"Agatha, the moment I charge—if he doesn’t retreat—howl."
He relayed the command mentally to the female ghost within his ring, not waiting for acknowledgment. Charles advanced in quick steps, swinging his blade.
A feint. Zenith recognized it as such, raising his shield slightly while mechanically slashing toward Charles’ hip to force him back.
But this time, Charles didn’t evade. He surged forward into the blade’s path. "Shield!"
A shimmer of magical light deflected the strike. Simultaneously, Agatha emerged from the ring, her long ebony hair veiling her forehead and eyes, revealing only the delicate lower half of her face. Her rosebud lips parted, unleashing a piercing shriek:
Zenith’s pupils contracted. His legs tensed as he staggered back, teeth gritted, bracing for the mental assault.
He knew—if he endured this, the young man would have nothing left!
Instantly, twin trails of crimson streaked from his ears. Though he clung to clarity, his hearing was ravaged. The scream was but a herald—the deadlier strike followed.
Charles dismissed his longsword, coiling his body before driving forward, his core muscles erupting with force. Every ounce of power channeled into the magical shield on his left arm.
Magic surged through his veins, magnifying the shield bash beyond even Anno’s demonstration. Caught off-guard, Zenith barely managed to react. Hobgoblins were never renowned for brute strength, and age had long since stolen the vigor of his youth.
The impact wrenched his balance away.
Charles didn’t press immediately. Zenith’s plate armor and helmet made a lethal blow unlikely. The same trick wouldn’t work twice. Instead, he drew his warhammer, infused it with magic, and hurled it—
Zenith frantically raised his shield, but his stance was imperfect—
The hammer caved in his helmet. Lightning crackled through the metal, seizing his body in a paralyzing current. For a heartbeat, Zenith stood frozen, mind blank as a zombie’s.
Charles recalled his longsword and struck.
The enchanted blade found the gap in the Zenith’s gorget, slicing through his throat. Blood fountained. After a decade of pillaging, Zenith the Hobgoblin Warlord was dead.
Charles dismissed his sword, gasping. Sweat plastered his brow as he checked his reserves—nearly empty. Even with buffs and gear, he’d burned through everything to barely scrape a victory.
Still so much to learn.
Shaking off the adrenaline, he rose and strode outside.
Meanwhile, in the temple, Sephera had made quick work of the weakened priest and two hobgoblin officers who’d rushed down. Toxins crippled their resistance, and her spells finished them—three against one, yet she wiped them out without a scratch.
With the castle cleared, she briefed Charles on Nidalee’s pursuit. Without delay, they followed the trail into the woods.
Deep in the woods, the dark elf necromancer ran for his life. His spell slots were exhausted—no more teleportation magic remained. He couldn’t afford to conceal his tracks, relying solely on his own two legs to carry him through the dense undergrowth.
Almost there... Just a little farther...
If he could just reach that place, he might yet survive—
His lungs burned like fire. His legs trembled with exhaustion, yet he dared not stop. Through the hazy moonlight, the distant silhouette of the mountains taunted him, kindling a desperate hope in his chest—
But death followed close behind.
A shadow blurred past. A primal sense of danger shot down his spine, every hair on his body standing on end. He threw himself into a desperate roll—
An unseen blade sliced through the air, aimed for his neck. Though he narrowly avoided decapitation, the strike still found his thigh.
A second later, his left leg tumbled away, severed clean. Scalding blood gushed from the wound, painting the grass crimson. Agony lanced through his nerves, and the necromancer collapsed, his grip failing. The square box slipped from his fingers, tumbling across the grass, teetering dangerously close to the slope’s edge.
Behind him, a petite silhouette landed—none other than Ruth. Her expression remained icy, her purple-red eyes flickering with a faint violet glow as she swept her gaze across the mountaintop. Soon, she locked onto the square box and strode over to pick it up.
Without hesitation, she slowly opened the square box, revealing a silver-white metal fragment dotted with specks of golden light.
Immediately, Ruth let out a long sigh of relief.
Thank the gods—this was indeed the Holy Sword Fragment they had sought.
Even shattered, the Holy Sword still retained potent sacred energy, capable of purifying corruption and vanquishing demons.
In the past, Ruth, as a witch, would never have dared to open such a box. The residual holy power within could have blinded her with a mere glance.
But after the battle with Sophia that night—especially after passing the paladins’ "Divine Sense" scrutiny without detection—she and the other witches had realized their very essence had fundamentally changed. They no longer feared the threat of such sacred relics.
Thus, she opened the box without fear.
Confirming the cargo was intact, Ruth closed the box and turned her cold gaze toward the dark elf necromancer still struggling to crawl away.
Now that the artifact was secured, all that remained was to eliminate this dark elf before returning to reunite with her master...
Just as she prepared to strike, her brow twitched at the sound of rustling grass—something was charging toward her.
A gust of wind roared as Ruth spun to see Nidalee, in her leopard form, lunging straight for the box in her hands.
Startled, she swiftly clutched the box to her chest, rolling aside to evade the attack.
Ignoring the dirt staining her clothes, she rose to her feet, glaring. "Nidalee, what are you doing?!"
Nidalee landed, shifted back to human form, and met Ruth’s guarded stance with flickering eyes before offering an awkward smile. "My apologies, Miss Ruth. I acted rashly."
She hesitated, then added, "The contents of that box are vital to me and my tribe. I should have explained sooner—I know it’s unfair to demand now. But if you hand it over, I’ll forfeit all other treasures in this castle. What do you say?"
Her plea was earnest, but Ruth shook her head firmly. "I’m sorry, Miss Nidalee. That’s impossible. This is just as important to us."
Nidalee’s heart sank. Though Ruth was ruthless, they’d fought side by side moments ago—conflict was the last thing she wanted. "Name your price. I have valuables on me, and the Mountaineer tribe owes you a favor. We’ll do anything—"
Ruth’s tone remained unyielding. "No."
Absurd. This fragment was key to purifying Theresa and securing the monastery’s future. Did Nidalee truly think it could be bartered like common loot?
Seeing Ruth’s resolve, Nidalee knew peaceful resolution was hopeless.
Holy Sword Fragments were coveted by many: some sought their power for strength, others wielded them against undead and fiends, and some—like the dark elf necromancer—wished to corrupt them for evil.
Nidalee didn’t know Ruth’s motives, but if words failed, only force remained.
Remembering how Ruth had slaughtered foes without hesitation, Nidalee shuddered—then gritted her teeth and struck first. "Entangle!"
As Nidalee’s incantation surged, nature energy erupted. Vines burst from the earth, coiling around Ruth’s legs, thighs, wrists, waist, and throat, immobilizing her instantly.
"You—!" Ruth’s eyes blazed with fury before her body trembled. The vines’ venomous thorns pierced her skin, toxins seeping in, paralyzing her.
"I’ll... never... give... the fragment—Ghk!"
Clutching the box to her chest, Ruth feigned defiance—until a vine slithered into her mouth, gagging her. Only muffled whimpers escaped.
Defenseless, the girl seemed defeated. Yet Nidalee wasn’t satisfied. Drawing a throwing spear, she channeled magic into it and hurled it at Ruth’s heart—
Blades materialized midair, shredding the vines. Freed, Ruth leapt upward, dodging the spear effortlessly. Her purple-red eyes gleamed down at the druid, bitter frustration in her heart.
Was my acting poor, or was she always intent on killing me?
The entire struggle had been a ruse—Ruth had hoped to lure Nidalee close before striking. But the druid had played it safe, attacking from afar.
Sigh. If deception fails, brute force it is.
Ruth landed smoothly—only for fresh vines to erupt, lashing at her legs. This time, she didn’t pretend weakness. Magic surged through her muscles, energy blazing like mist in the night, propelling her forward at blinding speed.
Her purple-red nails glinted lethally.
Ahead, Nidalee’s pupils constricted. Instinct screamed danger. Abandoning the vines, she chanted anew: "Barkskin!"
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