Gareth had fought many battles since the campaign began, but none felt as intense as this one. There was a purpose here that went beyond merely capturing the citadel. Hassel was already theirs, and whatever desperate effort Count Pollus had prepared would ultimately fail.

  No, that wasn’t the reason he felt this way. Today, the world saw what belief in Him is capable of.

  The revolutionaries surged into the inner fortress with relentless determination, carving through the remaining defenders like a storm crashing through fragile trees. Gareth raced alongside them, his spear crackling with energy. Each thrust and strike was driven by the lingering echoes of the prayer he had recited earlier. The sensation of power hummed through his body, coursing through his limbs like flesh transformed into lightning. He had experienced something divine when he helped dismantle the blood wards, and now he sought that feeling once more.

  The fortress halls formed a maze of stone corridors and gilded chambers. The walls pulsed with the remnants of corrupted magic, flickering a sickly black where the Void had seeped too deep to be cleansed by Leonard’s mere presence. Nobles shrieked as the revolutionaries burst in, scattering like frightened doves. Many tried to flee deeper into the fortress, while others dropped to their knees, begging for mercy.

  One man, wearing brocade robes embroidered with a baronial sigil, grasped Gareth’s cloak as he walked by. “Please! I had no choice! The Count forced us to stay!”

  Gareth adjusted his grip on the spear. He glanced down at the noble, noticing the rings on his fingers and the soft hands that had never held a weapon. This man had dined in luxury while the people outside his walls starved. Had he lifted a finger to help them? Or had he simply indulged in the fruits of others’ suffering? Gareth remembered the dozens of dead slaves that had been found in the Griffin Knights’ barracks, their throats slit to deny the revolution any advantage. He thought of the children left to die when the nobles retreated into the citadel without them. He thought of the countless civilians forced into the Void’s embrace just to give these sacks of filth an extra hour to prepare.

  Leonard’s voice echoed his own thoughts. "Spare the children. The others made their choice.”

  The man stared at him in horror, desperately trying to find an ounce of pity to cling to. Gareth had none. He didn’t bother using his mana; lightning would kill the noble too quickly. Instead, he drove his spear down, piercing the bowels.

  “You will die a painful death. May the Light’s embrace cleanse your soul of whatever makes you, you.” With that, he turned away, indifferent to the agonized gurgling he left behind.

  Room after room, Gareth and his unit stormed through, cutting down the last lines of resistance. Whenever they encountered remaining Loyalist soldiers, they fought with a reckless fervor, knowing that surrender was not an option. Lightning surged around Gareth’s form as he moved through them like a force of nature, leaving trails of golden sparks in his wake. The power came more easily now. It responded to him, as if the element itself acknowledged his determination.

  He could feel a greater power slowly suffusing him. It filled a part of him that had been empty since his exile, and that nothing—not even great victories and achievements—could fill.

  His lips moved almost unconsciously. Initially, he recited the same prayers he had always uttered before battle—invocations to the Light to guide his strikes, protect his allies, and burn away the wicked. But the words began to shift, becoming something else.

  “Guide me, Light of the Revolution,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. His next strike took down three men at once, their bodies convulsing as golden arcs danced between them.

  The soldiers around him took notice. He saw the flicker of awe in their eyes, the way they glanced between him and his victims, and their faith reflected in their expressions. When he whispered again, “Praise the Hero,” a few echoed the words back.

  One of the men beside him, a veteran with a scarred face and a missing ear, caught his breath as a faint shimmer of golden light flickered around Gareth. “The Light is answering your prayer.”

  Gareth felt it too—a warmth coiling in his chest, deeper than magic, more absolute than any spell. He grinned and charged ahead, his soldiers following suit and picking up the chant. It was quiet at first, but as the battle raged on, the words grew louder, forming a low chorus rolling through the corridors.

  “Praise Him.”

  The effect was immediate. Golden light flickered around them, subtle but undeniably present. Their weapons moved swifter, and their strikes hit harder. Gareth no longer needed to reach for the power—it came to him willingly and eagerly.

  The nobles who had not fled to the deepest parts of the fortress now cowered before them, pressed against marble pillars and velvet curtains that offered no protection from judgment. A woman in a gown of silver and blue lifted her chin defiantly. “You think you’re better than us? You think the world will be kinder under your rule?”

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  One of Gareth’s soldiers—Hector—stepped forward and drove his sword through her stomach. She gasped, her fine silk dress staining red as she crumpled to the floor.

  Hector spat. “I think you had your chance to atone for your mistakes and threw it away.”

  Another noble, an older man with a wine-stained tunic, clawed at Gareth’s arm. “Please, I have grandchildren—”

  “Where?” Gareth asked coldly.

  The man faltered. “They—they were sent ahead, with the first group that left.”

  “So they are safe.” Gareth wrenched his arm away and stepped past the man. The revolutionary soldier behind him did not.

  The slaughter continued, but Gareth hardly noticed. His focus was elsewhere, drawn to the presence he felt ahead.

  Leonard was close now. The Hero had taken another group to ensure the fortress was truly empty of hidden forces before they all converged on the throne room, where they expected Pollus to be.

  The revolutionaries pressed on, clearing the last barricades and subduing the final stragglers. The deeper they went, the louder the whispers in Gareth’s mind grew. He welcomed them, embraced them, and echoed them aloud, the prayer becoming more distinct.

  “Praise the Hero. Praise Him.”

  It felt right.

  It felt true.

  Gareth barely had time to register the ambush before a wave of fire and raw arcane energy surged toward him and his men. He watched as the spells streaked through the air like meteors, each one a killing blow designed to eliminate them in a single strike. The air crackled with magical intensity, and the sheer force of the assault warped reality.

  Yet he did not falter.

  As the deadly barrage descended, something inside him snapped—not in fear, but in defiance. His vision narrowed, and a deep, electric hum filled his ears, drowning out the panicked cries of his men. The storm within him surged forth. Lightning crackled along his limbs, dancing like living veins of light, and his entire body trembled with raw power.

  A blinding blue-white arc of lightning erupted from his form, colliding with the incoming spells. Fire twisted, ice shattered, and force waves dissipated against the sheer, overwhelming strength of his will. The impact sent shockwaves through the corridor, cracking the stone walls and sending debris flying into the air. But Gareth remained unmoved.

  His breath came heavy, but his heart was calm—his trust in the cause had transcended mere belief. It was no longer just faith; it was his identity, his purpose. The Revolution wasn’t something he fought for. It was something he was.

  Through the fading haze, the nobles appeared—men and women dressed in lavish robes of deep blues, golds, and crimsons, their faces contorted in disbelief and fury. The eldest among them, a man with silver-threaded hair and a ceremonial staff, took an involuntary step back. His voice quaked as he shouted, “That was enough power to level a fortress! You should be dead!”

  Gareth didn’t answer with words. His actions were enough.

  He surged forward faster than he had expected. The very air seemed to bend around him as he closed the distance in a blur of crackling energy. A noble raised his hand to cast another spell—but Gareth didn’t let him finish. He drove his spear clean through the man’s enchanted doublet with a single, thunderous strike. The noble’s eyes widened, a final spell flickering on his lips before he collapsed.

  Lightning erupted from Gareth’s body, arcing from one enemy to the next. One woman tried to shield herself with a glowing blue barrier, but the instant the current touched it, her defenses shattered like glass. She screamed as raw energy surged through her form, and she dropped lifelessly to the ground, charred.

  The nobles were not just mages; some wielded swords, enhancing their bodies with magic in hopes of confronting Gareth in close combat. They failed. A younger nobleman, brandishing a glowing rapier, lunged with impressive speed. Yet Gareth was quicker. He sidestepped, seized the noble’s arm, and broke it with a sharp twist. Before the man could utter a cry, a bolt of lightning struck directly into his chest, stopping his heart instantly.

  Another man shrieked, raising both hands as violet energy coalesced between his fingers. A death curse—an ancient spell meant to consume the target’s soul. Gareth saw it forming, saw the flicker of desperation in the man’s eyes—he knew that merely casting such magic would mean his own end, and yet his hatred of the revolution was such that he didn’t care as long as he could prolong the world’s suffering.

  But Gareth felt no fear. Only faith.

  Before the curse could be unleashed, he struck the ground with his spear, releasing a violent pulse of electricity. The stone cracked, the air vibrated, and the noble was thrown back like a ragdoll. He slammed into the wall, convulsing as arcs of lightning burned through him. The ancient curse, interrupted halfway, turned on its caster, and the man slowly crumbled into ash, fully conscious of the horror he had inflicted upon himself.

  The last of the nobles stared at him, their faces contorted in horror.

  “No,” one whispered, her voice trembling. “You can’t kill us. We are valuable prisoners! Our lands need us!”

  Gareth took another step forward, and they recoiled as if he were death itself approaching.

  “To stand against the Revolution,” he said, calm but with thunder rumbling in his chest, “is to stand against justice, against the Light itself.” He leveled his spear at them. “You chose this.”

  With that, he moved.

  The fight didn’t last much longer. Gareth and his men tore through the remaining nobles with unrelenting force, his spear a blur of golden light and crackling death. Some tried to flee, but the revolutionaries cut them down before they could escape. Others fell to their knees, begging for mercy, but Gareth felt nothing for them. The time for mercy had passed long ago.

  By the time the last body hit the ground, Gareth was painted in blood, his chest rising and falling with deep, steady breaths. The scent of ozone and burnt flesh filled the air, and the corridor flickered with the afterglow of lingering electricity. His men stood behind him, silent, awestruck.

  One of them stepped forward hesitantly. “General…” she started, but whatever she had meant to say died on her tongue. She simply looked at him, eyes full of something between reverence and fear.

  Gareth slowly turned to face his soldiers. Their expressions were clear. They had felt something.

  He exhaled and tightened his grip on his spear. The storm within him had not faded. If anything, it had only grown stronger.

  “Our path is clear,” he said simply. “The Hero awaits us at the heart of the citadel.”

  With that, he turned and strode forward. Those who still had questions would need to find answers on their own.

  Gareth had his.