Imprisoned for a Trillion Years, I Was Worshipped by All Gods!

With a sharp slicing sound, a fine, narrow gash appeared in the ground directly in front of Alan.

But that wasn’t the astonishing part.

Typically, when a blade strikes the earth, it leaves only a fleeting mark—a scar in the soil, soon forgotten. But this cut was different. The mana embedded within it continued to swirl and churn inside the trench, emanating a cutting force so intense that it lingered in the air long after the strike had passed.

It didn’t fade.

It lingered, razor-sharp and deadly, warning all who approached.

Both the shadowy figure and the eerie dark silhouette halted at once when they saw the slash.

They didn’t stop because they were impressed, or curious. No—they stopped because the one who delivered that strike had issued a warning: no one touches Alan.

Before they could react further, a fragrant breeze blew across the battlefield. In an instant, a dazzling figure darted through the air, graceful yet full of strength. She landed beside Alan, who was barely holding on, and immediately helped him to his feet.

Alan opened his mouth to thank his savior, but when he saw her face, his voice caught in his throat.

“T-Third Prin—”

Before he could finish, the young woman covered his mouth with her hand and shot him a fierce glare with her brilliant eyes.

“Don’t say nonsense,” she hissed. “I’m the rogue knight Rosalia right now. I’ve got nothing to do with the Third Princess, got it?”

Alan instantly understood.

Rosalia, the Third Princess of the Plantagenet Kingdom, held incredible authority and privilege within her home country. She could do practically anything she wanted inside Plantagenet’s borders—her title carried weight enough to silence nobles and generals alike.

But now, they were in the Kent Kingdom, a neighboring sovereign state. For someone like her—a foreign princess and military commander—to appear unannounced on another country’s core territory… it was nothing short of political dynamite.

In a generous light, her presence could be seen as promoting diplomatic exchange, perhaps even as advance preparation for future cooperation.

But in a more cynical view, it would be easy to accuse her of espionage—a foreign agent stealing military secrets.

Even Rosalia, despite all her status and power, had no choice but to conceal her identity while in Kent. She could only refer to herself by name, without any titles.

Still, her attire—luxurious, golden, embroidered with gems and silk—clashed wildly with the rogue identity she claimed. She looked more like a noble at a royal banquet than a wandering thief.

After exchanging a few brief glances, their eyes silently acknowledging the dangerous implications of her presence, Rosalia’s expression suddenly changed.

Her gaze locked onto Alan’s body, and she finally noticed how severe his wounds were.

Her heart clenched.

Without thinking, she asked, “Are you okay?! Who did this to you?!”

Alan gave a bitter smile and waved his hand. “Don’t worry. I’m not dead—yet.”

Then, with a blood-soaked finger, he pointed toward the two figures in front of them.

“Do I really need to answer that?”

Rosalia gritted her teeth, rage flashing through her eyes.

How dare they!

She hadn’t even scolded Alan yet, hadn’t gotten around to teasing him, and here these nobodies were, trying to kill him like he was some stray dog? The man she’d silently admired, even cherished? Unforgivable.

But of course, she didn’t let any of that slip. Instead, Rosalia converted all her fury into pure, focused aggression. With a fierce battle cry, she lunged at the eerie shadowy figure.

True to his mysterious reputation, the dark mage lived up to his legend. The moment Rosalia’s blade came close, his entire body dissolved into mist, sinking into the ground like vapor.

But Rosalia wouldn’t let him escape that easily.

She raised her blade-shaped staff, stabbing it into the earth, and poured a torrent of lethal metal-element mana into the ground.

The earth quaked violently. The ground for kilometers around turned to sludge beneath her elemental onslaught. Even the most slippery of creatures couldn’t escape such devastation, let alone a shadow hiding beneath the soil.

However…

This shadow was no ordinary assassin.

He was a forbidden dark mage, shrouded in myth and mystery.

And Rosalia’s attacks, though ferocious, lacked structure and control. The dark mage saw through the chaos and identified a gap—a small opening in her defenses.

Silently, he emerged once more—this time from Rosalia’s own shadow.

But she wasn’t just any noblewoman. She was the commander of three armies, a woman who earned her title not through birthright, but through battlefield supremacy. Her intelligence and combat instincts were second to none.

CLANG!

A golden blade slashed backward with blinding speed. The shadow hadn’t expected such a rapid counterattack. Startled, he tried to retreat back into the shadows.

Too late.

With a deafening boom, a massive metal-element longsword erupted from the earth, tearing apart her shadow and the surrounding soil. The shadow mage’s escape path was utterly annihilated.

Meanwhile, Alan focused inward.

Using vital energy, he swiftly healed his wounds, forcing the blood back into his body and sealing the worst injuries.

Seeing that Rosalia had things under control, Alan’s attention returned to the other enemy—the man called Bruce.

A man who had tried to kill him without hesitation.

There was nothing more to say.

Only one outcome remained: a battle to the death.

SHING!

Alan vanished in an instant. All that remained was a thin line of golden light, gathering the surrounding beams like a thread of sunlight in a forest glade.

To the untrained eye—or to mages with weak perception—it might look like nothing more than a trick of light. A stray sunbeam filtered through the trees. The Tyndall effect, perhaps.

But Bruce was no ordinary mage.

The moment Alan vanished, Bruce recognized the truth.

That golden line was sword light, condensed and focused with terrifying precision.

It was a setup.

As Alan reappeared to launch his frontal assault, the real attack would come from that thread of sword energy—from behind.

Bruce didn’t comment. He didn’t admire Alan’s tactics.

Instead, he responded the way Alan would have—by moving.

This was his specialty, after all.

The two figures dashed through the trees, their movements disturbing the forest itself. Leaves, branches, and even light twisted with their passage. The space around them shimmered as if reality itself had begun to ripple.

Then—

BOOM!

With a thunderous crash, both fighters reappeared. But now, instead of facing each other, they stood back to back.

Neither moved.

They stood still, silent, like the legendary ronin of old—swordsmen who had crossed blades in a deadly duel and now awaited fate’s verdict.

Moments passed.

Then Alan’s body trembled.

He dropped to one knee, using Lumen Sancta to keep himself upright.

GURGHH—

Blood erupted from his throat. The radiant light on Lumen Sancta’s blade dimmed, no longer gleaming with divine energy—it had grown faint, dull.

On the other side, Bruce turned around slowly, about to speak.

But something cold trickled down his face.

He touched his cheek and looked at his fingers—blood.

The cut was shallow, but it was there. A slash across his eye.

He fell silent.

His expression darkened.

What was he now?

After years of training, he’d advanced from a young tier-gold talent into a tier-diamond powerhouse—a peak expert that others could only dream of matching.

And Alan?

Still tier-silver.

By all logic, this fight shouldn’t have even been close.

And yet, this young man had cut him.

For the first time in years, Bruce had been surpassed—not by someone stronger, but by someone weaker who dared to challenge beyond his tier.

He had broken Bruce’s record.

When Bruce once challenged a diamond-tier opponent, he had already reached gold.

But Alan… Alan had done it with silver.

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