Here lies another chapter

Enjoy


Chapter 6: Coup d'état

The cold winds howled through the barren wasteland as Antares stood before the final stronghold of Zurranon. In a single day, he and his troops had hunted down every main base of Zurranon, executing their Executives on the spot. None of them deserved his mercy.

His towering form, clad in golden pristine armor, his first phase, was a beacon of radiance amidst the darkened landscape. A thin layer of snow blanketed the ground, muffling the footsteps of his silent approach. The visible air breezed from his helmet in the cold mountain air as he advanced toward the entrance of the ancient tomb. Before him lay an army—an unholy swarm of the dead.

Skeletons clattered together, their empty eye sockets glowing with red malice, while wraiths floated silently above them, their forms little more than shadows of malevolent intent. Leading them were grotesque ghouls and towering undead warriors, clad in rusted armor from wars long forgotten. Behind them their formation stood a legendary figure among the denizens of this world. A Death Knight.

Taller than most and sporting black armor, the mid-tier undead acted like the commander of this army, ready to defend it against their supposed intruder.

Antares came to a stop, his golden eyes narrowing as the army of the dead stood between him and his prize. The de facto leader of Zurannon, a Night Lich.

With a flick of his wrist, the [Fragments] around his body shimmered, converging into the form of a massive warhammer. The ethereal hammer gleamed with divine light, its weight seemingly inconsequential in his hands. The ground beneath him trembled slightly as he raised the weapon, a testament to the power coiling within him.

The undead horde surged forward, an endless sea of bones and dark energy, their inhuman wails echoing across the frozen wasteland. Antares remained unfazed, his massive form a calm anchor in the chaos. He swung his hammer with calculated precision.

The first blow landed with a deafening crack, sending a shockwave through the air. The impact was devastating. Skeletal warriors were pulverized, their bones shattering into dust as they were sent flying in all directions. The ghastly wails of wraiths were silenced, despite their incorporeal forms, they dissipated under the radiant energy of the weapon.

Another swing—this time broader, more forceful. The hammer cleaved through a mass of undead, the force alone sending fragments of bone and armor scattering like autumn leaves in a storm. Antares' movements were almost effortless, his mastery of the weapon evident in every strike.

The numbers of the undead continued to swell. More rose from the earth, clawing their way through the dirt and rock, reanimated by the foul magic permeating the stronghold. It did not matter. Bones and decaying flesh still fell to his hammer.

Having pulverized most of the vanguard, he reached the Death Knight. Having no sense of fear or worry, the Death Knight prepared to slice this would be challenger in one go.

But Antares was quicker. As he raised his forearm, the rusted blade of the undead shattered against his superior armor. Antares then struck the Death Knight in the face, shattering its helm and sending it crashing into the snowy ground.

With a single motion, he raised his warhammer high and brought it crashing down into the downed undead. The impact was catastrophic. The earth shook violently, fissures spreading from the impact, causing the ground to split.

Entire ranks of the undead were staggered by the quake, the tremors tearing through their ranks and collapsing parts of the underground stronghold itself, as the form of the Death Knight slowly vanished to nothingness. This was more than a show of force. It was a message.

Deep within the tomb, seated in a grand study surrounded by ancient tomes, the Night Lich felt the ground rumble beneath him. His bony fingers paused mid-page, and his hollow eyes glowed faintly with irritation.

"Hmm… another one of those so-called heroes," he muttered, closing the book in his hands with a snap.

He stood, adjusting the ornate robes draped over his skeletal frame. "I suppose it's time to deal with this interruption."

...

Above, Antares stepped through the wreckage, his golden armor faintly glowing against the gloom. More undead met his path, but they were dispatched with little effort. His warhammer struck with unyielding force, each blow delivering swift retribution.

He continued through the stronghold, making his way deeper into the heart of the tomb. His gaze remained focused, his thoughts clear. The farther he went, the darker the surroundings became, until the only light was that which radiated from his own presence.

Then, the air grew cold—colder than before. He entered a large, cavernous chamber, and from the shadows, four enormous shapes emerged. Bone dragons.

They stepped forward, their massive skeletal forms creaking and groaning with each movement. Their hollow eyes glowed with eerie blue flames, and their jaws opened wide, releasing a low, rumbling growl that reverberated through the chamber.

Antares felt something stir deep within him—an instinctual reaction to the sight of dragons, even their lifeless, skeletal forms. His spirit recoiled, momentarily dragged back to a time when the skies themselves had burned with the wings of creatures far more powerful than these. His golden essence flared, unbidden memories scratching at the edge of his mind.

The rage was sudden, a molten fury that tightened his grip on the warhammer.

The bone dragons charged, their enormous frames shaking the ground with every step, but Antares didn't move at first. He stood there, measuring their advance, their formation, the creaking bones and blue flames in their hollow eyes. Predictable. Sloppy. These were no true dragons. They were just mockeries of relics long forgotten

When the first beast lunged, its maw open wide, he didn't waste energy. Instead of a head-on clash, he sidestepped just enough for the bone dragon to miss, its massive form lumbering past him. Too slow. Too obvious.

He pivoted smoothly, using the dragon's momentum against it, and swung his warhammer low. The weapon didn't aim for the creature's head or chest but struck its forelimb, shattering bone and throwing the beast off balance. It collapsed, its skeletal structure crumbling under its own weight. Not all battles needed to be won with overwhelming force. Sometimes, all it took was precision.

As the next dragon descended from above, Antares timed his counter perfectly. A single upward strike met its open maw, but instead of aiming for the skull, he struck at the base of its jaw, leveraging the force of the impact to dislocate its entire head. Bones flew in all directions as the dragon collapsed mid-charge.

One after another, the bone dragons tried to overwhelm him, but Antares didn't need to unleash his full might. He knew their weaknesses, saw through their simple-minded tactics. His hammer fell with brutal efficiency, not just in raw power but in surgical strikes that crippled their forms.

Even as the last of the bone dragons collapsed into a heap of fractured bones, the rage in Antares refused to subside. He stood there, surrounded by the remnants of his enemies, his chest rising and falling with heavy, deliberate breaths. Golden energy crackled around him, flickering erratically as his divine aura fluctuated—out of control, raw and untamed.

Why now? Why did these pathetic imitations stir such fury?

These creatures—these puppets of necromancy—were inconsequential, a pale mockery of the real thing. They posed no threat, not to him. But still, he felt the anger, sharp and consuming, simmering beneath the surface.

It was the sight of dragons, their forms, their very existence. They were a reminder of something he had long sought to bury, a being he had once faced—a force of nature he had barely survived.

Him.

The thought flashed through his mind, unbidden. The Devourer—the one who had destroyed Yggdrasil, who had torn apart the Nine Realms with fire and fury. This was no true dragon he faced now, but even this cheap imitation brought back memories he had tried to suppress. Memories of a battle he had lost, of a failure that haunted him still.

His grip tightened on the warhammer, his knuckles whitening as the golden energy around him surged. He could feel it—the pull of that rage, the urge to unleash it, to obliterate everything in his path. But he reined it in, his will stronger than the storm inside him.

Before he could dwell further, a crackling sound reached his ears. A sharp arc of electricity surged through the air, aimed directly at his back. Antares reacted instinctively, raising his hand to intercept the spell. The energy crackled against his palm, but it left no mark, only a rising smoke. He turned slowly, his eyes narrowing as he saw the figure floating above the ground.

It was the Night Lich.

The undead leader hovered in the air, his skeletal form draped in luxurious robes, his form radiating the foul magic that composed undeath. He descended gracefully, his hollow gaze fixed on Antares with mild curiosity.

"And who might you be?" the Night Lich asked, his voice calm, almost disinterested.

Antares' eyes gleamed with cold fury as he hefted his warhammer. "I am your judge," he said simply, "and your executioner."

The lich tilted his head, as if genuinely confused. "Judge? Executioner? Of what crime? All I've done is seek happiness, a simple goal. The pursuit of knowledge, of power—an eternity of peace. What crime is that?"

Antares' grip tightened on his hammer, his voice low and controlled. "You enslave the living. You spread darkness and death across this world. Your cult sows misery wherever it goes."

The Night Lich's glowing eyes flickered with amusement. "Misery? I've committed no crime, warrior. My actions are simply a means to an end. A greater cause—to transcend mortal life and exist beyond the bounds of death. Is that so wrong?"

Golden energy began to shimmer around Antares' armor, his rage barely contained. "I am the Protector. The guardian of all life. And if your 'happiness' means the suffering of others, then you will face me first."

He slammed the butt of his warhammer into the ground, the impact reverberating through the chamber. The Night Lich floated back slightly, a harsh laugh escaping from his nonexistent throat.

"So be it…" the lich said, his voice dripping with mockery.

In a flash, the Night Lich disappeared, teleporting away to gain distance. Instantly, he launched a barrage of spells—black lightning and waves of cold fire. Antares didn't flinch. His armor absorbed the brunt of the magic, effectively leaving him scarless, as they were either deflected or simply taken head-on.

The Night Lich hovered in the air, a malevolent aura on his skeletal figure, fingers crackling with dark energy as he weaved another spell. Beneath him, the bones of fallen warriors stirred, rattling and scraping as they reassembled themselves, forming into ghastly shapes. Skeletons clawed their way out of the earth, ghouls rose from decaying remains, and a tide of death surged toward Antares.

But Antares remained still, standing amid the growing wave of undeath, his golden eyes narrowing beneath his helm. As the undead swarmed him, clambering over each other in a mad frenzy to overwhelm the armored giant, The Night Lich laughed—a hollow, mocking sound.

"[Negative Burst!]"

His voice rang out, commanding the energies of death itself to empower his creations. A wave of foul magic rippled outward from his body, twisting the ghouls and skeletons with newfound strength, their claws sharper, their eyes burning with malice, while at the same time damaging this would be hero.

But Antares had grown tired of the lich's games. His golden energy flared, igniting like a star being born. The skeletal warriors that mounted his form froze, their brittle bones cracking under the pressure of his aura.

And then, with a single flex of his will, he exploded into motion.

A burst of radiant light erupted from Antares, blinding in its intensity. Skeletons disintegrated on contact, their bones turned to dust in an instant. The ghouls, their bodies twisted with dark energy, let out guttural wails as they were flung backward, crashing against the stone walls and shattering into lifeless heaps. Even the very air around him seemed to warp under the sheer force of his power.

The Night Lich faltered, his spell faltering as the shockwave of golden energy rocked the chamber. He hovered higher, his hollow eyes narrowing. This was no ordinary aura—this was something far more dangerous. 'I need more time…'

Antares, however, did not grant him that luxury.

"You've hidden behind your minions for long enough, little lich." Antares said, his voice echoing through the ruined chamber.

With speed that belied his massive form, he dashed forward, his warhammer raised high. The Night Lich barely had time to register the movement before Antares was upon him in the air. The hammer crashed into the lich's chest with the force of a meteor strike, sending him hurtling to the ground. He hit the stone floor with enough force to crack it, and his body buried itself into the earth.

"You sought eternal life but all you've found is oblivion." Extending his hand, he silently cast a binding spell. A golden aura enveloped the lich, lifting him from the ground as if he were weightless. The lich struggled in vain as Antares raised his hand, flicking it upward.

The Night Lich was launched skyward, his form smashing through the layers of stone and earth above them, ascending rapidly through the levels of the dungeon. Finally, with a great crash, the lich broke through the surface, landing in the open air above.

Antares emerged from the hole, walking calmly toward the Night Lich, his glowing eyes fixed on the pitiful undead creature that had once ruled over so much death and misery. Snow crunched under his feet as he approached, the cold night air doing nothing to diminish the blazing aura of power around him.

His soldiers, who didn't participate in the battle, resolving only to watch their lord crush their enemies alone, stood silently—forming an unyielding wall around their commander and his prey, their silver armor reflecting the moon's light.

The Night Lich tried to crawl faster, but his body was too broken. His one remaining arm clawed at the snow in desperation, each movement slower than the last. His once-arrogant facade had shattered along with his skeletal frame.

Antares reached down, his gauntlet-clad hand closing around the lich's ankle. With effortless strength, he lifted the creature into the air, letting him dangle there, powerless. The lich's head lolled back, his hollow eyes staring down at the earth as his broken body hung limply from Antares' grip.

"You will pay for the lives you've destroyed, pathetic lich…" Antares said coldly. His echoey voice was steady, a terrifying calm in the face of the lich's crumbling power. "Your time has come."

The Night Lich, still struggling to form coherent thoughts through the haze of events, managed a weak rasp. "No… please… you don't understand… I—"

Antares silenced him with a quick flick of his wrist, sending the lich crashing against a nearby tree with a sickening crunch. The undead's body, already in tatters, was barely held together by dark magic. The impact splintered his remaining bones, and a ragged, broken groan escaped from him as he lay helpless.

Antares raised his head to the sky, looking up at the moon for a brief moment. The reflected light bathed the battlefield in an eerie silver glow, and for the first time in what felt like eons, he allowed himself to wonder. Was his creator watching him now? Was Yggdrasil proud of what he had done? Of what he had become? Her voice… eluded him.

He shook the thought away. There was no time for such distractions.

Turning back to the broken form of the Night Lich, Antares made a decision. He reached out with his free hand, opening a portal in the air before him. The swirling, golden energy pulsed with power, casting long shadows over the surrounding area.

The lich, barely conscious, stared at the portal with what little remained of his faculties. He tried to speak again, but no words came—only a weak, rattling noise from deep within his throat.

Antares gripped him by the ankle once more and, without a second thought, hurled the Night Lich into the portal. The lich's body disappeared into the golden light, swallowed whole by the magic.

With the deed done, Antares stood alone for a moment, letting the silence of the night settle around him. His soldiers remained at attention, awaiting his next command. The cold wind blew softly, carrying with it the faintest whisper of peace. For a brief moment, all was still.

Antares looked up at the moon again, his thoughts once more turning to his creator. "Would you be proud of me?" he muttered, almost to himself. The words hung in the air, unanswered.

After a beat, he lowered his gaze and turned back to his soldiers. "Prepare for teleportation," he ordered, his voice carrying the same steady authority it always did.

The soldiers saluted sharply, their movements precise and disciplined. Within moments, they began gathering around him, forming ranks in perfect synchronization.

As the last of Antares' soldiers disappeared through the portal, the sudden change in the air caught his attention. His senses, though dulled from the exertion of multiple summonings, flared as he detected something approaching fast—a group of powerful humanoids, closing in on him with unmistakable speed and intent. His eyes narrowed as he turned to face them.

They emerged from the tree line with practiced grace and discipline, their auras marking them as no ordinary combatants. At the forefront of the group were two individuals whose presence immediately stood out. The first was a tall man, his long black hair flowing behind him, clad in intricately designed armor that gleamed in the moonlight. His red eyes burned with intensity, and he wielded a spear with the ease of someone who had mastered it long ago.

The other was a petite warrior, armored head-to-toe, her face obscured by a winged helmet. She held a weapon that made Antares pause for a brief moment… a scythe? An odd choice for a warrior of such stature. Yet the way she carried it spoke volumes about her lethality.

A scythe was not a tool for war, at least not in the conventional sense. It was more a symbol, an instrument tied to death, harvest, or in some cases, judgment. The symbolism wasn't lost on him, and something about the woman's presence tugged at his memories—memories of ancient wars and forgotten gods. But that thought was quickly swept aside as he refocused on the situation at hand.

The Black Scripture had arrived.

The Captain of the Black Scripture stood frozen, his battle-hardened instincts screaming warnings into the back of his mind. His eyes, accustomed to witnessing carnage and devastation, swept across the scene before him—a field of shattered bones, broken corpses, and the unmistakable aftermath of a one-sided slaughter.

This was no ordinary battlefield. And Antares… this was no ordinary opponent.

The reports from their 6th Seat had been chilling, detailing the rise of this unknown entity, Antares, with far too much precision to be dismissed. He had read them, studied them, but no amount of paper and ink could have prepared him for the reality of standing in the presence of such a force. His anxiety gnawed at him, a deep, primal fear that told him something here was beyond his control.

This is not a battle they can win.

He had known powerful beings before, like the Dragon Lords and the Evil Deities—entities that could rival entire nations, those that required careful planning and sacrifices to bring down.

But Antares… he was different. There was something about him, something that defied the laws of power they understood. He radiated authority, not just strength. A being like him wasn't just strong—he was inevitable.

The decision to not engage Zuranon earlier had been a calculated move by the Theocracy. Zuranon, for all their twisted necromantic practices, had been serving a purpose—weakening the Re-Estize Kingdom, a thorn in the side of the Theocracy for quite some time. Their presence had been tolerated, watched but not dealt with.

But the moment one of their observers reported seeing them being attacked by an armored giant radiating a golden glow, the Cardinals had acted with surprising urgency. They had mobilized their strongest, sending the Black Scripture and their most powerful assets. It was a risk, but one they hoped would pay off.

Now, as the two parties faced each other, tension crackled in the air. The Captain couldn't help but feel the weight of this moment. His hand gripped his spear tightly, the cold metal grounding him as he kept his gaze locked on this insurmountable being.

From the corner of his eye, the Captain noticed Zesshi Zetsumei, the infamous Extra Seat of the Black Scripture. Out of all of them, she was the least concerned, in fact, it was the opposite.

She radiated anticipation, her scythe resting lightly in her hands, ready to strike at a moment's notice. Zesshi had long been a warrior who thrived on challenge, on testing the limits of her strength against worthy foes. And here, before her, was perhaps the greatest challenge she had ever encountered. Adding to the fact this was her first mission in a long time, her excitement was palpable, and it worried the Captain. This wasn't the time for recklessness.

Antares, standing tall amidst the snow and moonlight, felt the pressure of their gazes but remained unmoved. His golden eyes scanned the group, lingering on Zesshi for a moment longer than the others. She was clearly the biggest threat of them

However, he also felt something odd among them—something familiar... he could feel it, a presence he couldn't quite place, but it stirred memories deep within him, buried beneath layers of time and battles fought long ago. Yet his senses, weakened by his recent efforts, couldn't fully grasp what it was.

The Captain swallowed hard, taking a step forward. "Hail, Antares… we are from the Slane Theocracy," he began, though his voice felt hollow even to his own ears. "We have come to… discuss your situation with you."

Antares' golden eyes flickered with something akin to amusement. "Discuss?" he repeated, his voice resonating like a distant storm. "I recall finishing discussions long ago."

The Captain clenched his jaw but continued. "With all due respect… your presence here poses a potential threat to the lives of countless people. Nations could be at risk." His tone was firm, but not disrespectful, aware of the dangerous line he was walking. "We need to understand who you are, and what your intentions are."

Antares' armor shimmered faintly, reacting to the undercurrent accusation in the conversation. His aura, though still restrained, flared briefly. "I take no lives without reason," he continued. "But you… should reconsider your approach. Leave now, while you still have the chance."

It was a warning, veiled in a calm threat, but the Black Scripture weren't easily intimidated. They had fought beings of incredible power before—though none quite like him.

The Captain exchanged a glance with Zesshi and the rest of his team, the weight of the moment pressing down on them all. He closed his eyes for a brief second, as if contemplating their next move, then gave a subtle nod behind him.

In the back of the group, a figure began to move—the holder of the World Item, [Downfall of Castle and Country]. Antares' senses immediately snapped to them, a spark of recognition flickering in his dulled perception. His golden eyes widened slightly, and for the first time in the confrontation, he felt a moment of genuine surprise.

The presence radiating from that figure… it was unmistakable. One of the leaves of Yggdrasil—a World Item. The realization struck him like a hammer, momentarily throwing him off balance.

In that brief window of confusion, the World Item's activation was completed.

Antares' body seized as if struck by an invisible force. He felt a surge of ancient, primordial energy slam into his consciousness, a pressure so overwhelming it caused him to reel backward. In his mind's eye, he saw a massive, coiling dragon, a manifestation of the World Item's power, attempting to bind him, to crush his will and subjugate him.

For an instant, it seemed as though the spell might work.

But then, with a surge of golden light, Antares threw his head forward and let out a roar of defiance. His fists clenched as his divine essence flared, igniting the air around him in a blazing aura. He took a step forward, his muscles tensing as he grabbed the spectral dragon with his bare hands and, with a mighty wrench, snapped it in half.

The image of the dragon shattered, dissolving into nothingness as the World Item's effect was dispelled. Antares stood tall, his golden eyes blazing with fury as he locked onto the woman who had dared use it against him. To use his Creator… against him!? Unforgivable… the sheer force of his will sent shivers down the spines of all present.

The Captain, drenched in cold sweat, realized in that moment that their mission was a complete failure. The World Item—one of their most powerful trump cards—had failed to subdue Antares. In the Captain's mind, there was no longer any hope of victory. They would not survive a direct confrontation.

He silently conveyed his thoughts to his team. Retreat.

It was their only option now.

As the members of the Black Scripture cautiously stepped back, Antares remained motionless, his aura thickening, a palpable force of dread emanating from him. His eyes, glowing behind his helm, remained fixed on them. He finally spoke, his voice laced with menace.

"You have something that belongs to me..."

The Captain, sensing the rising danger, barked orders to his vanguard, his instincts screaming that time was running out. "Buy us some time! Protect the artifact!" The soldiers, driven by duty and the fear of their gods' wrath, charged ahead with a battle cry, their weapons gleaming in the dim moonlight. They surged forward, aiming to distract Antares and give their comrades a chance to escape with the World Item.

But Antares barely reacted. His gaze remained icy and unperturbed as he took a deep breath. Then, his voice, louder than any of them could have imagined, resonated through the freezing air.

"[STOP]"

It was no ordinary command—it was [Commandment, a spell of such primordial origin that no one, no matter how skilled or powerful, could resist. The moment the word left his lips, time seemed to stutter. The charging soldiers froze in mid-step, their weapons raised, but their bodies utterly immobile. The entire Black Scripture team, save for Antares himself, stood still as if trapped in a living painting.

Antares calmly surveyed the scene. His control over them was absolute. For all their strength, they were nothing compared to the primal magic he wielded, magic that predated even the know "Tier system", which was developed specifically for mortal hands.

His eyes locked onto his prize—the World Item. It was his by right, an artifact of his former realm, a shard of the great Yggdrasil. He prepared to leap toward the woman who held it.

However, something unexpected happened.

Zesshi, the scythe-wielding warrior, was the first to break free from the spell. Her Godkin nature gave her resistance that others lacked. She blinked, her mind racing to understand what had just happened. She had been moving one moment, then frozen the next. Only now did she feel her body respond again. Antares was already in motion, leaping toward them with a speed that belied his massive frame.

Without thinking, Zesshi rushed forward, her scythe slashing through the air. She intercepted Antares mid-flight, and for a brief moment, the two titanic figures clashed. They locked eyes, the force of their collision sending shockwaves through the air.

Antares' golden gaze bore into hers with an intensity that nearly made her falter. But Zesshi, gritting her teeth, refused to give in. She was going all out just to hold him in place.

In a swift motion, Antares grabbed her by the collar of her armor and, with seemingly little effort, hurled her backward. Zesshi's body flew through the air, crashing into the snow with a heavy thud. As she struggled to her feet, the Captain was there, catching her and helping her stabilize. He had also escaped the paralyzing spell, just slower than her—also a gift of his Godkin nature. His face was pale, his expression grim.

"We're out of options," the Captain muttered, his voice tight with tension. He knew they were running out of time and out of hope. "Zesshi, use your trump card. I'll buy you some time."

Zesshi hesitated for only a moment, then nodded.

"Got it."

The spell she was about to invoke wasn't just a trump card—it was something far more dangerous. The Cardinals might not approve of bringing a cold body in, but it was their only chance now. She jumped back, giving herself enough distance to focus, trusting that the Captain would be able to buy her a few precious seconds.

Meanwhile, Antares moved forward again, undeterred by their resistance. The Captain, spear in hand, lunged forward, determined to delay the inevitable. His spear struck out at Antares in rapid succession, aiming for weak points in his armor.

But Antares was faster. He caught the spear mid-thrust with one hand, his grip unyielding. With a swift, brutal counterpunch from his other hand, the Captain was sent flying, skidding several feet across the ground.

It was enough time. Zesshi had finished the incantation. Her voice rang out as she activated the spell.

"[The Goal of All Life is Death]."

An eerie silence fell over the battlefield as the spell took effect. The ground around Antares withered, the life force of everything in the vicinity drained away. The very air seemed to die, growing cold and stagnant. Zesshi watched, her breath held, as the power of the spell surged toward Antares, aiming to claim his life like it had so many others before him.

But nothing happened.

Antares stood at the center of the lifeless zone, utterly unaffected. His golden eyes narrowed as he stared at Zesshi. Did her spell just fail? But it's impossible! It's a guaranteed death!

"Did you… truly believe an instant-death spell would work on me?" he asked, his voice rising with increasing contempt. "A World Item couldn't stop me. What hope did YOU have?"

With a single, fluid motion, he short-teleported directly in front of her. Zesshi barely had time to react before Antares delivered a powerful palm strike to her chest, sending her flying backward again. The air left her lungs, and she landed in the snow, gasping for breath.

The [Commandment] spell finally released its hold on the rest of the Black Scripture, and they staggered as their muscles, locked in place for too long, screamed in pain. Exhausted, they could do little but watch in horror as Antares continued his relentless advance.

The woman holding the World Item—Downfall of Castle and Country—turned just in time to see Antares standing directly in front of her. She tried to scream, but the sound caught in her throat as his armored hand wrapped around her neck. With terrifying ease, he lifted the woman off the ground, her feet dangling helplessly as she struggled to breathe.

The Captain and the rest of the team, too far away or unable to stop him, watched in horror as Antares raised his free hand, preparing to end her life with a single strike.

But as Antares moved to pierce her, something unexpected happened. His hand, glowing with golden light, phased through her body harmlessly. The woman gasped, confused, as she realized she was unharmed.

Antares, however, was not looking at her anymore—his focus was on the object glowing beneath her garments. A soft, radiant light emanated from her dress, the true form of the World Item.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Antares reached into her form and pulled the item free. The dress shimmered and twisted in his hands, hovering just above his hand. The woman, now barely clothed, fell to the ground, forgotten as Antares marveled at the artifact in his hands.

He stared at it for a long moment, almost reverently. The item seemed to call to him, a fragment of the world he had once sworn to protect, a living piece of Yggdrasil in this foreign land. His hands moved instinctively, molding the dress into a ball of pure light. He then squeezed it with both hands, concentrating its power.

With a final, decisive motion, Antares slammed the orb of light into his own chest. His body erupted in a brilliant golden glow, his armor crackling with raw, overwhelming power.

For a brief moment, the battlefield disappeared, and Antares' mind was filled with a vision—a verdant hill, serene and green, now turned into a wasteland of ash and ruin. Bodies of all kinds of beasts layed strewn, their massive forms littered the ashland. They were once enemies of Yggdrasil, and they were given the death they deserved… by the Protector.

The glow subsided, and Antares, radiating newfound vigor, stood taller than before. His aura surged, a wave of raw energy pouring out from him as the true power of the World Item awakened within him a glimpse of the original level he once wielded.

The Black Scripture could only watch, paralyzed by fear and awe.

As the radiant glow finally dimmed, the members of the Theocracy lowered their hands, blinking through the lingering brilliance. What they saw before them left them breathless—a figure, no longer just a man, but something divine.

Antares had transformed.

His [Phase - Awakened Nova] form was nothing short of godlike. The plates of his armor, once impressive, had now condensed and shifted, forming an exoskeleton of gleaming gold and white. It hugged his frame, emphasizing the powerful musculature beneath—his form no longer hidden but enhanced by the divine light pouring off him.

His eyes, once burning with a controlled intensity, now shone like twin suns, their golden light seemingly piercing the very fabric of reality itself.

Upon his chest, the symbol of Yggdrasil, the World Tree, glowed like a brand of divine purpose. Its roots and branches stretched across his body, a network of luminescence that pulsed with life—an immortal reminder of his origins and his duty.

His pauldrons, ornately designed with jagged edges, seemed to carry the weight of the cosmos themselves. His gauntlets ended in sharp, elegant claws that flickered with golden energy, suggesting they could tear through any material with ease.

As he raised his right arm, the air around it shimmered and crackled with power. Tiny ember-like motes—his [Fragments]—began to gather and swirl, drawn to his command. They danced in the air like stars forming a constellation, before rapidly fusing together. The motes compressed, shaping themselves with precise purpose. Before long, they coalesced into a massive sword that seemed to be on fire with eternal yellow flames.

This was Infinity Edge.

The weapon, much like its wielder, was a relic of the past, a divine artifact capable of feats that defied mortal understanding. It was only capable to be used in this form, when he fuses every single [Fragment] he possesses into one.

Though diminished in this new world, its edge still shimmered with an aura of destiny, a weapon forged for gods and champions alike, but it was his to wield. The sword blazed in Antares' hand, the flames licking at the air, as if ready to unleash cataclysmic destruction at his will.

The members of the Black Scripture were frozen in place. None of them dared to move, nor could they if they tried. What stood before them wasn't just a powerful foe—it was a being beyond their comprehension, a creature of pure celestial might. To fight him was to fight against divinity itself.

Zesshi Zetsumei, the strongest among them, could only stare. Her Godkin blood screamed of the vast power standing before her, dwarfing even her most arrogant dreams of supremacy. This was unlike anything she had faced and, perhaps beyond anything she would ever face.

Antares narrowed his golden eyes, surveying the trembling group. He saw the fear etched into their expressions, the cold realization that they were facing something far beyond their reach. With a slight hum, he let go of Infinity Edge. But the weapon didn't fall. It floated behind him, held aloft by his sheer will, trailing his every movement with calm, effortless grace.

Without warning, he began to hover. His body, now imbued with the full power of [Awakened Nova, shimmered with golden flames. And then, in a blur of speed, he was gone—moving faster than any of them could track.

In an instant, he appeared between them, delivering blows that were too quick to see, too powerful to resist. One by one, the Black Scripture warriors crumbled, their bodies hitting the ground, unconscious. Each strike was precise, incapacitating without killing, but leaving no room for counterattack.

Miraculously, the Captain of the Black Scripture still stood, his instincts alone saving him from the immediate onslaught. He staggered, confused as to why he hadn't been struck down. He felt a shiver run down his spine, sensing something behind him. Slowly, he turned to find Antares standing there, his presence overwhelming. The Captain, more from desperation than hope, lunged forward with his spear.

Antares didn't even flinch.

He caught the spear effortlessly in his hand, gripping it as if it were nothing but a twig. The Captain struggled, his face contorted in frustration as he tried to wrench the weapon free.

But Antares' hold was absolute.

The spear, still caught in his grasp, began to glow—turning red, then orange, then white-hot. The heat radiating from Antares' grip was intense, too much for the Captain to bear. With a yelp, he let go as the spear began to warp, melting and disintegrating into molten metal in Antares' hand.

Without a word, Antares reached forward, grabbed the Captain by the hair, and slammed him into the ground headfirst. The impact left a small crater beneath the Captain, who lay there, dazed and barely conscious.

Antares turned, his gaze now fixed on Zesshi. In the blink of an eye, he was in front of her. She barely had time to react. Instinctively, she swung her scythe at him—but it cut through nothing but air.

She blinked, confused. Where had he gone? Her weapon—it was missing. Startled, she looked to her side and found Antares standing casually, holding her scythe in one hand, as if it were a curious trinket. He regarded it with mild interest, turning it over, inspecting its craftsmanship.

"With a weapon like this," Antares said, his tone almost mocking, "you'd be better off tending a farm, not fighting." With a dismissive flick of his wrist, he tossed the scythe aside. It landed far away, sinking into the snow, forgotten.

Zesshi's eyes flared with fury, but before she could even react, Antares struck. His fist connected with her stomach in a devastating uppercut, knocking the wind from her lungs and launching her high into the air. She gasped, her body curling inward from the force of the blow. As she ascended, Antares followed.

In mid-air, Zesshi desperately tried to defend herself, raising her arms to block. But it was useless. Antares was faster, stronger. He delivered a flurry of strikes, each one landing with precise, brutal force. She had no time to counter, no time to react—his speed was far beyond her Godkin reflexes. Each hit sent shockwaves through her body.

Finally, Antares grabbed her by the leg, spinning her like a ragdoll before hurling her toward the ground. Zesshi plummeted, her body crashing into the earth with a thunderous impact. Her armor was torn, cracked, and broken, her body bruised and battered.

Antares floated down, landing softly as the heat radiating from him began to subside. His armor, now no longer glowing, hissed as it cooled. The brilliant exoskeleton condensed once more, retreating, reforming into its original state with a soft mechanical click. Infinity Edge hovering behind him began to disintegrate slowly, its power only to be wielded at his best.

The transformation was over, and the immense power of [Awakened Nova] receded back into him, leaving Antares standing as he had been before.

His phase had ended.

Antares gazed at the shimmering object now floating in his hand, a faint golden glow tracing its edges. Downfall of Castle and Country—a World Item.

Not in a thousand years would he have imagined finding something like this here, in this strange world. The relic from Yggdrasil felt foreign and familiar all at once, its very presence stirring something deep within him.

He had thought everything from his old world was lost, consumed by the chaos that followed the detestable wyrm's arrival. But here it was, tangible, real.

He had ripped it from the hands of its wielder effortlessly, as was his right as the Apostle of Yggdrasil. In his old world, his authority over World Items was absolute. They were bound to the World Tree, just as he was, and no being inferior to him could ever resist his claim over them.

The transfer of power had even reignited his [Awakened Nova, albeit briefly. He could feel it—the sudden rush of strength, the glow of the fragments, the essence of divinity momentarily returning to him.

But with that surge came a cost.

The weight of the exchange bore down on him, a heavy drain on his life force that he couldn't ignore. It was the price he paid for tapping into such immense power in this disconnected state. He could feel the steady trickle of vitality leaving him, each moment in [Awakened Nova] taking a toll on his already waning strength.

And yet, it didn't matter. Not anymore. The pieces of Yggdrasil were still here, scattered across this world like echoes of the past. He could see it now.

His priorities shifted in that instant. Before, he had thought only of survival, of fulfilling his duty as a protector, a way to pay for his previous failure.

Now, a new goal burned in his mind: he would find every last World Item, the last remnants of his home. He would reunite them with their rightful owner—Yggdrasil awaited.

These ancient relics would help him regain a portion of the power he once wielded, enough to reclaim his former glory and fulfill his purpose once again.

He gazed down at the floating relic, then slowly pressed it against his chest. The World Item melded into him, absorbed by the roots and branches of the divine symbol emblazoned on his armor. For a brief moment, his aura expanded, a burst of light and energy pulsing outwards like a shockwave. Then, just as quickly, it contracted, pulled back under his control, the radiant force subdued and contained.

Antares allowed himself a moment of reflection. He considered how lenient he had been with the humans from the Theocracy. He was no stranger to them, being his first contact in this world. He had also learned a great deal about them during his travels, the tales of their actions and motivations.

While their desire to protect their own race from extinction was, on some level, noble, the way they trampled on other species—Humanoids included—was distasteful to him.

"Such hypocrisy…" He muttered as he laid eyes on the fallen warriors. Even among their fellow humans, they were far from kind. Their dogma, their zealotry, it all felt misplaced, crude.

His thoughts were interrupted by a soft sound—a groan. He looked down to see the Captain of the Black Scripture struggling, his body twitching as he tried to move. Antares huffed, mildly amused at the man's persistence.

He walked over, his heavy footsteps echoing against the cold earth. The Captain's head was stuck in the crater where Antares had slammed him moments earlier.

With a casual motion, Antares reached down, grabbed the Captain by the head, and pulled him up with little effort. The Captain gasped for air, his vision still blurred from the impact. When his eyes finally cleared, he found himself staring up at the towering figure of Antares, his heart sinking as the realization hit him once again: this was no mere opponent. This was a god. And they had dared to fight him.

The Captain, shaking, tried to find his voice. "I-I beg you, spare us. S-spare my family. My country. We—" He swallowed, his throat dry. "We didn't know what we were dealing with. I will do anything you ask... just please…!"

Antares remained silent, his gaze cold and unblinking. The Captain's pleas echoed in the still air. He wasn't surprised by the man's reaction—fear, desperation, the realization that their strongest relic had only strengthened him instead of stopping him.

The Captain's mind must have been racing with visions of destruction, his family, his people—helpless before a being that could wipe them from existence effortlessly.

After a long pause, Antares spoke, his voice calm and measured. "I have no interest in killing you or your kind," he said, his words sharp and deliberate. "Death... is too simple. What you need is to understand—understand what it means to exist in this world, to live in harmony, not by trampling over others."

The Captain's face was pale, but he managed to nod, his lips quivering. "Yes, anything. We will listen. We will follow your way."

Antares studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. "I want to meet your leaders. It's time they were educated." His words were not a threat, but a decree.

The Captain, still trembling, quickly bowed his head. "Our capital... it's south of here. But it will take weeks of travel by foot unless... unless you have means to teleport, like we did to get here."

Antares' golden eyes flickered with mild amusement. "Travel will not be an issue."

Without warning, root-like tendrils sprouted from his back, slithering through the air like living vines. The tendrils wrapped themselves around the Captain and the remaining members of the Black Scripture. The Captain gasped in alarm, feeling the strange energy pulsing through the tendrils as they encased him and his soldiers. Before he could protest, Antares began to float, lifting them all with him as his aura expanded once more.

Antares gazed southward, his eyes already locking onto the distant capital. With a sudden burst of speed, he shot through the sky like a comet, leaving nothing but a trail of light and the faint hum of divine energy in his wake.

They were heading for the heart of the Theocracy.

Change was coming.

...

The capital of the Slane Theocracy stretched out like a citadel of unyielding faith, its towering white walls looming over the sprawling city beneath. Everywhere, the symbols of the Six Great Gods were carved into stone, banners of silver and gold flying high atop each temple and fortress.

The skyline was dominated by the Grand Cathedral, a colossal structure where the highest-ranking officials of the Theocracy gathered to plot, pray, and prepare for the trials of their world. The streets outside bustled with the pious, and soldiers clad in shining plate armor kept order, while robed priests chanted prayers as they walked among the people.

In a chamber deep within the Grand Cathedral, hidden from the bustling city, the Cardinals and other high-ranking officials had convened. The room was dimly lit by the soft glow of enchanted crystals, with long shadows cast across the vast stone table where they sat. The air was thick with tension, as the topic of discussion was one that had shaken them all: the appearance of the Anomaly known as Antares.

Pontifex Maximus, the venerable leader of the Slane Theocracy, sat at the head of the stone table, his expression tight with thought. His old, gnarled fingers drummed slowly against the armrests of his high-backed chair, each tap echoing in the dimly lit chamber. The room was filled with the murmur of anxious voices, the Cardinals and other high-ranking officials debating furiously about the reports they had received.

He let the conversation wash over him, his mind too occupied to engage. They had always dealt with threats, from rogue agents to demonic cults—but this? This was something else. Antares. The name alone carried weight, a presence that they could feel looming over them even now.

Raymond, one of the more level-headed Cardinals, was speaking, though his voice betrayed the anxiety clawing at him. "The holder of [Downfall of Castle and Country] is with them as instructed," Raymond said, his eyes flicking nervously around the table. "The Captain is awaiting the signal to activate the mind-control. Once it takes full effect, Antares will be under our control."

Pontifex Maximus nodded slowly, though doubt lingered in his mind. Could a being as powerful as Antares truly be bound by such means? The World Item had brought them victory before, but…

"It must be done," Pontifex Maximus replied, his voice low and deliberate, but filled with a tension that betrayed his concern. "We cannot allow this being to roam unchecked. He is—"

A deafening crash cut him off.

The entire room trembled violently, and dust rained down from the ceiling. The walls cracked, the stone groaning under the force of the impact. Panic gripped the chamber, the Cardinals leaping to their feet, eyes wide with fear. A sickening dread filled the air as the ceiling split open, torn apart by an unseen force.

Through the swirling dust and debris, a figure descended—clad in radiant armor, glowing with an ethereal light that drowned the room in brilliance.

Antares.

Pontifex Maximus felt his heart seize in his chest as the god-like figure landed before them, cracking the stone floor beneath him with the weight of his presence. In his hand, the limp body of the Captain of the Black Scripture dangled like a broken doll, discarded with little more than a flick of the wrist.

Silence fell over the chamber. The Cardinals stood frozen, their minds struggling to comprehend the being that now stood among them. This was no ordinary warrior, no person they could control or manipulate. This was something above mortal constitution.

The Captain crawled toward the Cardinals, his hands shaking as he reached out to them in desperation.

"He… he's beyond us!" he stammered, his voice hoarse and filled with terror. "We failed… We… we are alive only because he allows it. You must… you must listen to him. Please. If you want to save the Theocracy, you must listen!"

The Cardinals stared at him in horror. The Captain of the Black Scripture, one of their most loyal warriors, was reduced to this—begging for their cooperation, trembling like a broken man. The full weight of their failure sunk in, as their eyes drifted back to Antares.

Pontifex Maximus felt a cold sweat break across his brow. This was no mere being. This… was a god of war.

Antares stepped forward, his presence alone enough to send a wave of dread rippling through the room. His voice filled the chamber, deep and commanding, like the weight of a thousand pressing down on them.

"I am Antares Morningstar," he began, his tone unwavering, each word hanging in the air like a decree. "The Son of Yggdrasil, the Brightest Star in the Realms, Defender of the World Tree, and Supreme Commander of the Eternal Army."

The Cardinals listened, their fear palpable as he continued.

"I was born from the World Tree itself, Yggdrasil, to guard the Nine Realms. It was my duty to protect them from the forces, within and without, that threatened to tear reality apart—demon gods, fallen angels, beasts of apocalypse, and titans of the end times. I have slain them all."

Antares' eyes scanned the room, his presence suffocating as he continued his tale, almost as if he rehearsed it countless of times. "And it was I who set the 'Chosen Ones', the Players, on their first steps toward greatness. I gave them their first quest, then set them free into the worlds to grow stronger. It was I who tested them by the will of the World Tree itself. For only by defeating me… could they be ready for the trials to come."

A chilling silence followed his words. The Cardinals exchanged wide-eyed glances, the realization dawning on them like a slow, creeping horror.

Antares wasn't just anyone. He came from the same place as their Six Gods, that much they knew. But not only that, he had been the one to guide and test those gods in their realm of origin. He was, in essence, a divine architect of the universe they now knew.

Pontifex Maximus felt his knees tremble. He knew they were outmatched. And yet, Antares hadn't killed them. Not yet.

Antares continued, his tone sharp. "Your resolve to protect your race… is commendable. But your discrimination against all others—your cruelty toward those who are different—this, I cannot allow."

The weight of his words pressed down on the Cardinals, and they knew the full meaning behind them. This was not a negotiation. This was a decree.

"As the Apostle of the World Tree," Antares declared, "You will cease your actions. You will follow my directive, or you will be considered enemies of Yggdrasil."

The Cardinals felt the cold certainty of his words. There was no room for debate, no way to challenge him. To refuse was to bring about the annihilation of their entire nation. They could feel it in their bones.

Pontifex Maximus looked to the others, and in their eyes, he saw the same fear reflected back at him. There was only one choice. Slowly, deliberately, he lowered himself to one knee, bowing his head. The other Cardinals, observing their leader, followed suit, one by one, until the entire room was bent before Antares, their heads low in submission.

"We… will follow you, Lord Antares Morningstar," the Pontifex said quietly, his voice trembling slightly. "We will follow your will."

Antares observed them for a long moment, his stance unreadable. The sight of them kneeling before him stirred something strange within him—perhaps amusement of lesser beings surrendering to him, or perhaps the odd familiarity of once again being worshiped.

Had he exaggerated his stance? Perhaps. But his point had been made.

"I am pleased with your decision," Antares said, though his voice was not without a hint of condescension, as if addressing wayward children. "Behave yourselves, and I will return soon."

The Cardinals nodded furiously, murmuring their agreements with bowed heads, and Antares vanished from the room in a flash of light.

...

Back at the base, chaos had erupted. Antares' soldiers were running back and forth, their disciplined forms showing signs of distress. Their leader had vanished for longer than they had anticipated, and the worry was beginning to mount. Though hardened in war, they were bound by an unbreakable loyalty to Antares, and any disruption to his presence, their Big Brother, left them uneasy.

The moment Antares reappeared at the entrance of the base, the entire scene shifted. The soldiers immediately halted, turning toward him with a mixture of relief and reverence.

"Supreme Commander!" they shouted in unison, slamming their fists against their chests in a powerful salute.

Antares raised a hand to calm them. "I am unharmed," he reassured them. "In fact, I am better than ever."

A bark cut through the air, and Antares turned to see Sköllfrid bounding toward him, tail wagging furiously. Antares bent down, scooping the small wolf into his arms, and petted him gently. The warm, comforting presence of his first companion in this world stirred confort inside of him, softening the edges of his god-like presence.

He turned to the single Astrologer he had summoned before. "The undead we captured. Where are they?" Antares asked.

The Astrologer nodded his head before replying, his voice edged with disdain. "They have been secured, my master. The first one, however, was given more… favorable accommodations."

Antares nodded thoughtfully, his mind already moving to his next steps. "I see," he murmured. "I will meet them when the time comes." For now, though, he allowed himself a fleeting sense of satisfaction.

The mission, his duty, was far from over, but it was progressing, and for the first time in a long while, he felt a semblance of control.

Whatever came next, he was ready.

...

At the same time, within the Great Tomb of Nazarick, Demiurge stood before Ainz Ooal Gown, his expression calm but his report disquieting.

"We've discreetly infiltrated the Theocracy's hierarchy near the site," Demiurge began, his tone professional, as always.

"From the dungeon they've been investigating, we have gathered reports suggesting that the Theocracy may have released something into the world. The personnel present were unclear on what exactly it was. They only described it as a source of immense power."

Ainz's skeletal fingers tapped lightly on his throne, the gentle clink of bone on metal echoing through the otherwise silent chamber. Outwardly, his expression was calm—stoic, even—but internally, his thoughts churned in a whirlwind of panic.

'Wait, wait, wait… when did this happen again~?' He had already been juggling too many responsibilities—keeping Nazarick's many operations in check, monitoring the activities of the human nations, and of course, maintaining his regal and omnipotent facade at all times. Now, this?

"Something... powerful was released?" Ainz repeated, his voice a deep bass, carefully masking the surge of anxiety rising within him. 'Please don't let it be another World Item… I can only deal with one world-shattering crisis at a time!~'

Demiurge, ever the professional, nodded, his sharp eyes gleaming with certainty. "Yes, Ainz-Sama, though we have yet to determine its exact location or nature. The humans knew little of its origins, but it's certain it's the first time they have seen anything like it."

'First time they've seen anything like it~?' Ainz thought. 'Great. That doesn't narrow it down at all. Could it be another guild weapon? Maybe even a World-Class Item? Or worse… a rogue Player?'

His mind raced through possibilities, each more dangerous than the last. Nazarick's security—and his plans—could be thrown into disarray by something like this. He had seen firsthand what World Items could do, like the one that brainwashed Shalltear, and the mere thought of another one falling into the wrong hands made his nonexistent skin crawl.

His passive [Emotion Inhibitor] kicked in, and a green glow covered him. 'Okay, okay, calm down, Momonga. You can handle this. You've dealt with worse… right~?'

Outwardly, Ainz remained composed, even as his internal monologue spiraled. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

"Yes, well…" Ainz cleared his non-existent throat, his tone taking on a more serious edge. "Increase security around Nazarick, especially around our most vital operations. Ensure all our agents outside remain uncompromised. If something is out there that could disrupt our plans, I want to know about it before it becomes a problem."

Demiurge gave a graceful bow and left the chamber to fulfill his orders.

No sooner had Demiurge departed than Albedo stepped in. Her radiant beauty, as always, was shadowed by her fierce devotion and unwavering gaze upon her beloved master.

"Ainz-sama," she began, her voice dripping with honeyed reverence, "should we continue monitoring the new Adamantine adventurer as you instructed?"

At the mention of the adventurer, Ainz had a sudden moment of realization.

'Ah~! I completely forgot about him…' His skeletal jaw stiffened as he recalled the situation. 'With everything that's happened with the Lizardman tribe operation I got a bit lost… whatever. At least I remember it now.~' The silent panic was well hidden behind the calm mask of his skeletal form.

Quickly, regaining his regal composure, he cleared his throat. "Yes, of course. We should keep monitoring him, but ensure we remain undetected."

Albedo's golden eyes narrowed with disdain. "Does one mere human warrant such caution, Ainz-sama?" She nearly spat the word 'human,' as though it sullied her lips. "This human has captured your attention, my lord. It is difficult for me to fathom why."

Ainz refuted her scorn with a firm shake of his head. "This is no ordinary human. Do not underestimate him, Albedo. When we first encountered him, he saw through our disguises with ease."

His voice carried a note of warning. "A man with abilities or a Talent like that is not someone to take lightly. We cannot afford to overlook the danger he might pose."

Albedo's expression softened into thoughtful acceptance, though a flicker of displeasure remained in her eyes. "As you command, Ainz-sama. Should we be discovered, do you wish for him to be eliminated?"

"No," Ainz said quickly, his eyes gleaming with calculation. "If we are found out, capture him alive by whatever means necessary. Someone like him is of considerable value..."


If you're confused by the many abilities and stats of Antares and think they aren't based from YGGDRASIL, consider this:

In the Overlord Wiki, it's stated that there are two types of Boss NPC. One type is where it's a somewhat weak monster with many mobs that continuously swarm the Players, they also use the same spells and abilities as the players. The other is, and I quote, a single boss generated with different data from the player characters, they were the majority of raid bosses. In other words, they had abilities that differed from Players, designed to catch them off guard and make them hard to beat. This was probably the case with all World Enemies, and it shall be the case with our MC, a World Protector.

Thoughts? Opinions? Ideas?