I Was a Loner, but My Class Got Summoned to Another World…

Serana felt the shift immediately.

The false deity her master had fought—it wasn't dead. Not truly. Its vessel had only been a husk, a mutable shell capable of taking on many forms. Just like her.

But unlike her, it had paid a price.

It had sacrificed most of its flesh to preserve what mattered most: its heart and its mana core.

Now, concealed behind the curtain of darkness, the creature was reforming. Its remains were fading, discarded like shed skin. Deep within the shadows, its true self began to take shape—an enormous bat-like form, pulsing with corrupted mana.

Both its heart and core had survived, and that was the problem.

As long as either existed, the creature could not die.

And both were now rapidly absorbing mana from the environment, healing themselves with every passing second.

But this restoration worked both ways.

Serana was also back to full strength.

The ambient darkness mana was easy to manipulate. She had already begun converting it—first into raw mana, and then into blood mana. The process was efficient. Swift. Her body mended almost instantly. Her minions, too—after fending off the Scorpicores that had blocked their path up the mountain—were nearly fully recovered.

She didn't hesitate.

"Everyone, retreat and recover! Support only when needed. We must destroy either the heart or the core!" Serana called out.

And without waiting for a reply, Serana charged forward into the darkness.

Two curved scythes of blood took form in her hands, their edges honed and deadly. The creature in front of her—this false vampire deity—may have wielded power over Shade and Blood, and perhaps even Darkness itself, but it lacked her final trump card.

It didn't have Abyss.

A fusion of Darkness and Shade… but also something more. Her will. Her hatred. A cursed mix of elements born from her rejection of what she had become.

She wasn't just a vampire. She was something that devoured vampires.

Serana infused this Abyss element into her scythes. The weapons shimmered with a menacing purple hue—unstable, alive, and utterly under her control.

She didn't stop there.

More mana surged through her body. She converted the darkness around her into abyssal energy, her scythes pulsing with growing intensity.

And she wasn't alone.

Her six minions followed close behind, loyal to her will. The tank—massive and silent—took the center position. The bat-like minion vanished into the upper shadows. Iris, the wight-girl, drew two blades personally forged by Ruben at Serana's request.

And Umbra—the Shadow Devourer—remained unseen, hidden and waiting for her moment.

Even Logan couldn't fully follow their movements. He could see somewhat through the darkness, but Serana's minions moved too fast, too precisely. Their coordination was perfect—each strike calculated, each role executed with brutal efficiency.

They weren't attacking to kill the creature, they were carving a path for Serana.

Iris took the lead, her dual blades cutting through the bat-shaped deity's limbs. Each strike disrupted its transformation, preventing it from returning to its semi-human form. The creature fought back, its wings slashing like blades—but it was clear. It was on the defensive.

And Serana made sure it stayed that way.

Each time the creature tried to reform a limb, she sliced it away like pruning a shrub, a very annoying shrub with a nearly infinite amount of fertilizer. But the purple aura of her abyssal scythes burned at the edges, ensuring those limbs would not return.

She was no longer just a vampire noble.

Nyxar, the tank, suddenly let out a roar as one of his massive arms was severed—cleaved cleanly by a pair of razor-sharp blood blades conjured by the bat-form of the fallen deity.

It only lasted a second.

Without flinching, he reached down, grabbed the severed limb, and forced it back into place—his regeneration mending flesh and bone with eerie calm.

But that moment of delay cost them.

The bat had vanished, no longer pinned down. Serana's next strike cut through nothing but air—and two new blood blades were already racing toward her exposed back.

Iris acted instantly, intercepting one with her obsidian-forged sword. Serana twisted mid-motion to deflect the other with her scythe, her movement fluid and practiced. Yet the real danger wasn't the blades—it was the lost momentum.

The creature had escaped again.

And in that brief window, it had already begun reforming.

It took mere seconds.

That's when Rath arrived.

The vampire bat had changed. Its body had grown smaller, more grotesque—its face warped and dominated by a single massive eye. What remained of its former form now hovered like a cursed specter. It had become something far more dangerous.

A Beholder.

Its single, glowing eye locked onto the deity, pulsing with abyssal enchantment. The air trembled as Rath unleashed his curse—an ability so powerful it could stagger even a god.

The deity froze in place, mind unraveling as it was sent spiraling into a false plane—a battlefield forged from illusion and torment.

And Umbral didn't waste the opportunity.

She emerged silently from the shadows, forming blades crafted from pure Shade. They didn't cut flesh. They cut soul.

She struck swiftly, driving the cursed edges into the stunned deity's chest and torso. The creature convulsed, returning from its trance with a scream of agony—its body broken, its mind fractured, and its soul fraying at the edges.

From a distance, Logan watched.

He hadn't moved, and he didn't need to.

Still exhausted, his mana low, he allowed Serana and her deadly squad to work. He trusted them.

And now, the last of Serana's minions joined the fight.

The Blood Wyrm—Marok.

Youngest among them, yet hungriest.

It had been fed without rest—trained relentlessly through the night and into the morning. After devouring corrupted beasts, demonic remnants, and blood-forged abominations, it had reached level 76.

And now, it was ready to eat a god.

It moved like a shark in the air—terrifying and silent. In a single pass, it carved through the deity, cleaving nearly half its body with one devastating bite.

The deity tried to react—splitting off a portion to survive—but it was too late.

Marok had stolen the core.

And its razor-sharp scales had left the rest a mangled ruin.