Chapter 593 – The Doom Saint (Part 1)
The void shattered like glass. The ground beneath Dave's feet shifted again as the token he earned from defeating the Void Monarch vanished in a flicker of light.
He landed on solid earth—but the world around him was nothing like before.
A red sky loomed overhead, burning softly like a dying flame. The air felt heavy, yet unnaturally silent.
Crumbled statues of angels, warped and broken, lay scattered across a dead field. Pieces of stained-glass windows were buried under layers of ash.
What might have been a temple once stood in ruins now—a monument of something holy long lost.
'Oh, this place is a fire to fight a boss in a video game in my previous life.'
Dave looked around, then smiled.
"They're really upping the mood," he muttered.
From the shadow of a collapsed pillar, a soft voice echoed. Calm. Unshaken.
"So, you've made it this far."
A tall man stepped into the open. He wore long, flowing white robes—torn at the sleeves, burned at the edges.
His face was calm and his steps were graceful, as if each movement was part of a sacred ritual.
Behind him, six wings flickered—each once pure, now darkened by gold-stained veins.
A halo hovered above his head, not of light, but of burning black flame.
He opened his eyes. Soft gold. But the calm in them wasn't peace—it was judgment.
Dave tilted his head. "You look like one of those priests from an old cathedral. But way more cursed."
The man gave a faint smile. "They call me the Doom Saint Uriel. A title given by those who fear what they don't understand."
"And you?" Dave asked, eyes flashing with excitement.
"You going to give me a sermon or throw hands?"
The Doom Saint raised his palm. A golden light formed in it, swirling unnaturally—holy power, but tainted. Light that didn't heal, but destroyed.
"There's no sermon," he replied. "Just a simple test."
The ground cracked.
A spear of corrupted holy light shot from the sky. Then another. Then hundreds. They came like rain—beautiful and deadly.
Dave blurred through the air, dodging between them with ease. But one managed to graze his cheek.
The moment it touched him, a strange sensation ran through his body. Not just pain—something heavier.
"...Regret?" he whispered, surprised.
That brief touch filled his mind with a whisper. One that told him to stop fighting. To kneel. That he had already done too much.
He grinned.
"Nice trick."
He raised his hand. Chaos energy burst out, a swirling, wild force that pushed back the golden storm. The spears shattered into dust.
The Doom Saint slowly stepped forward, unfazed.
"Your strength hasn't dulled," he said softly. "That is good."
Dave blinked, confused for a second. "You speak like you've seen me fight before."
"I've seen much," the saint answered calmly. "Enough to know power isn't always clean. Sometimes, it wears a different face."
"Save the philosophy," Dave said. "Let's see what your fists say."
He charged.
The ground cracked under his step as he dashed forward. His punch aimed straight for the saint's face.
Clang!
A glowing barrier blocked his strike. It bent but didn't break. Light surged between them, rippling out in a golden shockwave.
Then the saint pushed back, sending Dave skidding.
"Hmm," Dave muttered, wiping the dust off his coat. "You've got some defense."
"I'm not here to stop you," the Doom Saint said. "Only to see who you are now."
Dave didn't answer.
Chains of gold erupted from the ground beneath him, trying to grab his legs. One caught his ankle—and a surge of divine pressure rushed up through it.
This time, the guilt hit harder.
Visions flashed—people he'd hurt, times he'd gone too far, choices that left scars.
His smile faded briefly. "That's not funny."
Then he exploded in chaos. The chain shattered, and the holy energy dissolved into mist.
"I'm not who I was," he muttered. "So don't try to remind me."
The Doom Saint's eyes narrowed. "So you are changing."
He raised both hands, and behind him, twelve figures appeared—phantoms dressed like saints, each holding a burning sword. They had no faces, only glowing halos and blazing eyes.
"They gave their lives in search of truth," the saint said. "Now they will test yours."
The phantom saints rushed forward.
Dave stood still.
As the first swung its sword, Dave dodged and countered. His fist slammed into its chest—it didn't vanish.
Instead, it fought back.
"They're not illusions," Dave realized. "They're... souls?"
He ducked under a blade and kicked one of the saints skyward, then leapt and slammed it down with his elbow.
Another came from the side, and Dave twisted midair, using its momentum to slam it into a third.
Each time he struck, they shattered into light—but they screamed when they faded. Faint. Distant. As if some part of them remembered pain.
"That's kind of messed up," Dave muttered.
"They chose this," the Doom Saint replied. "They wanted to serve, even in death."
Dave wiped a trickle of blood from his lip.
"Must be loyal," he said.
"Loyalty is rare," the Doom Saint answered. "You inspired it once, long ago."
Dave paused. "You say that like you knew me."
But the Doom Saint didn't answer.
Instead, he was already moving.
Suddenly, Dave felt it—divine pressure, far heavier than before.
BOOM!
The saint closed the gap and slammed a palm into Dave's chest, sending him flying into a cracked marble column. The stone exploded behind him.
The impact didn't injure him—but he felt it. That holy power again. Like it wasn't just attacking his body—it was measuring him.
He stood up slowly, rolling his neck.
"Alright. I'm done playing."
His chaos aura flared, stronger than before. The ground shook beneath him.
"I was holding back, because I liked your vibe. But now, I'm getting curious."
The Doom Saint raised his sword made of holy light, now darker than ever. "Then show me."
Dave grinned, eyes flashing with pure battle thirst.
"Gladly."