Chapter 5: The Dawn's First Strike
The plateau of the Forbidden Peaks, once a sanctuary of absolute silence, was now a battlefield of cosmic proportions. Malakor, the General of Despair, stood frozen for a fraction of a second. In his long, blood-soaked existence, he had extinguished the lives of thousands, but he had never encountered a presence that made his own shadow shrink in fear.
Andrew stood at the edge of the Pool of Purity. He was no longer the boy who had fled Jammu in tears. His physique was ethereal, his muscles defined by the celestial energy that now flowed through his veins instead of mere blood. His eyes were no longer human; they were twin pools of molten gold, radiating a heat that began to melt the permafrost around his feet.
"You smell of the Abyss," Andrew said, his voice carrying a harmonic resonance that vibrated through the very stone of the mountain. "And like all shadows, you vanish when the light arrives."
Malakor let out a guttural roar, shaking off his momentary fear. He swung his massive bone-encrusted fist, fueled by the dark momentum of a thousand cursed souls. "I am the end of hope! I am the silence of the grave!"
Andrew didn't dodge. He simply raised his forearm. When Malakor's fist connected, there was no sound of breaking bone. Instead, a shockwave of golden light erupted from the point of impact, searing Malakor's armor. The General's arm cracked, black ichor leaking from the fissures in his bone-plating.
"You fight for a King who sold his soul for a throne of sand," Andrew said calmly. He reached into the air, and the golden threads of the universe responded to his touch. A blade of pure, solidified sunlight materialized in his hand—the Aurelian Brand.
The Battle of Light and Despair
The clash began in earnest. Malakor was a whirlwind of brute force and necrotic magic. He summoned "Void Rifts," black holes in the air that tried to suck Andrew's life force into the underworld. Andrew moved with the grace of a falling star, his blade cutting through the rifts as if they were nothing but cobwebs.
The Master of the Empyrean watched from a distance, leaning on his staff. He knew this was more than a physical fight. Andrew was testing his new connection to the Empyrean. Every time Andrew struck, he wasn't just hitting Malakor; he was severing the dark tethers that Arthur had used to bind the General to the physical world.
Malakor grew desperate. He slammed his cracked mace into the ground, unleashing a "Wave of Despair"—a psychic blast of every sad, hateful, and lonely thought ever felt by the people of Jammu. For a moment, Andrew's light flickered. He felt the weight of his mother's death, the betrayal of his brother, and the sheer hopelessness of the starving children in the streets.
"Yes! Feel it!" Malakor hissed, his voice like grinding glass. "Your light is a lie! The world is pain!"
Andrew went down on one knee, his golden blade dimming. The shadows of the Night-Stalkers began to crawl up his legs, cold and hungry.
But deep within his soul, Andrew didn't look for anger to fight back. He looked for Compassion. He thought of Arthur, not as the Demon King, but as the brother who had once shared his last crust of bread. He realized that Malakor was just a slave to that same darkness.
"I forgive you," Andrew whispered.
The words were like a thunderclap. A pillar of white fire erupted from Andrew's heart, shattering the Wave of Despair. He stood up, his aura expanding until it covered the entire plateau. He lunged forward, his blade moving faster than the eye could follow.
The Aurelian Brand pierced Malakor's chest, right through the center of his bone-armor. There was no blood. Instead, a blinding light poured out of the wound. The trapped souls within Malakor's armor were not destroyed; they were released, turning into white sparks that floated toward the sky.
Malakor's massive form began to crumble into grey ash. "The King... will... consume you..." he whispered before his head vanished into dust.
The General of Despair was gone. The three thousand Night-Stalkers, seeing their leader erased, fled into the cracks of the mountain, unable to bear the lingering radiance of the Seeker.
The King's Realization
Hundreds of miles away, in the obsidian heart of the Black Fortress, Arthur was sitting on his throne, studying a map of the continent. Suddenly, he let out a sharp cry and clutched his chest. He felt a cold snap—the tether between him and Malakor had been violently severed.
He stood up, his black cape billowing like smoke. For the first time since he had signed the Blood Covenant, Arthur felt a genuine chill of apprehension.
"Malakor is dead?" he muttered, his voice echoing in the empty, dark hall. "Impossible. No mortal weapon could have touched him."
He walked to a scrying pool made of liquid shadow and waved his hand. The surface flickered, showing him a blurry image of the Forbidden Peaks. He saw a figure standing atop the clouds—a figure draped in gold and silver, holding a blade that hurt Arthur's eyes even through the magical reflection.
"Andrew," Arthur hissed, his grip crushing the stone armrest of his throne. "You actually did it. You found a way to fight back."
A part of Arthur—the small, dying spark of humanity deep within—felt a flicker of pride. But the Devil's influence quickly smothered it. Arthur's eyes turned a violent, swirling crimson.
"You think a little sunlight can stop the night?" Arthur shouted at the pool. "I will turn your 'Master' into a shadow. I will burn those mountains until they are nothing but charcoal!"
Arthur turned to his remaining generals. "Mobilize the Legion of the Eclipsed. We are no longer just conquering cities. We are hunting a God."
The Master's Final Gift
Back on the plateau, the battle was won, but Andrew was exhausted. The transfiguration was not yet complete. He had reached the 30th day, but the most dangerous trials were still ahead.
The Master approached him, his expression grave. "You have done well, Andrew. But Malakor was only a scout. Arthur will come himself soon, or send something far worse. You are strong, but you lack the 'Conduit'."
"The Conduit?" Andrew asked, his breath coming in golden mists.
"The Angel's Ring," the Master said, pointing toward the highest, most dangerous peak of the Himalayas—the Spire of Heavens. "Your power is currently like a flood without a dam. It will burn you out in days. The Ring was worn by the first Seraph who descended 2000 years ago. It will allow you to channel the Light without destroying your physical body."
Andrew looked at the Spire. It was a needle of rock that seemed to touch the stars, surrounded by eternal lightning storms and ancient guardians.
"The journey there is the Deadly Path," the Master warned. "No one has returned from it alive. But it is the only way you can face your brother and survive."
Andrew sheathed his golden blade. His resolve was like diamond. "I've already died once in that pool, Master. Let's see what the mountain has to offer."