded in unison:
"Yes, Your Majesty!"
Some of the undead harbored doubts about the necessity of upgrading the fleet. After all, they had already subdued countless powerful foes with their current arsenal. However, none would dare voice such thoughts. They knew that any defiance, especially at this stage of their service, would result in swift and brutal consequences.
While the undead scrambled to follow orders, the shadowy figure began contemplating how to upgrade the fleet's armaments. The ghost ships, once considered marvels of necromantic engineering, now seemed outdated and inadequate in the eyes of their master.
Thankfully, the ships possessed exceptional adaptability, a testament to the foresight of Barboza, the ancient lich who had originally created them. The vessels had been designed with modular frameworks, allowing for continuous upgrades and evolution.
As their master pondered various enhancement strategies, the fleet finally subdued the legendary spirit after nearly two hours of relentless bombardment. Bound and sealed, the once-mighty entity was delivered to the flagship as the first material for the fleet's impending transformation.
"Finally, it's over," Nyachi sighed with relief.
He and Ingar had been transfixed by the battle, their minds racing with thoughts of what such a powerful spirit could do if unleashed upon humanity. Seeing it defeated brought an overwhelming sense of relief.
"That monster could have obliterated entire nations," Nyachi said, his voice trembling slightly. "But now it's gone, thanks to this fleet."
"Hey, you two," a cold voice interrupted their thoughts.
The exorcists turned to see a figure approaching—a humanoid creature that bore some resemblance to the malevolent spirits they had spent their lives fighting. However, unlike those formless entities, this one had a semi-corporeal body.
A pulsing, black-and-red heart was visible within its chest, connected to translucent vessels that seemed to circulate a grayish fluid.
"You're…" Nyachi began, but the creature cut him off.
"Yes, I'm a monster. Make no mistake about that. Unlike you two, who've gained something from the law anomalies, I've only been weakened. My power has diminished, and this—" the creature gestured to its heart—"is my new weakness."
The creature's tone was bitter but calm. It turned and motioned for them to follow.
"The fleet's master wants to see you. Don't waste time."
Neither exorcist dared question or defy the creature. They exchanged a glance, then followed it into the depths of the massive flagship, their unease growing with each step.
While Nyachi and Ingar were being led to their fateful meeting, far away in the void beyond the world's boundaries, Muria opened his eyes. His golden pupils glowed with an intensity that seemed to pierce the darkness itself.
"So soon?" he muttered, his voice carrying a mix of surprise and annoyance.
He had anticipated that the collision of two worlds would attract attention, but the speed with which another presence had arrived exceeded his expectations.
With a deep breath, Muria exhaled a storm that spanned miles of the void. The lightning coiled around his form crackled ominously as his blood began to boil.
"Very well," he said, his voice reverberating through the void. "If they wish to interfere, I'll make sure they regret it."
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