A grating, unnerving peal of laughter sliced through the sound of battle, echoing from the shadowed peak of a nearby rooftop.
"Hehehehahahaha! Yes, at last! It seems the Boaz is almost dead!" said the voice, dripping with a cruel glee that sent shivers down the spine, belonged to Olivas.
From his high perch, he had been a silent, observing predator, watching the unfolding events with rapt attention, a dark smile playing on his lips.
He stretched his long arms towards the bruised, smoke-filled sky, a gesture that mimicked prayer but felt more like a blasphemous claim on the night.
"The old follower of Zeus," he roared down to the evilus forces below, his voice amplified with wicked triumph, "is now one of us! Zald has struck down the strongest warrior! Rejoice, my loyal comrades! The time has come to drag Orario to its knees!" A chilling afterthought slithered into his mind, equally satisfying.
'Allen is pretty much dead too,' he mused, relishing the prospect of Freya's chariot demise matching that of the mighty boar.
In response, a thunderous, guttural roar erupted from the ranks of the evilus soldiers scattered across the streets and plazas below.
It wasn't just a cheer; it was a wave of pure, unadulterated zeal that drowned out the sounds of combat.
"Roaaaaaaaaaah!" they screamed, their voices a single, monstrous entity.
Soon, the roar coalesced into a frenzied, rhythmic chant, their eyes fixed on the figure of Olivas above.
"Zald, Zald, Zald...!" the sound was infectious, spreading like a fever.
Like a chain reaction snapping through their ranks, bodies convulsed with energy.
Some pumped their fists into the air with savage intensity, others hoisted their bloodied weapons towards the heavens, while a few gave vent to their madness in twisted, triumphant songs.
Their violent screams and maniacal shouts overlapped, creating a terrifying chorus that celebrated the downfall of their enemies' champion, calling out the name of the one who had delivered the crushing blow.
The reverberations of this mocking victory chant immediately reached the ears of the adventurers fighting desperately on the ground.
They froze, stunned into disbelief.
The impossible had happened.
The news of the clash between Ottar, the city's undisputed strongest warrior, and an evilus champion, ripped through the defenders' ranks like a wildfire, searing its way into every corner of the sprawling city.
It was a fatal blow to morale.
Their greatest champion had fallen, and the precarious balance of the battle was about to tip decisively, irrevocably, in favor of the evilus.
Among all who heard the devastating news of Ottar's defeat, the members of the Einherjar took it perhaps the hardest.
Their world seemed to tilt on its axis.
"Ottar... lost...?" Hogni muttered, the words catching in his throat, his voice trembling with a disbelief so deep, that it bordered on denial.
He shook his head violently.
"I refuse to believe it! This must be one of the evilus vile tricks! The only ones Ottar is allowed to lose to are us!" he roared, his emotions thoroughly and dangerously rattled.
His focus, locked onto the shocking news, had fatally strayed from the immediate threat.
He had turned away from opponents he should never have shown his back to, and the price for that lapse in attention was swift and brutal.
"Hogni, get down!" A desperate shout pierced through his distraction, sharp and urgent.
It was Hedin, seeing the danger and frantically trying to warn his comrade.
An incoming attack.
The 'Dis' sisters of the Alecto familia, their forms like twin shadows, moved with sinister grace. But Hedin's warning, however frantic, came too late.
"You mustn't look away, Hogni," came the chillingly synchronized voices of the two sisters, a soft, silken whisper that promised pain.
"Ack!" was the only choked sound that escaped Hogni's lips as he crumpled to the ground, a sudden, agonizing impact tearing through him.
"See? Now you are all full of holes!" they finished, their voices light and cruel, hovering over their fallen foe.
The sight of Hogni's collapse added another layer to the despair settling over the defenders.
In another part of the chaotic battlefield, the four Gulliver brothers were also struck by the news, their normally boisterous energy replaced by a spiraling maelstrom of emotion.
"There is no way anyone can beat that boar in a fight!" yelled Berling, his voice thick with refusal to accept reality.
"He wouldn't stay dead even if you tore his heart out!" Dvalinn added, his tone grim, reflecting the sheer impossibility they felt.
"Hmm, it's impossible," Grer agreed simply, stating the widely held belief that had just been shattered.
"Brothers please, remain calm," Alfrigg pleaded, the most grounded of the four, desperately trying to pull them back from the emotional brink.
"Our enemies are all level fives right in front of us!" their current opponents, members of the insidious Apate familia, watched their momentary lapse with predatory eyes, ready to capitalize on the emotional fallout.
Beyond the immediate shock of the Einherjar, the vast majority of other adventurers and civilians were plunged into a deep, paralyzing despair.
"What are we to do now?" an adventurer was heard asking, the question a choked whisper swallowed by the surrounding chaos.
But no one could offer an answer.
Their strongest champion, their symbol of resilience, had fallen.
What hope was there for them, the self-perceived "cannon fodder," when the titans themselves had been vanquished?
Many of the weaker adventurers had fought with determination, clinging to the belief that victory was possible, that the 'first class' adventurers, the heroes they looked up to, would ultimately carry the day and push back the darkness.
But reality had struck a brutal blow, shattering their faith.
Why continue this bloody, desperate struggle when victory seemed a hopeless, distant dream?
The morale of adventurers sharing this crushing sentiment began to plummet rapidly.
It was a visible descent into despair.
Some stood frozen, their eyes wide and vacant.
Others, unable to bear the weight of the news, simply discarded their weapons, the clatter on the stone echoing the sound of their broken will, accepting the bitter taste of defeat.
If only the rot ended there.
Like a virulent plague, the demoralized state of the adventurers spread to the civilians who had looked up to them for protection, whose hope was tethered to the strength of these warriors.
The small glimmer of order and safety they had clung to began to crumble, giving way to raw, primal fear.
The civilians, stripped of their perceived protectors, felt an urgent need to seek other, any other, forms of security.
This was an extremely precarious situation.
The civilians were now in a state of vulnerability and fear, making them frighteningly susceptible to manipulation by the evilus forces.
All it would take was convincing enough of them that joining the side of the evil ones was the only way to survive, and the adventurers, who had fought to the death to protect them, would be discarded, left to face the enemy alone.
......…
Boom!
Several districts away from the main area of the evilus celebration and mass despair, a different, equally devastating sound tore through the urban landscape.
The unmistakable roar of a catastrophic magical explosion ripped through the air, causing heads to snap in its direction.
"What is that?" Eleni muttered, her eyes wide, her gaze drawn towards the distant, ominous blast.
At the site of the explosion, destruction reigned supreme.
Several sturdy buildings lining either side of the street had been reduced to rubble, their stone facades crumbling inwards.
Amidst the debris and settling dust, two figures lay battered and broken, collapsing heavily onto the shattered ground as if their very substance had given out.
Riveria was the first to fall, her powerful magic barrier, the shield that had protected countless lives, finally exhausted, leaving her exposed and vulnerable.
Then it was Gareth, the dwarf warrior, dropping his massive shield with a heavy clang, his arms swollen to grotesque proportions, a pulpy mess from the relentless impacts he had absorbed, his legendary endurance finally reaching its limit.
Standing over them, utterly untouched by the chaos she had wrought, was Alfia.
Her expression was one of disinterest, almost boredom.
"Disappointing as always," she muttered, her voice flat and devoid of emotion, highlighting the immense gulf in power between her and the two fighters she had just defeated.
Her aloofness was more terrifying than any rage.
Asfi was the first to arrive at the scene, her speed driven by desperate worry.
She skidded to a halt, her eyes bulging from their sockets as she took in the horrifying scene.
Her breath hitched in her throat.
"How...?" she whispered, the sound ragged.
"Riveria and Gareth lost too...?" Her face crumpled in overwhelming despair, the weight of this double calamity crushing her spirit.
In that moment, Asfi was brutally confronted with her own insignificance.
She was a low-level adventurer, a skilled supporter, but utterly powerless against a force like Alfia, a "monster" who could dispatch the city's greatest defenders with such ease.
What could she possibly do for Riveria or Gareth? Nothing.
Her level was too low, her strength too lacking.
So, she could only hide, pressing herself against a crumbling wall, observing the scene with a heart full of despair, despairing not just for her allies, but for her own crushing inadequacy in the face of such overwhelming power.
The evilus forces, however, on hearing the secondary explosion and the subsequent news of Riveria and Gareth's fall, were ecstatic.
Their hearts hammered in their chests, surging with adrenaline as if pumped full of stimulants. The impossible was becoming reality before their eyes.
High above, on another vantage point, observing the state of her own companions and the city below, Valletta couldn't suppress a wide, triumphant smile.
'To think the first tier adventurers, the main protectors of this city, were done in so easily,' she thought, the sheer audacity and success of their plan fueling her elation.
She couldn't contain her excitement any longer.
Doubling over, she threw her arms up towards the indifferent stars above.
"Who is left to protect this city?!" she shrieked, her voice laced with mad triumph.
"Is it Finn? That lizard boy? No, they are finished! Ahahahahahaha!" her chilling cackle echoed.
The biggest obstacles to their complete takeover of Orario were being systematically eliminated. Ottar, Riveria, Gareth and many others – the pillars of the city's defense – were down.
Finn and Draco were, in her estimation, also neutralized.
The path was clear.
Now was the critical moment to transition to the next phase of their meticulously crafted plan.
......….
High above the swirling clouds of the night sky, a solitary figure hovered, a silent observer watching the unfolding disaster play out below.
Many thoughts, heavy and complex, churned within his mind.
After the devastating news of Ottar's defeat had reached the relative safety of Central Park, Draco had immediately taken to the skies, seeking a vantage point to grasp the full scope of the catastrophe.
From his elevated perspective, he had seen it all: Ottar and Allen's current, desperate predicament, Riveria and Gareth's crushing defeat, Hogni's costly moment of carelessness, the Gulliver brothers momentarily frozen in their stalemate, the widespread despair causing adventurers to surrender their will to fight.
Everything was collapsing; the situation was spiraling rapidly downhill, and Draco was wrestling with a monumental decision.
What could he, what should he do? Ottar and Allen were effectively at death's door, their life forces flickering like dying embers, but they were not yet extinguished.
Although their apparent defeat was a horrible, demoralizing blow to the adventurers' side, their actual deaths would be the unquestionable nail in the coffin for Orario.
Someone, somehow, needed to save them, and quickly. But who?
Draco mentally ran through the possibilities.
He would have considered the immense risk of attempting to save just Ottar if only Zald were present, though even that endeavor, even with all his current, hidden abilities, would have carried an agonizingly low rate of success.
He had grossly underestimated the sheer, overwhelming power Zald wielded, never truly believing that a peak level 6 like Ottar could be taken out so swiftly, so decisively.
'How the hell did Ottar beat this monster in the original timeline?' he couldn't help but wonder, the discrepancy a cruel twist of fate in this altered reality.
To make the potential rescue mission success rate even lower, there was another terrifying monster involved, one who didn't seem any weaker than Zald, currently—and horrifyingly—toying with Allen in the exact same location.
How in the names of all the gods was anyone going to save them both? Draco cursed the impossible situation.
Ottar and Allen absolutely could not die, not now, not here.
Their survival was paramount to any faint hope of turning the tide.
Yet, there wasn't enough manpower, not enough strength, no one capable enough of accomplishing the seemingly impossible feat of rescuing them from two such overwhelming threats.
And time was running out, ticking away with merciless speed.
In perhaps only a minute or two, Zald would reach Ottar, and Allen's opponent could end him at any second.
'Should I just throw caution to the wind? Go completely berserk and just hope I don't get one-shot immediately?' he considered, the desperate thought flashing through his mind.
It might buy just enough time, a precious few seconds or miraculously minutes, for Allen to perhaps somehow escape with Ottar... but what about him?.
The plan was suicidal.
He quickly shook his head, dismissing the notion as reckless, almost pointless self-sacrifice.
But what other options were there? What other desperate measures could possibly salvage this rapidly deteriorating situation in such an impossibly short amount of time?
The sky offered no answers, only a panoramic view of a city falling into darkness, and the crushing weight of a decision that seemed destined for failure.