The salt collecting ship is docked with a little distance from the shore, avoiding getting stranded.
The shallow water just covering their calves is crystal clear, revealing the meandering white quicksand beneath, with foamy emerald tides gently moving. The glaring sunlight reflects off the lake’s surface like a kaleidoscope, casting shimmering patches of light on everyone, turning the waves into a murderous intent in the silence.
Magnus is surrounded in a fan shape by Heavy Priests and Time Swords, trapping him in the shallows, one hand holding an Aran Standard Military Saber, the other a broken knife, the extreme sharpness of the cold glint slicing through every whisper of the wind, as if they were Death God’s cold laughter.
A few priests lie slumped on the shore, their plate armors sliced open, their bulky chest plates removed, exposing monstrous purple-black veins and rough skin covered in brownish-red lumps.
A Time Sword’s Dragon Face Helmet is also cut open, blood streaming down his forehead, blinding his vision.
"With a sect priest as a hostage, if I don’t see your leader, you will never see him again."
Magnus steps around the shore, causing ripples in the lake, his tone indifferent.
In an instant, no one dared to act rashly.
Just then, a girl in a purple ceremonial robe, barefoot, escaped from the salt collecting ship, accompanying her exhausted sobs, the sand and stones at the lake bottom cutting her feet, staining the nearby clear waters red.
Seeing someone confronting these incomprehensible butchers, she seized the lifeline and knelt in the shallows, splashing the water as she clung to Magnus’ trousers, sobbing.
But this is just a hunt.
Following the scent of bone-chilling fear, that person could chase down any prey running for their life.
Magnus looked at the scarred salt collecting ship.
He recognized that person at a glance.
Yet, strangely, he felt no ripples in his heart, as if he had reenacted this scene in every environment and situation a million times in his dreams.
Since he could remember, he had never seen Zote in person, but had killed him millions of times in his dreams.
"Where is Priest Sharon?"
Zote stepped onto the guardrail of the salt collecting ship. He wasn’t accustomed to wearing religious attire, only wearing chain armor, breeches, and military boots, exceedingly neat, with a Dragon Lord’s Emblem armband on his arm, and wearing a pair of anti-magic leather gloves allowing him to easily kill those trickster magicians.
The tradition of the Witch Hunting Secret Department is still deeply embedded, fully integrated into the minds of every remaining Dead Soul.
The priest is already the highest middle management position in the sect,
"As expected... you are just a mortal with naked eyes."
The Deputy Director of the Secret Department wasn’t the legendary ghost with Netherworld reflected in his eyes, merely indeed taller than average.
Strangely, Magnus found he harbored no hatred for this person, those fleeting faces in the snow were just strangers whose names he didn’t know.
Zote jumped off the guardrail, army boots hitting the shallows, holding a mundane-looking Mulong Standard Scimitar, slowly approaching Magnus.
The distance grew shorter, just twenty horse-lengths away.
When the Divine Sovereign Church girl cried out, Zote stopped approaching.
This place was filled with his men, even the so-called champion of the Continent Martial Arts Competition was just a dull game for Zote, mere pigs for slaughter.
Magnus looked at the girl at his feet, silent for a moment; regrettably, he couldn’t afford any distractions now.
"Twenty-eight years ago.
Old Aran, Duke Soterlan’s Territory.
The snow was heavy that day, the entire city was burning."
Unluckily, Magnus didn’t know the names of his kin.
Zote’s identity was rare knowledge; most priests and Time Swords present were ultimate madmen, obeying any orders given by their superiors, even killing a full-term pregnant wife’s child at command.
However, a small fraction of the Church Court’s Judgement Court armed personnel faintly guessed, but now it was confirmed.
During Old Aran’s time, Duke Fabrik’s territory and Duke Soterlan’s territory were infamous for their oppressive wars, unexpectedly prolonging Old Aran’s nearing extinction by a decade or two with brutal massacres.
The wind rose, waves surged, quicksand swirled.
A highly educated clergy member, who had participated in drafting the Aran Calendar and understood the world’s climatic variations, found it peculiar.
The wind shouldn’t be this strong.
But these facts didn’t matter, even if Zote’s true identity was exposed, they felt no actual concern, since Zote did not slaughter their own confidants.
Zote paused for a moment.
Years of imprisonment, years of exile.
Those suppression movements had long blurred into phantoms.
But Zote understood now, perhaps an old enemy, from his era most were already with one foot in the grave. When he served as Deputy Director, consuming many rare items kept him in late prime.
Zote guessed whose family might have survived, despite meticulous slaughter, you can never kill them all, there’d always be survivors.
Such matters... who would remember?
Zote chuckled lightly. Sharon must not die; upon completion of Black Rock City’s church main body inauguration, she was to become Cardinal, any failure would undermine his capability.
Magnus didn’t remember either, but.
"What I remember most clearly... is holding a knife, always wanting to cut something.
Some people became cooks, some became butchers. Fresh chapters posted on novèlfire.net
Some became like us, and thus the current world exists.
That’s what you said.
My terms are simple."
Magnus glanced at the girl at his feet, now with an added condition, "We duel one on one, life and death. Whether I lose or win, I will tell you the location of Priest Sharon and let this woman leave."
He pointed his knife at Zote twenty horse-lengths away.
There’s nothing in the world a knife can’t solve, only whether the knife is sharp enough.
A swift wind arose, fine yellow sands scattered across the mirror-like shallow Salt Lake.
Zote looked at Magnus’ right mechanical arm, faintly overlapping with the face of the Hall-level adventurer he killed years ago.
He finally remembered.
In Duke Soterlan’s territory, he had ordered a child’s right arm chopped off, surprisingly surviving without slumming on the streets or becoming a tragic thief victim, growing into a master unmatchable by the Judgement Court’s cowards.
His smile persisted, but eyes grew cold with light.
Zote paused, "But that seems too dramatic for you. Thorough contemplation suggests you might be like your father, extremely despicable. Your father always uttered filthy lies, groveling like a dog, secretly following his will, and Absolute Blade was swindler, I slew that wicked woman too."
If Ogne hadn’t hesitated, he’d have acted kingship, taking the throne, unifying Old Aran’s power, heeding not, divine chance misused leads to self-blame, failing timing incurs disaster, else no child could usurp the throne.
"What’s their names!"
Magnus trembled, unable to focus, pulled the girl away.
Surrounding Heavy Priests and Time Swords moved to arrest her, but Zote raised his hand to halt; the woman was worthless.
"Fine, I’ll tell you."