Supreme Spouse System.

The Wrath of Dire: Endgame at Silver City

The night didn't just break—it screamed apart with a roar of molten fury.

The ground buckled like it had taken a punch from some furious god. And out of that hellfire, he stepped—General Dire. But this wasn't the man they once knew. He wasn't even a man anymore. Whatever humanity he'd had... it burned away. What stood now was fire and rage stitched into a walking corpse of heat. His whole form throbbed with raw energy, warped and fused with living magma. Every limb looked sculpted from living flame and twisted stone, brutal and hulking, but moving— slow, deliberate, violent.

And his skin—if that word even fit anymore— It was split wide with jagged, glowing cracks.

Veins of lava ran through him, pulsing hot and red like some nightmare heart still beating, and from every joint, thick globs of molten blood oozed out— slow, hissing, steaming— like the earth itself was bleeding through him, drop by heavy drop.

His face was gone. In its place, something born in the core of a volcano—horns jutting out like black bone, eyes lost behind flame and shadow. And across his chest... ancient sigils burned, not just carved but breathing. They pulsed, throbbed, flared with each heaving breath like they were alive, like they shared his lungs.

Every time he stepped, the ground underneath him blackened and curled. Each breath hissed steam out of his nose like some damned dragon. He didn't look like a man preparing for battle. He looked like a nightmare the earth had tried to forget.

Then—he smiled. Or tried to. A warped sneer cracked across his scorched face. It wasn't human. It wasn't sane. Just the broken grin of something that didn't remember what it was like to be mortal. The runes in his chest glowed in time with the quiet rhythm of chaos, steady and cold, like a slow war drum.

And across from him—they stood. Three men. Bleeding. Beaten. Still standing.

Black. Ronan. Johny.

Their bodies were wrecked by the night's slaughter. Cuts carved into flesh and armor. Blood smeared into sweat, smeared into dirt. But none of them looked away.

Black's armor, once pristine and proud, was busted—fractured at the shoulder, cracked down the ribs. The runes on his sword still glowed, faint but steady, humming low like they could feel the weight of what was coming. He didn't flinch. Just stood there, breathing slow. Hard. Chest rising and falling like a bellows left out in the smoke. Even with all that heat choking the air, you could still see his breath—fogging up like it was winter.

Johny had lost his right gauntlet earlier. Torn clean off when the chaos started, when the city cracked open and everything went to hell. His ribs—what was left—were barely hanging together, covered by scraps of twisted, half-melted metal. But his hand? Still gripping that sword like nothing else mattered. The blade burned in his fist like it was alive. Like it knew the end was close. Like it wanted it. Burning for him. Ready to go down fighting.

Ronan didn't speak. Didn't need to. Blood ran from his temple, curved along his cheek, and dripped from his jaw. But the way he moved—it was quiet, clean, like the wind was doing the talking for him. His robe used to be some soft, dusty brown. Now it was black, soaked through with ash and fire and ruin. One hand held a curved dagger, etched with something old—some faint script that shimmered just a little in the firelight. And with the other, slow and steady, he drew runes in the air. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. Just these quiet, invisible shapes—like he was whispering to something he knew would come. The breeze circled his legs, whispering like spirits. You couldn't tell if they were there to guard him, strike with him, or vanish the second he did.

They were wounded. Exhausted. Stripped of every comfort and shield.

But they did not back away.

Dire laughed—low, guttural, tainted with madness.

They moved. Together.

"RAAAHH!"

The three warriors lunged, a battle cry ripping the silence as they charged into fire.

Black struck first. His blade swung wide, tearing through the air, aiming for Dire's molten flank—but the bastard caught it mid-arc, fingers glowing, locking around the steel with a jolt. There was a hiss, but it got buried under the sound of bone and metal crunching. One twist—and Dire flung him. Black flew like a ragdoll, smashed clean through a half-collapsed wall. Dust burst up everywhere. He hit hard. Blood spilled from his mouth. But he was already moving—coughing, dragging breath, grimacing. Not broken. Not yet.

Johny followed close. He shouted as his fire blade flashed in a sweeping arc, sparks trailing behind. Dire turned with terrifying ease—his punch hit like a hammer to the chest.

The crack was deafening.

Johny's body lifted from the ground and flew backward, landing with a slam that dented the earth. His armor hissed where it had touched Dire's skin, scorched black and glowing. He groaned but refused to stay down.

But it was Ronan who seized the moment.

Silent, fast, precise—he slipped into Dire's blind spot. His daggers gleamed as he whispered through clenched teeth, [Gale Pierce.]

A storm whipped around him in a blink. Wind spiraled down his arms and through his blades like slicing tempests. He slashed.

The cut struck home—sparks flew, and steam hissed from Dire's shoulder as blood, thick and glowing, spilled out. It wasn't deep—but it was real.

Dire's snarl echoed like thunder. He spun without pause, his massive arm lashing out.

Backhand.

Ronan flew.

The monster's laughter returned—low and cruel, as though the ground itself trembled beneath it.

"So weak," he mocked. "You channel your mana, cast your spells—and still, you crawl like ants. My new body... doesn't need magic."

His voice wasn't even a voice anymore—just a low, warped rumble that pulsed through the air like some cursed war drum from the pit. "This body… this power… I don't even need to channel mana anymore."

He stretched his molten hand, and the ground shuddered at the mere motion.

"I am the spell now." Then he brought his foot down.

BOOM.

The ground didn't just shake—it cracked wide open. Fissures tore through the battlefield like claws, jagged and screaming. Lava burst free in thick, furious jets, painting the air in steam and smoke.

His arms dripped molten blood, each drop hitting the earth with a hiss, burning straight through like it was nothing but paper.

A sick grin twisted across his monstrous face. His eyes… they didn't just glow. They blazed. Twin suns burning out of control.

"Come," he growled, every word soaked in death. "Let's dance."

Black didn't wait. He moved first.

With a fierce roar, he surged ahead, his blade trailing a storm of mist and gravel, the ground quaking beneath each step as he shouted his spell:

[Granite Bind.]

The earth obeyed.

Jagged spears of stone erupted upward in a calculated strike, aiming to impale Dire's limbs and anchor him down—a trap forged from countless battles.

But Dire didn't even blink.

The stone shattered on contact, useless as twigs against molten steel.

Black didn't falter. He twisted through the air, body turning hard and fast, and brought his sword down with everything he had—aiming straight for Dire's unguarded collarbone.

CLANG!

Dire caught the blade mid-swing, bare forearm glowing as it slammed into the steel.

Sparks shot out like fireflies scattering in the dark. The sword shrieked on contact, metal groaning, steam bursting from the collision like it couldn't handle the heat.

"Too slow," Dire growled.

Black didn't even have time to blink.

A molten fist smashed into his gut—

The impact cracked like thunder. His armor folded in on itself, ribs caving under the pressure, and his body flew back like a broken doll, skidding through dirt and shattered stone, a trail of dust exploding in his wake. "Black!" Johny roared.

Fire burst from his sword as he leapt into the air, spinning for power.

[Crimson Fang!]

A roaring spiral of flame curled around his blade, his body twisting mid-flight. The blade cleaved through the heat, targeting Dire's neck with blazing force.

But Dire stepped into it, unshaken.

He moved like a monster forged in battle.

Lifting his glowing arm, he blocked the strike with his bare hand again. The fire curled around his molten skin—but it didn't burn.

With eerie calm, he caught Johny's wrist mid-swing. The flames licked his skin and fizzled.

"Pathetic."

And he hurled Johny away.

The man slammed into a broken pillar. The stone shattered around him as he hit the ground with a groan, blood gushing from his lips.

Dire cracked his neck with a satisfied grin.

"You fight like children swinging toys… not warriors wielding weapons," he sneered, voice thick with disdain.

But then—

There was a whistle.

A faint hum in the air, sharp as a razor's breath.

He didn't notice the wind that followed.

It was too cold. Too fast. Too precise.

Ronan had already vanished from view—and appeared behind him.

[Tempest Edge]

His dagger shimmered, wind swirling around it, pressure building as he drove it toward the exposed back of Dire's neck—the one vulnerable spot.

The blade struck.

It sliced in—only an inch.

Dire's muscles locked, and magma hissed to the surface like boiling blood.

A thin gash opened, bubbling furiously. But it wasn't deep enough.

Dire bellowed in fury. "Nice try," he growled—and spun.

His molten fist swept across in a wide arc.

CRACK.

It slammed into Ronan's ribs with brutal force. The crack of bone snapped through the air, sharp as a whip. Ronan was hurled like dead weight, slammed into the ground, then scraped hard across stone and ash. A choking cough broke out of him as blood rushed up his throat. His hands shook, barely able to press against the dirt, trying to lift himself—failing.

Leon saw it all—watching from afar.

Half-kneeling. Gritting his teeth. His body was still shot from that last spell clash, and it showed in every breath.

His golden eyes tightened, flickers of frustration running through them. Sweat clung to his brow.

His chest rose fast, shallow. The whole battlefield was starting to blur.

Then came the voice again, cold and cruel in the back of his head—a reminder he didn't need right now.

[Recovery: 3 minutes, 33 seconds remaining.]

His fingers dug into the scorched earth.

"Damn it…" he whispered, barely a breath. "Just… hold on…"

Black pulled himself up again—slow, shaky, barely holding together. Blood dripped from his lip. His left arm hung there, useless. He wiped his mouth, breathing hard, body swaying. "He's too strong—"

"No." Johny limped forward, dragging his blade behind him, the tip carving a rough line through the dirt. "We need to hold him."

Ronan coughed again, more blood spilling. He barely made it to his knees, vision swimming—but that fire, that resolve in his eyes—it didn't fade. "Even if we can't win… if we buy time, the Lord will recover. Join us."

They stood. Wounded. Broken. But not defeated.

Dire grinned wider, eyes gleaming.

"Still alive? Good," he chuckled darkly. "I want to enjoy this."

He charged.

In an instant, the battle reignited.

Dire crashed into them like a demon reborn. The three warriors met him head-on—Ronan, Johny, and Black—pushing past broken bones and bloodied skin.

Steel clashed against molten fury.

And once more… they were struck down, bitten by the same beast.

Again. And again.

And still—they stood.

Leon watched from where he was, his chest heaving as pain pulsed through every inch of his body. His heart pounded violently, louder than the chaos around him, louder even than the system's cold voice in his mind.

[Recovery: 2 minutes, 57 seconds remaining.]

He knew the truth. If he didn't act now, that monster would slaughter the three fighting men before him—Ronan, Black, Johny. Every instinct screamed for him to move, to rise, to protect them. Gritting his teeth, he forced his arm upward, pushing against the broken soil with trembling strength.

But just as his fingers curled into the ground— A warm hand grabbed his and stop him from standing.