The Extra's Rise

The battlefield, for a radius of hundreds of kilometers, fell still. The human armies, still pouring from the Grey seams, paused. The demon fleet, frozen by the display of divine power, held its position. The "War of Mortals" was momentarily suspended, all attention locked on the three figures who now defined reality.

A wave of catastrophic, physical heat washed over the lunar surface, the regolith beneath Arthur's feet instantly superheating, threatening to turn to molten glass. A massive, missha pen thing—a mountain of raw, magma-veined rock held together by pulsing veins of pure, burning miasma—materialized on the plain before him, its impact sending a shockwave of molten dust kilometers into the airless void. Its form was barely humanoid, a crude approximation of a bipedal shape, but it radiated a mindless, overwhelming, catastrophic rage. This was Wrath, the Third Strongest. Its roar was a psychic scream of pure, uncomplicated fury at the being who had just humiliated its forces.

And beside it, materializing not with a crash, but with a cold, insidious unfolding of shadows, stood the other. Envy. He was slender, almost elegant, a shadowy, robed figure whose features were completely obscured by a shifting veil of miasma that seemed to drink the starlight. His cold, analytical presence was a perfect counterpoint to Wrath's fire. He didn't radiate power; he absorbed it, his aura a creeping void of conceptual want. His chilling, intelligent gaze fixed on Arthur, analyzing, cataloging, coveting the Grey Divinity that had just unmade his Archduke.

Two of the universe's most powerful beings stood before Arthur. The First and Third of the Seven Lords. A 2v1. A Divine-level pincer.

'Good,' Arthur thought, his own Grey Divinity settling around him like a shroud of quiet, cold truth. 'They're focused on me.' He glanced back, just once, at the distant, glittering cloud of the human armada and his own nine champions. "Lucifer, Ren, Cecilia. The army is yours. Do not let them interfere. Do not let anything past you. Hold the line."

He received nine distinct mental affirmations, nine surges of Peak Radiant resolve. Their battle, the larger war for the Moon, now resumed with a vengeance, a chaotic storm of light and shadow erupting far behind him.

His focus narrowed. The 2v1 had begun.

Wrath, mindless and direct, attacked first. It didn't use a weapon. It didn't weave a spell. It simply roared, a psychic scream of pure, concentrated rage, and punched. Its massive, mountain-sized fist, wreathed in miasmic magma, tore through the vacuum at speeds that warped space, aimed at simply erasing Arthur from existence. The sheer force of its passage superheated the lunar dust in its wake into a trail of glass.

Arthur met it. His new Divinity, his Grey Divinity, was not just about negation; it was about the assertion of objective truth. He held up his hand, his form impossibly small against the oncoming avalanche of divine power. He did not create a shield. He did not try to match its force. He activated Sword Sovereignty, his Divine-level understanding of the blade, and performed a "Silent Cut."

But this was no longer a mere spatial severance. It was a Divine Edict, written with Mythweaver, fueled by Grey. He looked at the oncoming attack, and he severed the conceptual link between Wrath's base, mindless intent and the physical manifestation of his fist.

The massive, magma-wreathed fist, an instant before it would have obliterated him and shattered the lunar crust for a thousand miles, simply… stopped. It froze in the void, inches from his calm, outstretched hand. It hung there, disconnected, its own chaotic energy no longer guided by the Demon Lord's will. Wrath roared in animalistic confusion, his physical arm still extended, but its attack conceptually severed, orphaned.

The fist, containing the power of a supernova, began to tear itself apart, its own unstable energy, no longer governed, consuming it from within. It imploded, then exploded in a silent, blinding flash of pure, uncontrolled miasmic fire.

It was a clean, perfect, divine-level counter.

And it failed utterly.

Just as his Divine Edict of Severance struck, Envy moved. The slender, shadowy figure, who had been watching with cold, analytical interest, didn't attack Arthur. He didn't block the cut. He simply extended a shadowy, insubstantial hand and, with a subtle, insidious gesture, his conceptual power lashed out.

He envied the conceptual link Arthur had just established with his own attack. His power, a form of insidious, parasitical "theft" or "misdirection," latched onto Arthur's Edict and corrupted it.

Arthur's "Silent Cut," instead of cleanly, perfectly severing Wrath's attack, was suddenly, horrifyingly redirected in the last nanosecond. It missed its conceptual target – Wrath's intent – and instead, his own Divine Edict sliced through the empty space to his left, unmaking a small lunar mountain range five kilometers away in a silent, instantaneous flash of grey light.

Wrath's fist, no longer conceptually severed, continued its path, its full, catastrophic force undiminished.

Arthur's eyes widened. 'He… he didn't block me. He hijacked my attack.'

He had no time to attack again. He had no time to process. He was forced to use a full, desperate Grey spatial fold, tearing himself from reality an in-stant before the fist connected, the sheer, blazing heat of its passage searing the edges of his disappearing form, the miasma corroding the very edges of the seam.

He reappeared a kilometer away, his heart pounding in his chest, a new, cold, terrifying understanding dawning. This was not a 2v1. This was a "force-and-scalpel" operation. Wrath was the mindless, overwhelming force, the wrecking ball. Envy was the scalpel, the impossibly sharp, intelligent, cunning mind directing that force, analyzing his every move, and possessing the unique, horrifying ability to turn his own divine power against him.

"Interesting," Envy's telepathic voice whispered across the void, cold, analytical, and utterly devoid of emotion. It was not a taunt; it was a simple observation, the sound of a scientist who had just confirmed a hypothesis. "His power is rooted in objective assertion. It can be… redirected. How fascinating."

Wrath, his attack having missed, roared again, already turning, its mindless fury now refocused on Arthur's new position, ready to strike again on Envy's unseen command.

Arthur was on the back foot, profoundly, dangerously so. He had just survived the opening salvo, and he had already learned that his strongest offensive abilities were now potential liabilities.