Compared to the Circle of Corruption, the three blood-red pillars of light seemed small and frail. Yet those fragile beams bit tightly onto the outermost ring of the Circle—the Ouroboros of Decay—and began ravenously devouring the endless stream of souls circulating within it.
Before long, the outer ring of the Circle visibly changed color—from deep black to a sinister crimson.
As the Circle of Corruption turned red, the resentment and bloodlust it contained
became nourishment for the Nation's Alchemy Array, fueling its spread and accelerating its takeover.
When the outermost layer of the Circle was fully dyed blood-red, a sharp crack echoed through the air. The entire Circle of Corruption began to collapse.
The endless souls and corrupted energy that had formed the Gate of the Underworld
were pulled back toward the disintegrating Circle, as if it were trying desperately to restore itself before being completely consumed.
If the mages maintaining the Circle had still been alive, they likely would have redirected every remaining ounce of energy into the Gate—even if that meant the gate would only remain open for a heartbeat. That fleeting instant would still count as victory.
But now, with all the controllers dead, the array's reversal was inevitable.
As the power feeding the Gate drained away, its once-solid form began to blur and fade.
The slender arm that had reached out from beyond the gate thrashed more violently, struggling to push through. Yet an even greater force seized it from behind, dragging it back inch by inch.
First the shoulder disappeared, then the upper arm, then the forearm. The hand's frantic resistance grew more intense—but no matter how it struggled, it could not break free from that pulling force.
Finally, only the wrist and hand remained.
Then, as if realizing the futility of resistance,
the hand fell still.
Seeing this, everyone—the powerful observers outside the array and the survivors within who had regained their senses—breathed a collective sigh of relief.
That being…
Even the strongest Saint-tier knight—Roland himself—had been powerless before the mere finger of that entity. If such a creature had truly stepped through the gate, it could have wiped them all out with a casual gesture.
Even Hel, who was controlling the Nation's Alchemy Array, finally relaxed a little.
To be honest, she hadn't expected this outcome.
Her Nation's Alchemy Array, buried deep underground, had actually been suppressed by the Circle of Corruption.
After all, the Circle—being a forbidden curse—was inherently of a higher order than her pseudo-Grand Magic array. Not to mention, the energy difference between the two was enormous.
Hel had already anticipated this disadvantage.
That was why she had constructed not one but three arrays, hoping that quantity could overcome quality.
She hadn't intended to destroy the Circle completely—only to leech off its soul energy by tapping into the flow of spirits within.
But to her surprise, her array had been unable to pierce the Circle's defensive barrier,
and had even been suppressed by the opposing mages.
It couldn't fully activate.
That was why she had waited—until now.
Only when Roland's desperate attack obliterated every mage controlling the Circle
did Hel seize the opportunity.
She swiftly took over the Circle's power network, linking her alchemy array to the Ouroboros ring to drain its spiritual energy directly.
But before she could celebrate, something horrifying had crawled out of the Gate of the Underworld.
Hel had no doubt what that thing was—its presence radiated the unmistakable aura of a god. The same aura that resonated with the divine shard of Death's godhood embedded deep within her own body.
There was no mistaking it—whatever was behind that gate was a divine being.
And unless that god decided to shake hands peacefully, Hel knew she wouldn't survive even one blow.
So, just as she prepared to cut her connection to the little archmage and flee—the Gate of the Underworld began to fade.
The arm was retreating.
That made her hesitate.
After all, tens of millions of souls were still waiting to be harvested inside the Circle.
Leaving now would mean walking away empty-handed.
But that single moment of greed proved costly.
The hand suddenly flattened its palm.
A thin, hairline crack spread across the center of its palm—and from that wound, a single drop of black-and-red blood slowly oozed out.
Instantly, every being watching from afar felt an overwhelming surge of malice—an aura so vile and oppressive that it made their souls tremble.
Most turned their eyes away instinctively.
But a few—proud of their strength—refused to avert their gaze.
They stared directly at the bleeding hand.
They didn't notice the changes creeping across their bodies.
For some, black horns sprouted from their foreheads.
For others, demonic wings unfurled from their backs.
A few transformed outright into demons.
Meanwhile, the single drop of divine blood
fell from the sky—and struck Roland, still suspended in midair.
Splurt!
The drop pierced his chest clean through and sank into his heart.
A heartbeat later, his chest exploded in a spray of blood.
A still-beating heart burst out from within, flung violently into the air.
Already burned out and broken, Roland could no longer endure.
His body began to disintegrate, his soul fracturing into pieces.
Yet in that moment, he felt… relief.
After the divine hand had shattered his final attack, it had held him frozen in the air,
flooding him with corruption, trying to erode his will.
But Roland's pride as a knight would not allow him to yield.
He endured, waiting only for the end—to die as himself, unbroken.
So when his heart was ripped from his chest, he felt no fear—only release.
But then—the heart turned black.
Thick, tar-like sludge burst from it, gushing out in torrents.
Roland was struck head-on by the black tide, his broken body hurled downward,
slammed into the ground below by the flood of corruption.