Hey!! Very important note!!
I fucked something up with how saints evolution works, I rememberd that she went from Awakend rank to Ascended by killing the black knight , and moved up in class by consuming memories. But it was the other way around so she should have been an ascended monster from ch42 onwards instead of an awakened demon.
I'm very sorry but I don't believe I will rewrite the chapters from 42 on as it would mostly consist of saint no diffing everything that was thrown at them. Instead I'm going to continue the fic as if she was an Ascended Monster before the black knight fight I'm really sorry about this.
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It was time.
The beginning of the end.
Nearly a year had passed since they first stepped into this nightmare—a year of hunger and heartache, of blood-soaked alleys and whispered alliances. A year spent navigating gang wars and backroom deals, raising an army from the ashes of despair, fanning sparks of rebellion where no light had dared shine.
And now, it had come to this.
The confrontation between Nephis and Gunlaug.
For the people of the slums, Nephis was more than a warrior. She had become legend. A symbol carved from fire and resolve, the face of a resistance that refused to bow. To them, she wasn't merely a soldier—she was salvation.
She had fed them when the world would have starved them.
Sheltered them when no walls remained.
Given them purpose where only survival had once existed.
She stood, not alone, but flanked by her chosen: Effie, fierce and defiant, and Cassie—gentle, blind, and utterly unshakable in her faith. Together, they were the heart of something greater. Without them, the slums whispered, they would have all been conscripted—turned into fodder for the Dark Duke's growing army.
Nephis had become their hope.
Their protector.
Their freedom.
And against her stood Gunlaug.
Gunlaug, the golden tyrant.
The man who had seized control of the Sleepers not through cunning or charm, but through sheer, monstrous strength. He had emerged from the abyss—literally. When the world offered nothing but rot and starvation, he dove into the black sea where reason fled and abominations writhed. He danced in madness, fed on terror, and came back changed. Empowered.
His was not the strength of symbols. It was raw, brutal, and undeniable.
Gunlaug was fear incarnate.
The strong who crushed the weak.
The law of the blade given flesh.
And now these two stood at the edge of destiny, the people gathered to witness what they believed would shape the future of the city.
Order against rebellion.
Fear against hope.
A tyrant against a savior.
To the Sleepers, this was the moment where everything would change.
A battle where nothing was certain.
A future unwritten.
But that was only half the truth.
A handful knew what truly stirred beneath the surface. The stage had been set long ago—quietly, deliberately—by another shadow that moved unseen.
Sunless.
He had engineered this confrontation not as a battle, but as a transition. A transfer of power draped in spectacle. This wasn't chaos—it was choreography. The ending of one chapter, the deliberate shaping of the next.
Now it was up to Neph and Gunlaug to play their parts.
To fight the fight the world expected.
To make it real enough to be remembered.
And beneath it all, to carry out the story that Sunless had so carefully written in silence.
'*'
Whispers swirled like smoke through the cold morning air. They drifted through the broken stone and shattered dreams of the castle, coiling into the ears of every Sleeper who had gathered. The golden gates had been flung open—not for mercy, nor peace—but for spectacle. Gunlaug, the tyrant crowned in molten gold, had summoned the people to witness history written in blood and flame.
He stood at the heart of the throne hall, surrounded by his gleaming soldiers, every one of them draped in armor stamped with his mark. But none gleamed like him.
Gunlaug's body was sheathed in living gold, his armor flowing like quicksilver fire across his skin. It shimmered with a divine madness—hypnotic, alien, and deeply wrong. Those who dared look too long into its brilliance felt their thoughts unravel, their loyalty sway, their will begin to bend. He was no longer just a man. He was something more. Something *made* to be feared.
And across from him stood Nephis.
Tall. Silent. Radiant in her own right—not in gilded armor, but in purpose. Her blade was steady in her hand, her eyes unwavering, her shadow long and unyielding beside her sisters: Cassie and Effie, the slum-born legends, the last wall between despair and freedom.
Gunlaug tilted his head, the motion slow and theatrical, like a god acknowledging a gnat.
"So… it's come to this," he said, his voice smooth as oil, slipping into every corner of the chamber. "You've gathered quite the crowd, Changing Star. The city teeters, split between your fire and my gold. But a kingdom cannot be built on division." His gaze passed over the gathered crowd like a blade. "So tell me… are you truly worth following? Can you do better than *me*? Can you make the hard choices? Pay the cost? Provide safety, stability… justice? Do you have the *strength* to lead?"
Nephis raised her sword—cold steel gleaming in the golden light—and pointed it straight at his heart.
"Safety? Stability? Justice?" Her voice rang like a bell. "Is that what you think this is? Where was your safety when four hundred Sleepless were butchered in a single day? Where was your stability when your men spread lies, called Athena a murderer, even as she fed and sheltered the helpless? Where was your justice , *Gunlaug*, when the streets bled and you watched from your throne of gold instead of leading them back?"
The crowd stirred. The air buzzed with electricity. Murmurs rose like thunderclouds. Everyone knew. Gunlaug had promised another push on the Crimson Spire months ago, but the promised glory had never come. Only silence. Only control. His rule had lasted years—his enemies crushed in back alleys, his dissenters buried in rumors. And now, here he stood, confronted not by whispers in the dark, but by truth spoken aloud.
"You *dare*?"
His voice cracked like a whip, the air trembling with fury. He stepped forward, hands trembling, voice no longer calm and kingly but raw with something older—grief.
"I dove into the black sea every *morning*," he roared. "I risked my life again and again, bringing back what little food I could while the rest of you tore each other apart like animals! I came back with strength bought in madness, and I used it to create *order*!"
His fists clenched, armor rippling like it shared his fury.
"I bled for this place. I *killed* for it. I lost friends—*family*—to keep this cursed corner of the world alive. And yes, I failed. I failed more than you could ever understand."
His voice cracked, softening into something almost human.
"Do you think I wouldn't leave this place if I could? That I don't miss running water, or power, or a quiet night without screaming in the dark? That I don't cry—*every night*—because wish of seeing my parents again? Of hugging my little sisters one more time?"
The tyrant trembled.
"But I couldn't. We weren't strong enough. We were trapped."
He inhaled sharply.
"But now… now we have the strength. We have the army. We have the power. And one of us will lead it."
The hall fell silent.
Gold and fire. Fear and hope. Tyranny and freedom.
Gunlaug shot forward like a golden spear, the air rupturing with a thunderclap as he surged across the stone floor. His armor—liquid gold, living and unnatural—twisted mid-charge, flowing up his arms and solidifying into a massive war axe. The blade gleamed like a second sun, etched with shifting runes that pulsed in time with his fury. It wasn't just a weapon—it was a manifestation of his will, a force designed to sunder steel, stone, and soul.
With a roar, he brought it down like a hammer upon a mountain.
But Nephis was already moving.
Silver fire bloomed around her like a star igniting. Her body became a silhouette framed in divine flame, each step flickering with radiant heat. Her armor, her blade, even the spectral crown upon her brow—*all of it* ignited in glory. The divine fire swirled in layered halos around her limbs, crackling with power as it kissed the ground and scorched the air. It did not consume her. It *exalted* her.
The golden axe slammed into the floor with a sound like a bell tolling for the dead—missing her by inches.
Nephis was past him in an instant, a streak of silver. She twisted, pivoted, and brought her sword down in a graceful arc meant to cleave his back open.
But Gunlaug's armor twisted again, rippling like water. Golden tendrils shot out to intercept her blade, halting it with unnatural strength. He turned, his other arm reforming into a buckler as wide as a door and just as heavy. He punched forward with it, aiming to crush her like an insect.
Nephis weaved under it, flames flaring around her. Each motion was liquid, perfect—*measured*. She ducked the blow, spun, and slid behind him once more, her sword hissing with divine light as it sliced across his ribs. The flame bit into the gold and *sizzled*—but did not pierce fully.
Gunlaug snarled. "Is that all?" he spat, voice distorted by the helm.
She didn't answer. Her only reply was a series of blindingly fast strikes—slashes and thrusts too quick to track. Her blade sang, weaving between the golden defenses like a dancer threading silk. She wasn't just attacking—she was testing. Probing. Unfolding his technique, unweaving the man beneath the godlike strength.
Gunlaug roared again, and his armor *exploded* outward in spiked arcs. Gold shot in all directions like a shrapnel storm. Nephis raised her arm, a barrier of silver light forming in front of her just in time. It flared bright, deflecting the hail of golden shards—but she was pushed back by the force, skidding across the marble floor.
She dug her heels in and stopped herself—barely.
Then, she looked up.
Gunlaug towered above, golden wings unfurling behind him, a grotesque and beautiful mockery of divinity. He raised the axe again, and this time it burned with a deeper hue—orange and red swirled through the gold like molten veins. His strength was growing, and with it, the pressure in the room intensified. Sleepers watching from the walls trembled and backed away, unable to bear the weight of his presence.
"This is what it means to *fight for survival*," he growled. "Not ideals. Not dreams. *Power.* You don't have enough of it."
Nephis took a slow breath. Her eyes were calm. "Then I'll take yours."
She launched forward.
Silver fire *detonated* on her form, launching her like a comet. Her sword flared, and this time, her strikes were not careful—they were lethal. Each swing left trails of burning silver across the air, each step faster than the last. She closed the distance in a blink, her body moving faster than most could see, and struck.
The blade found its mark—his shoulder.
It bit deeper.
Flames roared through the golden armor, and for the first time, it didn't hold. Gunlaug staggered. The golden mask twisted in a silent snarl as he retaliated with a sweeping backhand, the axe sweeping in a deadly arc. She ducked under, rolled to the side, and rose again—this time behind him. Her flame surged with a divine pulse, coating her legs, her arms, her heart.
The next blow wasn't a slash. It was a *thrust*.
Her sword, a lance of silver flame, pierced through the gap at the base of his helm and shoulder.
Gunlaug bellowed, staggering. His armor flared in panic, sealing over the wound—but the divine fire clung to it, searing and gnawing, refusing to let go.
He turned to strike her again—
But she had already vanished, flickering to the far side of the chamber.
Both combatants stood still.
Panting.
Watching.
The golden warlord, wounded but not broken. The silver flame, unshaken, eyes burning with clarity.
The hall was silent. No one dared speak.
It was not over yet.
The silence that followed was not stillness—it was anticipation sharpened to a razor's edge. The onlookers, packed along the outer walls and rafters of the castle hall, dared not speak. Even the breathless murmurs had gone quiet. Only the distant crackle of silver fire and the slow drip of molten gold echoed in the aftermath of the last exchange.
Gunlaug straightened slowly, his massive chest heaving. The golden armor had begun to distort—his once-pristine mask now half-melted, warping into a grimace that no longer concealed the exhaustion in his expression. Where Nephis's sword had pierced him, the divine fire still lingered, burrowing deeper into the armor's seams like sentient flame. It sizzled against his will.
He snarled, voice hoarse. "You want to lead them? Then *take it* from me!"
With a roar, he plunged a hand into his own chestplate—and pulled. The armor screamed as it parted, the liquid gold writhing as he tore from it a chunk of glowing metal. It pulsed in his palm like a beating heart—pure essence, condensed strength. Without hesitation, he *devoured* it.
A horrible silence followed.
Then—*eruption*. His body expanded with violent force. The armor warped, reshaped itself into something less human and more monstrous. Golden limbs grew jagged with layered spikes, his shoulders widened, his mask stretched until it split down the center into a crooked grin. His axe lengthened into a halberd of obscene proportions, its edge shimmering like a mirage.
The crowd gasped. Someone screamed.
Nephis stood still.
She didn't flinch at the transformation. She didn't back away.
She breathed in—slow, deep—and raised her sword.
The divine flames around her pulsed in response. They flared brighter, hotter, *whiter*. The silver crown upon her brow glowed like a fallen star, her body encased in layered flame so intense that her features blurred at the edges. Her footsteps burned away the gold-stained floor as she advanced—slowly now, deliberately.
Then they clashed again.
Gunlaug surged forward with a howl, his halberd striking with the force of a collapsing building. Nephis caught it on the flat of her blade—and *skidded* back from the sheer impact, boots digging trenches in the stone. Her knees buckled, but she held. Divine fire erupted around the contact point, roaring in defiance.
She spun away and counterattacked. Her sword flicked like lightning—slashes that left glowing crescents in the air. Gunlaug blocked, barely. Her flames scalded his armor with every strike, searing away his enhancements piece by piece.
"You fight for control," she said through grit teeth, driving him back with another flurry. "But I fight to free them. That's why you'll lose."
"Freedom is a luxury!" he spat, voice half-mad, half-grieved. "It doesn't feed people—it *kills* them!"
He lunged—his halberd becoming a golden serpent mid-swing, striking from every angle. Nephis blurred, silver flames trailing as she evaded—twisting above, dodging low, her body a flowing ribbon of divine heat.
Then—*she let him hit her*.
The halberd struck her side.
Her body *detonated* in silver fire.
Her cloak of blue flames answered to her , an awakened memory of the fourth tier,everything moved. She appeared behind him, her blade a meteor falling through the sky.
And this time, it struck true.
The sword pierced his back, drove through the golden armor, and came out his chest. Silver fire roared from the wound like a geyser.
Gunlaug's mouth opened in a silent scream. His halberd clattered to the floor.
Nephis stood behind him, her hands steady on the hilt.
"This is the end," she said softly. "It doesn't have to be your death. Just let go."
Gunlaug staggered forward, then dropped to his knees. The flames burned without consuming, but the light in his golden form began to dim. The madness, the fury, the unbearable weight of his strength—it all crumbled beneath the weight of defeat.
The hall was still.
Then—cheering. Shouting. Some voices cried, some collapsed, some simply stood in reverent silence.
The hall still echoed with the fading roar of battle—echoes clinging to the blackened walls like ghosts reluctant to leave. The golden light that once blazed from Gunlaug's form had dulled, flickering faintly across the floor like the embers of a dying fire. His halberd lay discarded in the dust, cracked and cooling. The divine flames that had engulfed Nephis now shimmered in quiet radiance across her body, no longer roaring but steady, sovereign, absolute.
Nephis stood over him, unbending and illuminated like a statue of silver fire, the weight of her victory carried in the stillness of her stance. Her sword remained at her side, but her voice held the cutting edge now.
"I'm giving you a chance," she said, and though she did not raise her voice, the words rang through the silent hall like a verdict. "You will join the Penitence Legion. Fight on the front lines beside the monsters you bred. You'll wash your hands clean in the blood of the true enemy—if you still believe in humanity at all."
Her tone held no venom. Only finality.
Gunlaug remained on his knees, the gold melting slowly from his armor, seeping down his limbs like remorse turned tangible. His head hung, proud spine bowed at last—not from fear, but from something heavier. Defeat. Recognition. Or perhaps the slow realization that he was no longer the axis around which the slums turned.
He did not reply.
But a shadow passed behind him—silent, deliberate.
Sunless.
He moved with the weight of purpose, each step echoing softly in the tension-strung air. Gone was the strategist in the shadows, the whispering hand behind the curtain. Now he moved like a sovereign in his own right—neither rival nor rebel, but ruler. The mantle of Duke clung to him like the night itself, quiet and undeniable.
He said nothing to Nephis. There was no need. Their eyes met briefly—silver fire meeting deep obsidian—and in that glance passed all that was unspoken. Trust. Gratitude. The burden of command.
Then Sunless stepped past her, boots crunching on ash and gold.
He stopped behind Gunlaug and waited. Not as a conspirator. Not as an ally.
But as the man who now held dominion over the dark city, and the one who would lead the future built on the bones of the past.
Gunlaug raised his head slowly.
And after a long moment, he stood.
The golden tyrant turned away from the throne he had carved in blood and fear and followed the man who had quietly orchestrated his fall.
Together, they walked from the hall.
And the audience, still reeling from the spectacle, whispered in awe and confusion as the curtain closed.
They had put on a great show.
But now the performance was over.
And the reckoning had begun.