Surviving These Unfair Scenarios [LITRPG - DIMENSION HOPPING]

The cursed air of Celestia Sanctum hung heavy, still vibrating from Adam's triumphant shriek. With his face hidden behind Arianka's pale, skull-like mask, he had stood victorious, gloating over the crushed forms of his enemies, his eyes fixed on the gaping wound in the sky.

Then, the blinding pillar of light had ripped through the fractured sky, descending with the force of a divine hammer. It struck the ground beside him, not with the destructive force of an attack, but with an impact that shook the very foundations of reality. Dust and debris exploded outwards, temporarily shrouding the point of impact. Even Adam, possessed by the Undead Empress and brimming with Malzaphir's power, had paused, his head tilting, a flicker of something akin to surprise rippling through the Empress's malevolent satisfaction.

As the blinding light dissipated, two figures materialized from its dissipating core. They stood amidst the settling dust as if they had always been there, utterly unfazed by the sudden, violent arrival.

The first was a man of imposing stature, his short, blond hair a stark contrast to the grim surroundings. He possessed a powerful, muscular build, covered in a tapestry of intricate, tribal-like tattoos that seemed to writhe with a life of their own. His expression was open, almost jovial, a wide smile splitting his face as his eyes, sharp and clear, took in the devastation around him. He wore dark, combat-ready attire, and two distinctive, blunt-edged swords, chained together, rested casually across his back. His presence felt like a paradox of raw strength and unsettling cheer, a warrior who seemed utterly at home in the heart of a war zone. This was Beowulf.

Beside him stood a woman of striking, almost ethereal beauty. Her long, dark hair, like spun midnight, cascaded down her back, adorned with a single, elegant golden olive branch above her temple. She wore an intricate uniform of pristine white, with feathered accents that flowed and swayed with an unseen grace. Her purple eyes, sharp and intelligent, scanned the scene with an air of detached elegance, while a faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on her lips. Her posture was impeccable, radiating an air of effortless superiority that seemed to dismiss the carnage around her as merely a minor inconvenience. This was Brunhilde.

Every eye on the battlefield, those still conscious enough to see, turned towards them. Drake, still sprawled on the ground, his chest a bloody mess, managed to raise his head slightly, his eyes narrowing in a desperate attempt to comprehend the new arrivals. Even the incapacitated figures of Mecha Sun Ja-In and Jeongu Kim, despite their physical limitations, registered the sudden appearance through their internal systems or residual awareness.

Confusion rippled through the battered survivors of 'No Name'. Who were these people? What were they doing here? Their arrival was completely unannounced, appearing from a Plot Device that had clearly surpassed anything they had ever encountered. The System itself had barely managed a cryptic warning before they manifested.

But among the confusion, a different emotion sparked. Angela Rose, who had crumpled to the ground moments earlier, her body still trembling from the immense pressure she had endured, slowly pushed herself onto her elbows. Her eyes, usually so kind and protective, were now alight with a cold, piercing hatred as she glared at Beowulf and Brunhilde. It was a look of profound betrayal, an unspoken accusation that cut through the silence of the plaza. She knew them. Or perhaps, she knew what they represented.

Oblivious to the shock and hostility their presence invoked, both Team Eden members merely regarded each other. Their conversation was utterly casual, as if they had just bumped into each other in a market square, rather than appearing in the middle of an apocalypse.

"Well now, fancy meeting you here."

Beowulf chuckled, his voice a low rumble that carried easily across the devastated plaza. He stretched his muscled arms above his head, a clear picture of relaxed power.

"Didn't expect to see another face from home, much less yours."

Brunhilde sighed, a delicate, almost theatrical gesture. Her gaze, for a fleeting moment, drifted over the wreckage of the city, then back to Beowulf.

"Indeed. A most... inconvenient coincidence. I trust you're not here for something as utterly trivial as a simple B-rank trash scenario, Beowulf? My time is rather precious, you see."

Her tone was light, dismissive, yet carried an undercurrent of genuine, albeit exasperated, curiosity. Beowulf grinned, unfazed by her typical arrogance.

"Oh, you know me. Never one to miss a good show. And speaking of which, I'd say this one is getting rather interesting."

He paused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

"Did you, by any chance, use a 'Divine Intervention' Plot Device?"

Brunhilde's elegant eyebrow arched.

"The very same. One can hardly allow certain events to transpire unimpeded, can one? Though I confess, the probability of two such interventions converging on the exact same coordinate at the precise same moment… It's almost insultingly high."

She waved a dismissive hand.

"And you? What could possibly compel you to waste such a valuable resource?"

Beowulf's smile widened, a mischievous glint in his eye.

"Oh, you know. Just felt like it. Had a hunch there might be some prime talent around here. Someone with a bit of fire, a bit of grit. Someone who could make things… fun."

His gaze, for a brief instant, flickered towards Drake, who was still struggling to breathe, then back to Brunhilde.

"Besides, it's always good to stretch the legs. Sitting around waiting for 'the right time' can get awfully boring, wouldn't you agree?"

Brunhilde let out a soft huff of amusement.

"Impulsive as ever. Though I suppose, in your case, it occasionally yields… passable results. My reasons were, naturally, far more refined. A matter of peculiar interest, you understand. A certain aesthetic, if you will, that required immediate preservation. One hates to see true beauty marred by crude incompetence."

Her eyes, as if by reflex, drifted towards Drake's bloodied form again, a faint, almost clinical, appreciation in their depths. They continued their banter, their voices calm, their expressions unconcerned, utterly ignoring the devastated battlefield and the furious, possessed being hovering just meters away.

While Beowulf and Brunhilde exchanged their casual remarks, completely engrossed in their own conversation, Adam managed to regain a modicum of composure. The initial shock of their sudden arrival and their unsettlingly nonchalant demeanor had been jarring. But the Empress within him quickly reasserted her dominance. A fresh surge of fury, cold and burning, erupted through his stolen vessel. His face, still hidden by Arianka's mask, was unreadable, but the aura of corrupted power around him pulsed violently, a clear manifestation of his escalating rage.

"Who… who are you?!"

Adam shrieked, his voice splitting into a guttural snarl, laced with the Empress's distorted resonance. The sound tore through the air, vibrating with a raw, demanding authority, a furious challenge hurled at the two uninvited guests.

Yet, Beowulf and Brunhilde did not even twitch. Their conversation continued, their casual banter unbroken by Adam's furious outburst. They spoke of probabilities and hunches, of hidden talents and inconvenient coincidences, as if the furious, god-possessed being screaming at them was nothing more than a bothersome insect. Their utter disregard, their complete dismissal of his presence, was a humiliation unlike any Adam had experienced since his possession. The Empress recoiled, her ancient pride stung by the blatant disrespect.

Adam's fury, already at a boiling point, surged beyond control.

"You dare ignore me?!"

He roared, his body trembling with the sheer force of his suppressed rage. An enormous wave of cursed energy erupted from him, flooding the surroundings. The air grew thick, oppressive, the shadows deepening around him as his power expanded outwards. He stretched his arms wide, fingers splayed, and with a guttural command, he activated Arianka's devastating skill. [The Lament of the Goddess] pulsed outwards.

Immediately, the crushing gravity descended upon the Eden's pair. The very ground beneath their feet groaned and fractured, unable to bear the sudden, immense pressure. Cracks spiderwebbed across the shattered plaza, chunks of stone buckling and rising as if an unseen fist was slamming them down. The air around them shimmered, distorting the light, as the invisible weight intensified, designed to pin them, to crush them, to reduce them to helpless masses of agony, just as it had done to everyone else.

But Beowulf and Brunhilde did not even flinch.

The man stood there, still smiling, his posture relaxed, as if basking in a gentle breeze. The immense pressure that buckled the earth merely seemed to settle comfortably around him. He didn't strain, didn't grunt, didn't even acknowledge the crushing force that would have flattened any other being. The woman, too, remained utterly unperturbed.

Her elegant form stood perfectly straight, her eyes still fixed on Beowulf, her expression one of mild annoyance at the conversation's interruption, rather than any physical discomfort. The white fabric of her uniform didn't even ripple under the oppressive gravity. They stood as immovable as mountains, completely untouched by the full force of a corrupted goddess's lament. Adam's eyes, burning with furious disbelief through Arianka's mask, widened. This was impossible...

Finally, Beowulf and Brunhilde concluded their casual conversation. Beowulf let out a low whistle, his eyes finally shifting to Adam, a genuine spark of interest now in their depths.

"Well now, looks like we've stumbled into something quite interesting, indeed."

He rumbled, his voice still carrying an undertone of amusement, and then glanced at the woman with a knowing smirk on his face. Brunhilde sighed, a long, exasperated sound that seemed to convey centuries of dealing with inexplicable phenomena. She adjusted a stray strand of her long, dark hair with a delicate finger.

"Interesting is one word for it."

She mused, her voice cool and detached.

"An anomaly, certainly. Though it's rather peculiar that the System hasn't already cataloged it as such. One would think a phenomenon of this magnitude would trigger immediate error flags."

Her purple eyes, sharp and analytical, swept over Adam's masked form, then across the desolate plaza. With a graceful, almost dismissive gesture, Brunhilde extended her hand into the air before her.

A screen shimmered into existence, blazing with stark white text and complex data against the oppressive gloom. It was the same screen Drake had used less than an hour ago, back when he had mercilessly dispatched Tenzing: the System's "Moderator" menu. The sight of it, appearing so casually before her, was a jarring intrusion of System mechanics into the raw, brutal reality of the battlefield.

The implications were immense. This wasn't just a powerful System user; this was an individual with a profound level of authority, capable of interacting directly with the System's core functions, something far beyond the reach of any combatant Adam had ever encountered. The boy, watching from behind his mask, felt a cold dread begin to coil in his gut, replacing his earlier fury.

One of his most potent skills, [The Lament of the Goddess], had proven utterly useless against these two new invaders. They had not flinched, not even trembled under the crushing force that had brought even Drake to his knees. It was a direct, irrefutable challenge to his perceived omnipotence, and the Empress within him seethed.

He wasn't defeated yet; he had other means to inflict pain and assert his dominance. With a guttural snarl, Adam activated Arianka's second terrifying skill: [Spines of Corrupted Piety]. He intended to summon the agonizing black spikes from within their very bodies, to watch them writhe and bleed, to prove that his power was absolute, that they were not impervious to suffering. The ground around them trembled as his corrupted energy surged, preparing to manifest the deadly spikes.

However, before anything could happen, before a single spike could erupt, Beowulf moved. He casually reached back, his hand wrapping around the hilt of one of his blunt, chained swords. With a motion so fluid it was almost imperceptible, he swung the blade through the air, not towards Adam, but as if swatting away an annoying fly. There was no grand burst of energy, no intricate skill, just a simple, almost dismissive flick of the wrist.

And then, nothing happened. No spikes burst from Beowulf's muscled frame, no black protrusions tore through Brunhilde's elegant uniform… The activated skill, the imminent manifestation of Arianka's devastating power, simply… fizzled. It was as if the very concept of the spikes had been effortlessly negated. Adam's eyes, burning crimson through the mask, widened in utter disbelief. His jaw, hidden beneath the pale surface, clenched. He couldn't believe it. His god's skill, bypassed by a casual wave of a blunted blade.

Beowulf lowered his sword, and a faint, almost amused smile playing on his lips.

"Kid's got some interesting tricks."

He rumbled, his voice devoid of malice, as if offering a casual observation on a training dummy. He glanced at Brunhilde, who was still casually scrolling through the Moderator menu.

"But he really doesn't know how to use them, does he?"

Brunhilde, her green eyes still fixed on the luminous screen before her, let out a soft

"Hmm…"

She scrolled a few more lines, her expression one of quiet contemplation.

"Ah, I see it now. This is… peculiar."

She finally lowered the screen, her gaze sweeping over Adam.

"User Adam Scholar, possessed by an S- rank entity. Fascinating. It appears the System is actively safeguarding this particular entity due to a personal subplot involving an underworld NPC linked to the user. Essentially, the System is overriding its own safety protocols, even boosting the entity's presence to prevent its premature disappearance before the user makes direct contact… And since the entity is currently possessing him, that direct contact cannot occur. It's creating a paradoxical loop."

She sighed, a delicate sound of exasperation.

"Due to this, its rank is fluctuating. It's technically S-, but the System's forced protection and continuous boosting are making it function as an S or even S+ at times."

Beowulf threw his head back and laughed, a rich, booming sound that momentarily cut through the tension.

"A loophole! The System, for all its infallible algorithms, has a bug!"

Brunhilde shot him a dry look.

"It's an infuriating hole, Beowulf. No wonder Drake Shaw's 'Moderator' title couldn't activate properly against him. A lesser Moderator simply wouldn't have the processing power, or the authority, to even comprehend this kind of problem, much less address it."

She shook her head, a faint smirk returning to her lips.

Adam shrieked again, a guttural sound of pure, unadulterated rage. His previous attempts to affect them, his most devastating skills, had been completely negated, dismissed with casual ease. His body trembled with the force of his fury. The ground beneath him pulsed, and with a surge of corrupted energy, countless spectral blades erupted from the earth, rising like a forest of black glass, aimed directly at Beowulf and Brunhilde, intending to impale them a thousand times over.

The spectral spikes shot forward, wailing with malevolent intent as a swirling tide of death. But as they collided with Beowulf, they simply bounced off his muscled frame. There was no sound of impact. The obsidian blades, designed to shred, merely glanced off his body as if striking an impenetrable force field, then shattered into dust. The man, his smile still in place, continued to watch Adam, completely unconcerned by the barrage.

Brunhilde, too, remained unfazed. As the spectral spikes surged towards her, her right hand emitted a faint shower of blue sparks. She didn't even move, and the moment the spikes came into contact with her, they simply disintegrated. Each and every one, regardless of size or proximity, dissolved into nothingness upon the slightest touch, vanishing as if they had never existed.

A System window, bright and insistent, materialized before Adam's masked eyes, displaying the information for Brunhilde's skill.

Adam stared at the text. A basic skill? A skill that any novice could use? Yet, she had wielded it with a mastery that defied comprehension, separating spectral energy into its constituent unknown compounds, causing them to simply unravel. The sheer, terrifying proficiency, the implied depth of her knowledge, was staggering. It was like watching a master artisan carve a sculpture from a block of granite with a single, delicate touch. It was illogical, absurd, and completely infuriating.

Adam screamed again, his voice raw with frustration and disbelief.

"Who are you?!"

He shrieked, the Empress's rage boiling over. He demanded answers, an explanation for their imperviousness, for their casual dismissal of his power.

Beowulf, with his usual easygoing demeanor, was about to answer, a chuckle already rumbling in his chest. But Brunhilde raised a hand, silencing him.

"No need for introductions. It seems this one has 'Cursed Vision'."

Her gaze flickered to Adam's eyes, even behind the mask.

"It's far more efficient to simply show him."

As she spoke, two new System screens materialized directly in front of Adam's masked face. They were crisp, clear, and utterly unavoidable, displaying the personal information of his two new tormentors.

Adam read the screens, his body stiffening with each line. Team Eden. Potential S+. Names obscured, but aliases like 'Beowulf' and 'Brunhilde' hinted at something ancient, powerful, almost mythical. Patron Guides with chilling, omniscient titles. And 'Authority: ??' – a blank that spoke volumes of power beyond his comprehension. The revelation sent a fresh wave of ice through the Empress, a cold dread that pierced even her arrogance. These were not just powerful System users; they were from a league far above anything he had ever encountered.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

Beowulf, oblivious to Adam's internal turmoil, finally broke the silence.

"First, we calm things down."

He said, his voice easy, as if discussing a minor inconvenience.

"We fix the… anomaly. Then, perhaps, we can have a little chat."

Brunhilde nodded in agreement, her gaze sweeping over the scene. Her eyes paused on Drake, still slumped and bleeding on the ground, and a delicate frown creased her brow.

"Indeed. Though it's truly regrettable to see such a beautiful face in such a state. It's simply not fair to the world, is it, to have such aesthetic appeal subjected to such crude treatment."

Her words, a strange mix of genuine concern and detached objectification, would have been unsettling if anyone else had the mental capacity to process them. Beowulf chuckled, then tapped a finger against his chin, his eyes momentarily losing their casual amusement as he seemed to calculate something.

"Right. One lap around the country should do it."

Without another word, he hauled back his right arm and threw a punch towards nothing in particular, just the empty air near a crumbling building. Immediately, a gigantic spectral bull, shimmering with an ethereal glow, burst into existence from the point of impact. It let out a silent, booming bellow, then galloped away at such impossible speed that no one, not even Adam, could track its movement. The only immediate sign of its passage was a new, impossibly huge hole that appeared in the side of a distant building, perfectly circular, as if a colossal, unseen battering ram had torn through it. The bull was gone, a silent, unseen projectile tearing through the fabric of the world, heading towards a destination only his summoner knew.

But while Beowulf was preoccupied with his strange summons, Adam, still seething with uncontrollable fury and the Empress's desperate rage, launched himself forward.

He was a whirlwind of power, ignoring his previous failures, ignoring the overwhelming strength of his new opponents. His corrupted body, infused with parasitic tendrils and Malzaphir's devilish energy, became a weapon. He attacked with everything he had: his cursed spear, now returned to his grasp, thrusting with blurring speed; spectral tentacles erupted from his back, lashing out like whips of shadow; and from the ground, countless phantom blades shot forth, shimmering with deadly intent. It was an assault designed to overwhelm, to annihilate, a desperate, all-out effort from a being pushed to its very limits.

Yet, Beowulf and Brunhilde moved with effortless grace. Despite the lingering gravitational field of Arianka's Lament, which, though no longer active on everyone, still lingered around Adam and thus affected those near him, they weaved through his devastating attacks with serene ease.

Beowulf sidestepped a thrust from the cursed spear, the tip passing inches from his face. Brunhilde casually shifted her weight, allowing a spectral tendril to slice through empty air where she had been a moment before. They seemed less interested in avoiding injury and more in observing Adam's attacks, their eyes fixed not on him, but on his spear.

After a few more seconds of effortlessly dodging Adam's frenzied assault, Beowulf brought a hand to his chin, a thoughtful expression on his face. He spoke, his voice calm and curious, even as he seamlessly ducked under a wide swing of the cursed spear.

"Say, Brunhilde, isn't that... Arjuna's spear?"

Brunhilde, who was simultaneously twirling to avoid a barrage of spectral blades while maintaining her elegant posture, scoffed softly.

"Indubitably, that is Az'Karul. His 'Personal Treasure', if memory serves. Our dear former companion from Eden, and to see it here, wielded by... this."

Her voice dripped with a subtle contempt, not for the spear itself, but for its current wielder.

"Curious, isn't it? A testament to the System's delightful unpredictability, I suppose."

Their words hung in the air, cold and dismissive. They spoke of the weapon that had been taken from their former comrade's corpse not with outrage or grief, but with a detached, almost academic curiosity. It was clear their fallen comrade meant little to them, his death merely an interesting footnote in the grand scheme of things.

Brunhilde sighed again, running a hand through her long hair.

"I'm beginning to piece together how all of this transpired. It appears a rather... unique confluence of coincidences and specific conditional triggers led to this rather inconvenient state of affairs. Essentially, the users here were contending with an opponent who rightfully belongs in an S-rank scenario, or perhaps even a Punishment-type scenario."

Beowulf, who had finally retrieved both of his blunted, chained swords from his back, let out a deep laugh. He then shifted his stance, his casual evasion replaced by a powerful, unwavering defense. He began to parry Adam's every attack, his two blades meeting the cursed spear and the spectral projectiles with deafening clangor, effortlessly deflecting them away. He moved with a brutal, yet precise efficiency, a wall of pure force, entirely focused on covering Brunhilde.

The woman, meanwhile, was back to her Moderator console once more, her fingers flying across the ethereal interface.

"I thought as much."

She muttered, her voice tight with annoyance.

"It seems a direct console intervention is impossible. We'll have to be... more direct."

She closed the Moderator window with a sharp, decisive gesture. Then, she raised her hand to the sky. A shimmering pillar of celestial blue light descended, not from the fractured rift, but from the heavens themselves, focusing directly onto her outstretched palm. A System notification, visible only to Adam, blazed into existence.

Adam, watching the notification, felt a cold dread creep into his core. He didn't know what had just happened, but this was an Authority. A direct manifestation of a Patron's power, channeled through a System user. It was a level of power normally impossible for another individual to wield.

Brunhilde, her face grimly determined, then turned to his companion.

"Permission, if you please?"

She asked, her tone calm, formal, betraying no hint of the monstrous power she was about to unleash.

Beowulf, still deflecting Adam's furious attacks with effortless grace, simply grinned and stepped aside, moving himself out of the line of fire. The possessed boy, seeing the sudden opening, seized it. He lunged forward, his cursed spear driven by the full, desperate force of the Undead Empress, aiming for Brunhilde's exposed body… This was his chance.

But the woman merely extended a single finger with a serene expression, and received the spear's devastating thrust with the bare tip of it. There was no resistance and no sound of impact. The cursed spear, a weapon of immense power that had pierced gods and demons alike, simply began to disintegrate. It unraveled into shimmering dust, fading from existence like a bad dream. In less than a second, nothing remained of it but a handful of sparkling motes that vanished on the wind.

Adam's masked face went rigid with shock. His body froze, his mind reeling from the impossible sight.

That brief moment of absolute disbelief was all Brunhilde needed. She advanced, her movements fluid and terrifyingly precise. With casual ease, she grabbed Adam by the mask, her fingers wrapping around the pale, skull-like visage that covered his face. Then, with a single, brutal motion, she slammed him into the cracked earth of the plaza. The impact was deafening, sending tremors through the ground, and the mask itself shattered, disintegrating into dust, just like the spear.

Adam recovered instantly, rolling to the side, his naked face now exposed, his eyes wide with a mixture of pain and desperate confusion. He gasped for breath, a raw, choking sound, and screamed.

"How?! How are you doing this?!"

His voice was hoarse, filled with a frantic desperation he hadn't displayed before. Brunhilde regarded him with a cool, arrogant gaze.

"I do not owe explanations to lesser creatures; your comprehension is not my concern."

She stated, her voice calm and utterly dismissive. However, Beowulf stepped up beside her with a wide grin.

"Oh, come on, Brunhilde, don't be so stingy. It's simple, really."

He leaned in, as if sharing a secret.

"Her Authority, 'The System is my Canvas', allows her to apply her Alchemy skill to subjective concepts and to the System itself. Your spear and your mask? They had a 'duration' concept tied to them. She merely used her Alchemy to separate that 'time remaining' concept from the objects. And then Poof! Time's up."

He chuckled, finding the explanation utterly hilarious. Brunhilde shot him a withering look, a faint click of her tongue expressing her annoyance.

"Unnecessary… The point was made quite clear without your overly simplistic explanation."

She muttered, her eyes rolling slightly.

The crushing gravity that had tormented Drake, Mecha Sun Ja-In, and Jeongu Kim, abruptly lifted. The sudden absence of the immense pressure left them gasping, their bodies aching, but also filled with a surge of renewed hope. They remained in place, however, their eyes fixed on the unfolding spectacle. Unbeknownst to Beowulf and Brunhilde, Angela, seeing the dramatic power shift, had immediately canceled her [I will never forget you] skill.

With a shimmering ripple, the summoned copy of Jeongu Kim, who had fought so valiantly, simply dissolved into shimmering motes of light, vanishing from existence. The 'No Name' team members saw it, a quiet, almost sad disappearance of their momentary ally, but the two team Eden's members were too focused on his objective to notice.

Adam, now unmasked and stripped of Arianka's protection, continued to rage. He lunged at Beowulf and Brunhilde, his movements still incredibly fast, fueled by the Empress's raw, frustrated power. He unleashed everything he had: spectral punches, bursts of corrupted Ki, phantom tendrils lashing out... It was a terrifying display of raw power, born of desperation and boundless fury.

But it was useless. Beowulf held his two blunted swords with casual grace and blocked every attack with impossible ease. One of his blades seemed to burn Adam on contact, leaving faint, stinging trails on his skin, even though no visible fire or energy flowing from it. Brunhilde, meanwhile, merely extended her hand, and whatever spectral or corrupted energy Adam hurled at them, whether it was a ghostly projectile or a surging wave of dark Ki, simply disintegrated on contact, dissolving into nothingness.

Finally, the woman moved beyond simple defense. With a swift motion, she reached into an inventory-type skill, her hand disappearing into a shimmering portal that opened by her side, then reappearing with a colossal amount of pure salt. It poured from her hand like a shimmering cascade, forming a shimmering mound at her feet. Adam recoiled instinctively, his eyes widening, a flicker of primal fear in their depths.

But Brunhilde wasn't done. With a casual flick of her wrist and a silent application of her [Basic Alchemy+], the mound of salt coalesced. It began to shift and grow, forming itself into a colossal, shimmering white hand. The hand, massive and solid, surged forward, its fingers reaching for Adam.

He screamed, twisting, trying to escape, but the ground beneath him began to respond to Brunhilde's will. Walls of compressed salt erupted from the earth, blocking his path. Great, grasping hands of solidified salt erupted from the ground, attempting to seize his limbs. He dodged, he twisted, he even turned intangible, his spectral form phasing through the sudden obstacles.

But the colossal salt hand was relentless. It pursued him, adapting to his every move, its sheer size overwhelming the battlefield. Finally, with a thunderous impact, the giant salt hand slammed down, catching Adam. It closed around him, his body compressed within its immense grip, leaving only his head free, his eyes wide with terror and pain. He was held fast, trapped within a prison of pure salt.

Adam screamed, a raw, visceral sound of agony. His skin, wherever the salt touched, sizzled and burned, not with heat, but with a purifying fire that gnawed at his corrupted essence. The Empress, trapped within him, shrieked, a sound that reverberated through his mind.

From afar, Kazue was watching with wide, terrified eyes and saw the glistening white substance that held Adam. Salt… A sudden memory, a forgotten piece of lore from their very first scenario, resurfaced in her mind. That world... the Undead Empress's world... she thought, a spark of understanding igniting in her eyes. The survivors used salt to combat the low-level ghosts. Could it be? Was this the same principle? A simple, common substance, wielded with enough precision, striking at the very core of Adam's newfound invulnerability, the path for victory?

Once the boy was firmly imprisoned within the colossal salt fist, Brunhilde merely clicked her tongue.

"Behave yourself."

She admonished, her voice cool and utterly devoid of sympathy, as if speaking to a petulant child.

"I still need to attend to this absolutely gorgeous blond young man."

But even as his flesh sizzled and burned, Adam forced a laugh, a strained, pained sound that still carried a hint of his earlier manic glee.

"It doesn't matter!"

He shrieked, his voice raw with agony.

"You may hold me now, but the ghost apocalypse has begun! This world is already falling! Soon, infinite spectral armies will drown this land, and you will all perish!"

Then, a sharp, searing pain shot through his head, an invisible force coiling around his mind. He gasped, his forced laughter dying in his throat. He could feel it; his spectral armies, the very legions he had unleashed to ravage the world, the countless ghosts that had been sweeping through the human empire, slaughtering and converting every living thing in their way, were now being annihilated. They were disappearing, disintegrating rapidly, as if a powerful, unseen force was sweeping them away. Adam's eyes widened in bewildered rage.

"What?! What's happening?! How is this possible?!"

His voice rose to a frantic crescendo, a desperate plea for understanding. Beowulf and Brunhilde exchanged a glance. The man merely shrugged, a gesture of casual indifference.

"Couldn't tell you, mate."

He rumbled.

"Didn't send any of my guys out for cleanup yet."

At Adam's frantic outburst, the 'No Name' group, watching from a distance, exchanged confused glances. Their minds raced, desperately trying to piece together the inexplicable turn of events. Then, it was Kazue who gasped, a sudden realization dawning on her.

"The Paragons!"

She exclaimed, her voice thin but clear.

"If Meera was right... If they were purified, then maybe…"

Her words hung in the air, a desperate theory. If the leaders of the three races had indeed returned to normal, free from Arianka's corruption, they would possess immense power. Could they be the ones sweeping away the spectral armies, turning the tide of Adam's ghost apocalypse? The thought, fleeting and almost too good to be true, offered a sliver of hope in the suffocating darkness.

Beowulf watched Adam, still imprisoned by the salt construct, his body writhing and screaming in agony. His gaze then drifted to Drake, still sprawled on the ground, struggling for breath, and then to Mecha Sun Ja-In, sparking and malfunctioning. A thoughtful hum escaped him.

"Say, Brunhilde, that metal chap there… he's quite interesting. Doesn't seem like a standard system construct you can buy in the store. Wonder who made him."

His interest in the robot was genuine, a spark of curiosity for something unique and powerful.

Brunhilde, her attention still primarily on Adam, merely waved a dismissive hand.

"A curiosity for later. For now, our priority should be attending to Drake Shaw. He's in a rather deplorable state, and one simply cannot allow such a beautiful face to remain marred by blood for long. It's an insult to proper aesthetics."

Her words, as always, were laced with a unique blend of arrogance and a strange, almost superficial, concern for beauty.

But before she could act, Adam erupted. A raw, guttural roar tore from his throat, shaking the very air. He channeled every ounce of power he possessed, forcing his parasitic essence to its absolute limit. The Empress within him, fueled by rage and desperation, ignored the burning pain of the salt. His body began to contort, to twist, mutating grotesquely. His limbs elongated, muscles bulged and ripped, his skin stretched and tore, revealing layers of pulsating, corrupted flesh and bone beneath. Taking advantage that his parasite was not affected by the salt, he used it to its maximum potential.

He swelled in size, growing rapidly, his form becoming an imposing, terrifying monstrosity, a nightmarish fusion of undead, devilish power, and pure, raw malice. With a final, explosive surge of power, the immense salt fist that held him shattered into countless shimmering particles, unable to contain his terrifying transformation.

His voice, now a booming, distorted growl that seemed to rip through the very fabric of reality, thundered across the plaza.

"You fools! Did you truly think that mere salt could contain me?! I will tear this world apart! I will drown it in death and despair! You will all regret the day you stood against the Empress!"

His mutated form pulsed with terrifying energy, an aura of sheer, unadulterated power radiating from him. Brunhilde merely let out a low, almost mocking whistle.

"Oh my."

She murmured, a hint of genuine amusement in her purple eyes.

"He's throwing quite the tantrum, isn't he?"

Adam, blinded by rage, lunged forward. His monstrous form blurred, his clawed hands extended, ready to tear them apart. But Beowulf simply stepped forward, meeting the boy's charge head-on. He didn't use his swords. He simply raised his bare hands, catching Adam's mutated fists with casual ease. The impact was deafening, a sickening crunch of bone and mutated flesh against what seemed to be an immovable force.

Beowulf didn't budge, and Adam, for all his rage and monstrous strength, was utterly stopped.

"Now, now."

The man rumbled, his smile still in place, his voice calm despite the raw power he was effortlessly holding back.

"Let's not be too hasty. Plenty of time for tearing things apart later. Right now, we're on a bit of a schedule."

He held Adam's flailing, mutated body completely still, unmoving, even as the boy twisted, thrashed, and desperately tried to shift his form, growing new limbs, sprouting bone spikes, anything to escape the immovable grip. Beowulf merely held him, his golden eyes fixed on some distant, unseen point in the sky. He began to count, his voice a slow, deliberate cadence.

"Ten... nine... eight..."

Adam screamed, his mutated face contorted in a mask of furious frustration, but he could not break free. Beowulf continued counting down, his grip unwavering, completely ignoring his thrashing.

"Seven... six... five..."

The other members of 'No Name', watching from a distance, could only stare in stunned silence. The sheer disparity in power was horrifyingly clear. Adam, who had just decimated them, was being held like a child's toy.

"Four... three... two..."

Beowulf's voice deepened, his smile widening. As he reached "One", he shifted. With a fluid, powerful motion, he grabbed Adam from where they were struggling, lifted the mutated form effortlessly, and then, with surprising precision, planted him on a seemingly random spot on the ground a few feet away. He released his grip and casually took a few steps back.

Adam screamed with renewed fury, his mutated body already surging forward, intent on tearing Beowulf apart. But before he could even touch the man, a colossal, ethereal shape materialized from thin air directly beside him. It was the spectral bull Beowulf had summoned earlier. It had returned, and with a thunderous impact, the glowing, transparent form slammed into Adam's side.

Adam's scream was cut short as his body was utterly and catastrophically run over. The sheer force of the impact was unimaginable, a concentrated blast of momentum that obliterated his mutated form. His body basically unraveled, exploding into a shower of corrupted energy and fragmented flesh, then collapsed into a heap on the ground, finally gasping and groaning, utterly broken.

Beowulf calmly ran a hand through his blond hair, ruffling it slightly.

"Whew, just in time. That was cutting it a bit close."

He chuckled, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. Then he glanced at the ruined form of Adam.

"The 'Bull of the Iron Charge' summons a spectral bull that runs without stopping until it impacts its designated target. And the further it travels, the more powerful the impact."

He explained, his voice conversational.

"Maybe making it run across the whole country was a little bit overkill, but it was quite effective for sending a message, don't you think?"

Beowulf then stretched, a relaxed sigh escaping him.

"Alright, well, that's done."

He surveyed the shattered plaza, then bent down and casually brushed his finger against the scorched earth. Immediately, something miraculous began to happen. From the point of his finger, roots burst forth, burrowing deep into the ground. They spread rapidly, intertwining, thickening, and then, with a speed that defied nature, a gargantuan, impossibly lush tree began to sprout. It grew upwards, its trunk thick and gnarled, its branches spreading wider and wider, blossoming with vibrant green foliage that radiated a soft, golden light. It was Yggdrasil, the World Tree, manifested in the heart of the ruined city. Its vast canopy expanded, covering the entire plaza, casting a shadow of pure, invigorating life over everything.

Immediately, a wave of intense, restorative energy washed over everyone bathed in its light. Drake, his body riddled with wounds, felt his gaping chest wound seal with astonishing speed, his broken bones knitting back together, his exhaustion receding. Mecha Sun Ja-In's sparking circuits stabilized, his torn arm reattached and whirring back to full functionality, his optical sensors glowing steadily. Katya's bruises faded, and her energy returned. Emir's cursed wounds, Li's lacerations, Gregor's exhaustion, Chloe's weariness, Angela's drained energy – all of them, even Konrad, Meera, and Solène, who were still unconscious on the outskirts of the plaza, began to heal at an astounding rate.

Everyone, that is, except Adam.

His broken, twisted body, lying in the center of Yggdrasil's benevolent shadow, began to writhe. He screamed, not in pain this time, but in pure agony. The restorative energy of the World Tree, a blessing for all other life, was a curse to him. It caused the exact opposite effect, tearing at his undead, corrupted essence, burning him from the inside out, driving him further into suffering.

Beowulf stretched again, a loud yawn escaping him.

"Yeah, well..."

He said, turning to Brunhilde, who was already gracefully moving towards Drake, a faint, almost tender smile on her face as she reached out to help the revived blond to his feet.

"Who's hungry?"