Malachi realised it a touch too late.
There was no turning back once he embraced the Demon Cult and became an Apostle. He was humanity's common enemy and a monster that had to be hunted. This was something he was well aware of when he held the Prophet's hand, turning himself into a demonic human. But deep down… Malachi wished to keep some semblance of his noble past. To retain his honour as a Knight.
But that notion was viciously stepped on by Amon's cutting words.
"Thank you for reminding me… I'm a Demon, not a human."
Amon gazed at Malachi with an icy, unflinching stare—devoid of sympathy, absent of hesitation. Whatever revelation flickered behind the Apostle's eyes, whether a moment of clarity, regret, or twisted enlightenment, meant nothing to him.
Amon didn't care for last-minute awakenings or philosophical awakenings. The only thing that mattered now was eliminating one of the most dangerous threats humanity had ever faced. His resolve was absolute, so he advanced—silent, relentless, deadly.
As Amon lunged forward to deliver the final strike, Malachi suddenly shot upward, propelled into the air with a burst of life. He hovered there, suspended above the battlefield like a cursed deity, his expression solemn yet distant, as if disconnected from the mortal realm below.
Then, something shifted.
A crooked smile stretched across his face, followed by a sudden, bone-chilling laughter that echoed through the sky. It wasn't the laugh of a man afraid of death—it was the laugh of one who had touched madness and embraced it.
With eyes wild and voice booming, Malachi bellowed:
"Sir Amon, I despise you."
As Malachi roared his curse to the heavens, a surge of greyish-black mana erupted around him, seething with malevolence and corruption. The ground beneath trembled as the air thickened with decay, and life seemed to recoil in its presence.
The sky darkened instantly, swallowed by a churning storm of shadow, and thunderbolts cracked violently through the gloom, like omens heralding the end of days.
Fueled by the twisted power of his unholy gospel, Malachi raised his arms—not in prayer, but in invocation. His words, once noble and tempered by duty, now twisted into a guttural chant, each syllable steeped in blasphemy.
The man who had once stood as a proud Knight was no more. In his place rose something darker—an abomination shedding the last fragments of humanity, reshaped by hatred and arcane corruption into something utterly demonic.
"I despise you… And yet, I admire you… As a Knight, you have achieved much more than I, and you're still at the beginning of your path. It's only a matter of time before you reach true Transcendence… not fakes, like us."
"But as much as I would like to trade blows with you to my dying breath… I am bound by oath."
The Apostle of Subservience shook his head in agonising pity, and perhaps… a silent rage.
"We will cross paths again, I assure you."
Amon wasted no time. Fully embracing his Sun Dragon form, he channelled every ounce of righteous fury into Nyx. He brought the blade down in a sweeping arc with a thunderous roar, unleashing a tidal wave of searing white flames that surged skyward like a defiant cry to the heavens.
It was a desperate, final gambit—a last-ditch strike to seal Malachi's fate and prevent his escape. But fate, it seemed, favoured deception this day. Malachi's cunning outpaced Amon's fury.
As if the very Empyreans had aligned with his corruption, Malachi became wreathed in jagged bolts of black lightning, each pulsing with enough destructive force to level a town. The sky trembled under the weight of his transformation—demonic energy funnelled into his pale blade, now an instrument of apocalyptic wrath.
The chaotic crackle of lightning began to synchronise, resonating with eerie precision until the storm's chaos coalesced into a single, blinding beam. It collided with Amon's ascending blaze of fire and light, and shattered it, reducing the righteous inferno to smouldering embers scattered across the sky.
And just like that… he was gone.
The Apostle of Subservience, the Bone Sword Malachi… had vanished into thin air.
That turn of events froze Amon, and a wave of disappointment surged within Amon's heart. He believed that in this form, he could finish the Apostle once and for all, yet… Malachi chose to escape.
At his current strength, Amon had no doubt—if it came down to a one-on-one battle, he could overwhelm any Apostle with sheer force. In direct combat, he was unmatched. But if his enemies chose to flee, slipping into the shadows like cowards, there was little he could do to stop them.
With the tension finally broken, Amon took a slow breath and released his Embodiment of the Sun. His body began to shift, and the radiant scales and draconic features of his Sun Dragon formed and dissolved into motes of golden light as he returned to his human form. The strain of ascension caught up with him—a bead of sweat traced down his cheek as his chest rose and fell in heavy breaths.
Though those forms granted him immense power, they came at a cost. Maintaining them drained his stamina rapidly, and Amon knew all too well that pushing beyond his limit could leave him crippled—too exhausted to fight, or worse, too weak to survive.
'Just maintaining it for less than a minute drains this much stamina? As I am, I can only hold it for ten minutes at best.'
Amon gave an honest assessment of his newfound power. Nonetheless, Amon wasn't discouraged. His ineptitude simply meant that there was still an avenue for growth, a path for him to strive towards.
"L-Lord Apostle! C-Come back!"
While Amon was still lost in thought, a few cries of agony emerged. Beneath the scorched earth, over a dozen cultists were left behind after Malachi's grand escape. Caught with no other choice, the Apostle abandoned his subordinates in favour of his life.
Yet another cowardly act, but Amon didn't blame him. If Malachi chose to stay and fight for his subordinates, the man wouldn't have managed to escape, and his mission to subdue the Sword Saint would be over.
But still… this situation seemed oddly familiar…
A youthful voice echoed in Amon's mind—a voice he hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime, not since he was reborn into this new world. It belonged to the lieutenant who had stood by his side until the very end—the first person he had ever saved by choice.
'That guy… I wonder how he's doing now.'
Over twenty years have passed since Amon transmigrated into this new world. Although time may move differently here, the lieutenant must have lived a healthy life after Amon's passing. Perhaps he was already a Major or Colonel.
Thinking that the first person he chose to save would have thrived—that did bring a smile to Amon's face. The most update n0vels are published on novᴇlfire.net
Alas, the cultists who mirrored that situation on that fateful day… they wouldn't be so lucky.
Flames burned the demonic members alive, ensuring that their deaths weren't going to be quick and easy. Anyone who joined the Demon Cult of their own volition, particularly those who had been following the Gospels, weren't unwilling sinners.
They were fully aware of their transgressions and chose to betray humanity anyway.
Innocence… such things didn't exist in the Demon Cult. Without a willing heart, they could not accept the power of the Demonic Gospels. They weren't just regular people who were forced into this situation by blackmail or forced labour. They were criminals, anarchists, and traitors of the human race.
And hence, Amon showed no mercy.
The Dragon's presence persisted, absolute and indisputable. The cultists offered no resistance. They knelt, weeping—not hoping for salvation, but in quiet desperation for a quick end. The fire descended without warning—a wave of searing heat swept over them like a living storm.
Flesh blistered and blackened in seconds, clothing ignited and clung to skin like molten tar. Bones cracked under the intensity, splitting and glowing red as marrow boiled within. Some collapsed mid-scream, others writhed as the flames ate through muscle and sinew, reducing them to twitching silhouettes before they crumbled to ash.
Their cries were brief, overwhelmed by the roar of the inferno. Within moments, only scorched earth and drifting embers remained. When the last flicker of life was gone, Amon turned away, unmoved and disinterested.
'Now… Shall I get back to the task at hand?'
Amon glanced back at the mirror dimension dome, which was rapidly healing from the carnage. Albeit at a slower pace, as the energy being supplied was shaken. And while Amon couldn't see him, he could tell that the Sword Saint was watching him intently.
'What will you do now? Sword Saint?'
A conversation was held without any voices, telepathic messages, or seeing each other. They were judging each other, probing their intentions without showing any signs of movement.
To which, the Sword Saint could only let out a bitter smile.
'Alrock sure raised a monster.'