The storm swept across the land, dragging that erroneous, blood-soaked king into it as well, wildly churning, tearing, and destroying.
Jemia lay prone on the ground, enduring the pain as he rolled outward. At last, he tumbled free of the storm's range, then quickly struggled to his feet and looked toward the motionless figure at its center.
"We did it!?" Though he said that, his gaze remained grave and worried.
That Spirit Origin reaction had indeed weakened considerably. There was no mistaking that.
But—
He was still alive.
He had not been defeated, nor had he returned to the Throne of Heroes.
Artoria frowned. Once the storm had dispersed, she had indeed sensed the Spirit Core on the verge of shattering within it, but—
In the end, it had not shattered.
"Ha, haha. You actually withstood an Anti-Fortress Noble Phantasm like that. What exactly was done to your Spirit Origin?" Cold sweat covered Jemia's face, and his pupils trembled slightly.
"That hurt, you bastard." Covered in blood, Cu Chulainn lowered his head, his voice brimming with frenzied killing intent directed at Artoria and Jemia.
"Retreat!" Jemia shouted. "We can't defeat this guy here! We need to bring the intel back!"
"Damn it." Artoria was unwilling, but as a king, she naturally understood that continuing to fight here was no longer an option!
This monster's Spirit Origin was absolutely abnormal. Both his insides and exterior were twisted. She had just unleashed her Noble Phantasm and was already drained of magical energy, while Jemia was covered in wounds and had suffered heavily in their recent clash. Facing this monster, whose unknowns still far outweighed what they knew, in such a state would be utterly irrational.
Without wasting any time, the two immediately retreated eastward.
Then a voice emerged from Cu Chulainn's throat.