The relentless impacts had long since shredded his once-splendid robes. Beneath them, a body ravaged by wounds was laid bare for all to see.
Like a beast. Like a demon. Like a Lord.
And yet there was always that savage, unsettling beauty.
When he lifted his head, dim light poured down from above, like a torrent of molten lava spilling from the sky.
The glow drifted with the wind like scalding vapor.
Within that blinding radiance stood a pitch-black silhouette.
Massive dark wings spread wide behind him. Each beat stirred a roaring gale.
Look closer, and the figure was covered in white frost crystals and vivid crimson wounds.
Not far away, Nolan felt a long-forgotten heat surge in his chest the moment he saw him.
Because he knew—if he could see Mohg, then Mohg was surely staring back just as intently.
As the one who had inflicted those wounds, there would be no retreat.
The battle was not over. Nolan had never known fear.
No thoughts of ending it himself. No thought of escape.
Only kill, or be killed.
Fortunately, Mohg did not look well. He seemed to be nearing his limit.
And Nolan still had support.
He would see if he could cut him down here.
To be precise, aside from frostbite and Scarlet Rot, Mohg was also under hypnosis and charm.
The Empyrean's power did more than cloud the mind. It quietly heightened favor.
Of course, subjugating a Demigod in such a short time was unrealistic.
If charm were truly so overwhelming that a few glances could bend someone like a trained hound…
Then in the game, Malenia would never have needed to bloom in Caelid. Just toss Miquella onto the battlefield and the Shattering would never have begun.
The Empyrean lay against the Golden Needle Knight's broad back. Nolan did not need to activate any skill. Miquella's power had already begun working when Leda withdrew.
It looked like something out of a fairy tale.
A knight carrying a beautiful princess, armored hand wrapped around a greatsword.
The scene wavered between reality and illusion.
As if a demon from the abyss had descended upon the mortal world.
And yet the mortal did not kneel. Did not weep. Did not beg.
"Miquella…"
Mohg breathed the name softly.
He confirmed once more the "princess's" true form. There was no mistake.
The gentle Empyrean of the Golden Dynasty. Golden hair cascading freely. Childlike features, innocent and divine, radiating a holiness that drew others in.
That presence was unmistakable.
Was this younger sibling both male and female? Why such closeness with that knight? Had Nolan Bethel truly been chosen?
But why choose someone so weak?
Questions flooded Mohg's mind. Strange forces battered his sanity. His thoughts began to blur.
He had been careless.
Relying on power that should have swept this place clean, yet he had failed to sense the Golden Needle Knight's ambush.
He spoke of Demigod strength, but in truth he was still the Omen's son, accustomed to lurking in darkness.
"Not coming at me?" Nolan's voice rolled like thunder.
He slowly raised the Promised Claymore and the Carian Knight's Greatsword.
A thin strand of killing intent stretched from the twin blade tips straight toward Mohg's heart.
For the weaker to raise steel against the stronger, with the intent to kill—such nerve.
Mohg said nothing.
He simply tightened his grip on Mohgwyn's Sacred Spear and settled into his stance.
One who struggles against the abyss should not be mocked.
So much like my brother…
Forgive me, brother. In the end, I am still not as strong as you.
I am here, loving, and hating.
The feathers of the pitch-black wings trembled faintly. Blood and fire churned through the air. The symbol of the Dynasty of Blood—Mohgwyn's Sacred Spear—radiated a suffocating aura of agony.
Mohg moved with steady deliberation, slow yet powerful, graceful in a way that felt almost ceremonial—a ritual devoted to the taking of life.
The knight's life was slipping away. The Empyrean had nowhere left to run. Or perhaps, this was where his own life would end.
There was still a fight to be had!
Nolan shut his eyes, then opened them again. He drew in a deep breath, pulling strength from every muscle in his body. His hands tightened around the twin swords as he swung them with everything he had.
He could see the Demigod's movements.
But the Saintess did not realize that her soft hands had tightened their hold around him.
Blood-red flames filled the sky, churning and roaring as if alive.
The blue and golden light blades released from Nolan's Claymore began to melt under the searing heat unleashed by Mohg, breaking apart into countless droplets of radiant light that scattered in every direction.
Lit by the blaze, they glittered brilliantly, like a storm of falling stars.
"Nolan! I'm right behind you!" Trina's voice rang out.
Mohgwyn's Sacred Spear thrust forward in a straight, merciless line. In that instant, the golden and blue Claymores tore through the air, erupting in a blinding spray of sparks that lit up the Empyrean's eyes.
When the weapons collided, a violent shockwave burst outward from the point of impact.
A howling gale followed, like a rampaging beast, ripping away every watchtower overhead. The structures collapsed as if made of paper, reduced to rubble in moments.
Mohg's figure appeared high in the sky. This time, the arrogance that once clung to him was gone. Facing the void, he slowly spread his wings.
Suspended there, he resembled a massive cross hanging in midair.
"Bloodboon Ritual!" he called to his Formless Mother, driving the holy spear into the heavens.
He threw his head back and inhaled greedily, as though he meant to draw the entire world's breath into his lungs.
The sky split open without a sound. The crack stretched wider and wider, like a wound carved deep into the world itself.
A crimson sheen spread across his holy spear. Twisted horns curled around him like a crown of thorns. His black wings folded inward.
Then, after a heartbeat of stillness, the storm roared to life. His wings snapped open once more, and a rain of sparks cascaded down in torrents, surging wildly along the path of the gale.
Wrapped in the tempest, he dove—fire raining with him—as it crashed headlong into the Promised Consort.