Date: Unspecified Time: Unspecified Location: Myriad Realms, Card World, Way Beyond, Unspecified
"This is... interesting," Wyatt muttered, his tone laced with mild amusement as he watched the alluring demigod coldly and without hesitation mortally wound her own teammate, the Elderly demigod. While he wasn't naive about the shades of gray in the world, the elderly demigod's concern for him and the alluring female demigod's raw treachery unfold before him piqued his curiosity.
"Idiots," Henricks grumbled, shaking his head. He began preparing to teleport to the Yellow Plains with Wyatt, as a mere space isolation formation couldn't stop him. After all, it took a celestial space rule domain to truly capture him—something only the Field Marshal Lorn had managed to pull off. Until then he was under the impression that his origin card was invincible when it comes to escape. However, just as Henricks prepared to leave, Wyatt effortlessly slipped free and flew forward, muttering under his breath, "Celestial Blood Rule Domain."
Hovering at the same elevation as the three demigods, Wyatt glanced at the elderly demigod and asked in a calm yet almost playful tone, "Old man, do you need a hand?"
The elderly demigod, stabilizing his breathing despite the blood dripping from his wound, fixed his fierce gaze on Wyatt and demanded, "Young man, are you being held against your will?" His voice carried not just urgency but also a faint, desperate hope.
"What do you think?" Wyatt replied, spreading his arms wide, his form radiating crimson energy as the domain of Celestial Blood enveloped the area.
Meanwhile, panic flickered across the alluring demigod's face as she mentally snapped at the stout demigod, 'What's taking you so long?'
'I... I can't access my grimoire!' the stout demigod replied, his tone cracking under the weight of his distress.
The alluring demigod tried summoning her own grimoire, but her expression quickly turned to one of dread as she realized she couldn't access it either. The two demigods exchanged a look of alarm, their fear mounting as they understood the gravity of their predicament. They were cut off—not just from their grimoires, but from the rules and soul energy they relied on. All they had left was the dwindling reserve within their divinity.
"Why have you joined hands with a traitor?" the elderly demigod asked, his voice filled with both pain and accusation. But it wasn't just the physical wound that pained him—it was the thought of Wyatt, the hope of the Card World, allying himself with someone like Henricks.
"You've got it all wrong," Wyatt replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "They didn't recruit me—I recruited them. They sold themselves to me for survival."
The elderly demigod's expression twisted with a mix of confusion and anguish. Wyatt, however, couldn't help but find the old man oddly amusing. Unlike his greedy and selfish teammates, this man's actions stemmed from an unshakable sense of duty to his homeland and community—a loyalty Wyatt could respect.
Listening to Wyatt's blunt words, Henricks' face twitched in irritation, but he couldn't argue with the truth of what was said. It was harsh, yes, but undeniably accurate.
"Do you plan to save them?" the elderly demigod asked, his voice betraying a hint of relief. For him, the only reason he had agreed to this cruel operation was to secure the Silver Beach Dungeon, the sole known source of Silver Milk, essential for creating Silver Milk Powder. That their society desperately needs. If not for that, he would never have participated in what amounted to genocide.
"Yes," Wyatt replied, a faint smile playing on his lips. "They work for me now. I kind of have to."
The elderly demigod's gaze softened as he nodded, appreciating Wyatt's choice. It wasn't about the the resource anymore—it was about saving millions of lives. Even if they were crimnals, in the end, the old man had prioritized people over the Silver Milk.
"Good," the elderly demigod said, straightening his posture despite the blood oozing from his wounds. With quiet resolve, he added, "Well, what are you waiting for? Send me on my way." His voice was calm, even as he stood tall, ignoring the pain. Though he knew the central government had strayed far from its ideals, he still wanted to die as one of them, holding onto the faint dignity of his duty.
"No," Wyatt replied firmly, his crimson eyes locking onto the elderly demigod's. "Your duty in this world isn't finished yet, soldier."
The elderly demigod blinked in surprise but said nothing, his face a mix of confusion and quiet defiance.
Wyatt then turned to the other two demigods, a dangerous smirk tugging at his lips. Before they could react, their bodies exploded into blood mist, their grimoires and divinities dropping to the ground. In the next instant, the loot vanished, whisked away into Wyatt's storage card.
"Stay true to yourself," Wyatt said, his tone carrying an odd mix of authority and reassurance. As he spoke, his Celestial Blood Rule Domain began to heal the elderly demigod's wounds, stitching the man's battered body back together.
Henricks, catching Wyatt's signal, appeared next to him in a flicker of movement. With a brief glance at the elderly demigod, who stood silently watching, Wyatt and Henricks disappeared from the Card World, leaving behind a man whose duty and ideals had been given a new lease on life.
Just as Wyatt's Celestial Blood Rule Domain faded, several demigods finally materialized, their faces taut with urgency as they turned to the elderly demigod for answers. The old man, looking weary but resolute, shook his head slightly, signaling that he wasn't eager to explain. He adjusted his posture, preparing to return to his post at the Way Beyond.
But before he could leave, a commanding presence swept through the group. A majestic figure appeared among the demigods, exuding a suffocatingly oppressive aura that silenced the chatter. His piercing gaze swept over the scene before landing on the elderly demigod. With a voice that carried both authority and impatience, he demanded, "What happened here?"
The elderly demigod straightened his back, his expression a mixture of hesitation and duty. "Sir," he began, his tone steady despite the oppressive weight of the figure's aura, "the Freedom Fighters have sought asylum under Dalton Wyatt. He has declared his intention to save them."
"Dalton Wyatt?" The figure's brows furrowed, and a flicker of intrigue crossed his face. His lips curled into a faint smirk as he muttered under his breath, "What game is the Southern Princess playing now?"
Without waiting for further explanation, he raised his hand, summoning his grimoire. He wasted no time, contacting the other World Leaders, his aura intensifying as he prepared to share the unexpected turn of events.