Chapter 71: The Curtain Falls

  His face was handsome and delicate, his expression a mix of sorrow and perverse enjoyment. Two fangs protruded from his thin lips, and his fair, smooth skin and slender limbs were bared—blending into a beauty that was both obscene and uncanny. His jet-black, glittering eyes fixed unblinkingly on Sophia, as if she were either a breathtaking flower or a delicious piece of pastry.

  Sophia felt goosebumps prickle across her back. This was not just fear, but utter disgust and despair. What could she do against such a monster? How could she fight it? She felt sick to her stomach.

  Taking a deep breath to steady herself, she turned to Grafenhardt XVII—still collapsed on the ground—and the surrounding ministers. Gesturing with her hands, she began chanting incantations. A faint blue glow wrapped around the emperor and the ministers; they groaned, and suddenly found themselves able to move again.

  Fine sweat beaded on Sophia’s forehead. She had successfully cast a water-element group Dispel spell—something she was not even skilled at—but despair still weighed heavy on her heart. This small-scale group Dispel had already left her feeling drained, yet the vampire had unleashed a powerful Mass Slow spell that paralyzed everyone in the tent with a mere wave of his hand.

  “Get the emperor out of here!” she shouted to Chris and the ministers. “I’ll hold him off.” Turning back, she faced the vampire.

  Since she had turned away, the vampire had stood motionless. He had not attacked her unguarded back, but waited quietly for her to finish and turn around again.

  “Your magic is quite impressive,” Degar said, still smiling without moving. “You can wield fire, and now a small-scale water-element Dispel. I wonder if you have any other surprises in store for me.” His smile remained charming, yet it held the cruel amusement of a child watching an insect in a jar struggle to its death.

  Several ministers helped the emperor to his feet, panicking as they searched for an escape. Two skeletal warriors guarded the tent entrance, and the hole burned into the tent wall lay right behind the dangerous vampire.

  “Fools!” Sophia snapped in desperation. “Just cut the tent open with a knife!”

  The leather tent was slit open. One minister, desperate to flee, stepped outside—but three enormous dog heads suddenly appeared at the gap. The minister was dragged out instantly; his scream was cut short as he was torn into three pieces, his organs and blood splattering across the ground.

  The emperor and the other ministers froze, then collapsed back onto the ground in terror. The three-headed dog dropped the severed limbs from its jaws and lunged for the emperor, who lay helpless. Chris threw herself over him, rolling aside just in time to avoid the attack.

  “Outside, little dog,” the vampire said, waving his hand with elegant disdain. “Just keep them from escaping—don’t ruin the lovely atmosphere here.” The three-headed dog retreated at once. His obsidian-like eyes never left Sophia, as if reluctant to look away. With a graceful gesture, like inviting a dance partner, he said, “Shall we begin, my lady?”

  Sophia glared at him, gritting her teeth. She bent down, unbuckled a longsword from a minister’s waist, and swung it a few times to assume a fighting stance.

  “I hope fear doesn’t make you lose your sense and courage,” the vampire said, smiling as he looked at the sharp weapon. “For that is the irreplaceable part of your great beauty.”

  Sophia said nothing. She charged forward, driving the sword straight at his chest.

  Degar smiled and opened his arms, as if embracing the blade. The sword slid smoothly into his snow-white skin, piercing through his body until the tip protruded from his back. His smile never faded; wrapping his arms around her, he pulled Sophia—who had run him through—into a tight hug, like a passionate lover.

  But his easy smile suddenly stiffened, then twisted into a mix of shock and fury.

  With a dull thud, Sophia was sent flying several meters away, crashing to the ground. She curled up like a shrimp, clutching her stomach, her features contorted by agony.

  Ignoring the longsword still protruding from his body, Degar focused on slowly pulling a small knife from just below the sword. It was a tiny silver dinner knife, taken from the table earlier—now embedded hilt-deep in his chest. Smoke curled from the wound where the knife had struck.

  Clang. The knife finally fell to the ground as Degar pulled it free. His expression remained one of agony. He pressed a hand to the stab wound; the smoke gradually ceased, and he breathed a sigh of relief, yanking the longsword out and tossing it aside. His skin there was once again flawless.

  “Third time,” Degar said, looking at Sophia—still curled in pain on the ground. His expression was no longer relaxed. “A vampire of lower rank would have died three times over by now. Was that little knife your real weapon? The longsword was just a distraction to lull me into carelessness.” He sighed, genuine admiration in his voice. “You truly are extraordinary.”

  Sophia remained huddled on the ground, her slender body trembling slightly—as if she had no strength left to resist.

  Yet Degar did not approach. Staring at her for a moment, he shook his head. “That kick was hard, wasn’t it? It must have hurt. I’m truly sorry, but you should be fine now. If you can cast Wall of Flame and Dispel, you must know Healing Magic too. Pretending to be helpless to lull me—what are you planning? Waiting for me to get close so you can attack with magic? Or maybe you’re thinking… if one silver knife can hurt me, more would work better?” He snapped his fingers, and two wraiths drifted into the tent through the hole. “I don’t dare underestimate you anymore. You’re the first human woman I’ve ever dared not look down on.”

  Sophia slowly rose to her feet. Her hair was disheveled, a trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth. She looked at the vampire—who had seen through her ruse—with despair.

  “Ah… that look,” Degar murmured, closing his eyes and tilting his head back, utterly intoxicated by an emotion that seemed half rapture, half heartbreak. “A woman so beautiful, strong, brave, and clever… finally showing me a look of despair, like a Persian cat under a scalpel. Beautiful—truly beautiful. And since I cannot have you, I have no choice but to eat you. How sad, how helpless I am. This look of yours, this feeling of mine… I will remember and savor it for a hundred years. In my endless, boring life as a vampire, there is nothing meaningful left—only these poignant, breathtaking moments are worth pursuing.” With a wave of his hand, the two wraiths lunged at Sophia.

  Boom! Sophia launched a fireball, blowing apart half of one wraith’s insubstantial body—but in an instant, the white mist re-formed into its full form. These undead creatures had no physical body, merely a mass of extracted will and magical energy; unless destroyed completely in one strike, they could re-form endlessly.

  One wraith had already seized Sophia’s hand. Though they could not even pick up a leaf, the spectral energy composing their bodies could block the flow of life force in living beings, paralyzing their flesh.

  The two wraiths held Sophia fast. Her body stiffened instantly, unable to make even the slightest movement. Degar stepped forward, embracing her, and sighed. “A woman so perfect, blood so fine… when will I ever taste the like again?”

  Sophia’s face had turned deathly pale. She bit down hard on her lower lip—as if struggling to resist, or to hold back a cry. Her neck trembled, and all emotion in her slender eyes had been ground down by fear and helplessness into despair—like a sika deer about to be swallowed by a python.

  The vampire gazed at her desperate expression, his handsome, eerie face soft with rapture and sorrow—as if he were an artist lost in his own masterpiece. He pressed his blood-stained lips to her fair neck, trailing them slowly across her delicate skin, caressing her as gently as a boy touching his first love. A trail of blood marked his path, and small goosebumps rose in his wake.

  Finally, he bared his sharp fangs and bit down. Crimson blood welled up from her snow-white skin, flowing into the vampire’s mouth.

  “No!” Chris screamed, her cry echoing through the tent.

  But another shrill howl immediately drowned her out—a sound so loud it nearly pierced everyone’s eardrums.

  The scream came from the vampire, who had been so elegant and composed just moments before. His reaction was so violent that even the two wraiths lost their hold. Sophia pulled free, clutching her bleeding neck. Only a vein had been nicked, not torn; she cast a quick Healing spell, stopping the bleeding at once.

  Everyone stared in astonishment as the vampire danced about like a cat scalded by boiling water.

  Smoke curled from Degar’s mouth—but more than smoke: his lower face was almost boiling. It was as if he had drunk molten steel, not blood. He seemed to want to cover his mouth, yet dared not touch it. Every inch of his skin and muscle twitched with agony.

  Sophia stared at the monster—once so calm and confident—then suddenly understood. She bit down hard on her wrist, drawing blood, then rushed to the howling vampire and splattered her blood across his body.

  When her blood touched Degar’s skin, it hissed and boiled like water on a red-hot pan. Driven mad by pain and rage, the vampire punched Sophia in the side. Ribs cracked; she flew backward, crashing into the tent wall.

  The vampire continued howling. Suddenly, he grabbed the longsword from the ground and hacked off his entire lower jaw.

  Degar was frantic. He swung the sword again and again, slashing at every part of his body stained with Sophia’s blood. Each strike was ruthless, slicing off chunks of flesh as if they were the most loathsome thing in the world. By the time he had cut away all the blood-stained areas, his once-slender body was a mangled, unrecognizable mess. Yet the remaining half of his face seemed to relax slightly.

  The severed flesh continued to corrode and dissolve in the blood, vanishing completely in moments. With a pop, Degar’s body dissolved into a cloud of mist, then slowly re-formed into his original form—though he looked weak, barely able to stand.

  The vampire leaped onto a minister, sinking his fangs into the man’s neck and drinking greedily. All his earlier elegance was gone; he knelt on all fours, moving like a bloodthirsty beast. Even as he fed, his eyes remained fixed on Sophia, alert and wary. His expression was that of a wolf starved for decades—ravenous and cruel. His once-handsome face had twisted into something grotesque and eerie, as if he longed to drain the man’s body dry in a single bite.

  The poor minister’s wail was cut short. His limbs tensed like a frog in a snake’s mouth, and as the color drained from his face, he collapsed, pale and limp.

  Degar rose and pounced on another minister. Blood dripped from his mouth to his bare body, a stark, horrifying contrast against his fairness. His slender limbs wrapped tightly around his prey, like a huge, strange white spider. The sound of him gulping blood was loud and guttural—making him the very embodiment of terror. Finally, someone could no longer hold back, and began screaming.

  After draining three men dry, Degar seemed to regain his strength. He stood up, yet still watched Sophia warily, daring not approach.

  Danger. A long-forgotten fear stirred in the vampire’s heart. Something in that blood was completely incompatible with his nature—more potent than the most sacred holy water, nearly tearing his body apart.

  Degar frowned, studying Sophia carefully. She seemed to have truly fainted; the punch he had thrown in his agony was more than any human body could withstand. He gestured for a skeleton warrior to step forward. Sophia did not move. Degar signaled again, and the skeleton raised its sword.

  “Stop! Someone help my sister!” Chris screamed, finally regaining her senses.

  Degar frowned. Without even a gesture, Chris collapsed like a log, trapped by his Slow spell.

  Foolish creatures, he thought. Regardless of how clichéd their cries, they were utterly useless. In a situation like this, what could possibly make him stop? Who could possibly save her? He flicked a finger, and the skeleton’s sword began to fall.

  But at that moment, a deafening crash echoed through the tent. A dark shape burst through the canvas, slamming into the skeleton and sending it flying.

  The vampire looked on in shock and fury—only to see that the figure who had arrived just in time to save Sophia was the three-headed dog… or rather, its corpse.

  Only half of the dog’s three ferocious heads remained attached to its body; the other two were gone, leaving only tattered flesh at its neck.

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  “I’m sorry I’m late—are you all okay?” a man said, stepping through the hole made by the dog’s body. “Don’t worry—I’ve taken care of all the monsters.”

  Everyone turned to the man, who spoke like a savior. Yet he looked more terrifying than the vampire himself: his body was caked in congealed purple-black blood, reeking of iron and rot. His body was covered in deep wounds, and he panted heavily, barely able to stand.

  Ethan stared in stunned disbelief at the bizarre scene inside the tent.

  Everyone lay on the ground like dead frogs—some motionless, others twitching. Among them were several pale, uncanny corpses; most seemed alive, yet their expressions were more horrifying than death. Standing amid them were two skeletons, two wraiths, and a naked young man—covered in blood from mouth to body. He could not begin to fathom what was happening; this was nothing like the bishop’s plan.

  In the bishop’s scheme, the undead were only supposed to injure a few guards and frighten the emperor and his envoys. But when Ethan had arrived, the monsters that were supposed to be wreaking havoc inside were instead patrolling outside—attacking him frantically the moment he approached.

  “Did you destroy all the skeletons and zombies outside?” the young man asked, looking at Ethan in surprise.

  “Yes,” Ethan replied, thoroughly confused.

  The naked young man nodded, smiling as if in approval. “You seem quite capable. I’ve been busy in here, so I didn’t notice what was happening outside.”

  Perhaps it was the three-headed dog’s gruesome state, or the vampire’s comment about Ethan being “capable”—but hope flickered in the hearts of the trapped nobles. Several ministers, recognizing Ethan’s tattered priest’s robes beneath the blood, began screaming like slaughtered pigs: “Father, save us! He’s an evil vampire—destroy him and save us!”

  Degar sighed. Turning around, he stomped on the stomach of the loudest beggar.

  With a wet squelch, flesh and organs splattered everywhere. The vampire’s foot sank deep into the minister’s body, nearly piercing through. Yet the minister’s limbs still twitched, and he let out a gurgling sound that was barely human.

  Degar brought his foot down hard on the man’s head, silencing him. “I told you not to make noise,” he said calmly. “And I forgot to mention—I hate it when people introduce me.” The sound of bones crunching beneath his foot silenced the tent again. Terror overwhelmed everyone once more; no one dared even think of resisting. Even the emperor and the ministers—now free of the Slow spell—froze, like frogs before a snake.

  A vampire? Ethan gasped, taking a step back. For a moment, he wanted to turn and run.

  The bishop had only assigned one three-headed dog, four high-level zombies, a dozen skeletal warriors, and two wraiths. Ethan had collected them personally with the marquis—they had never captured a vampire, nor would they have dared. The Magic Academy’s dungeons had no such creatures, and even if they had, Ethan and the marquis would never have risked it. Though the Church classified vampires alongside skeletons and zombies as undead, they were nothing alike. It was like comparing humans to insects—both had flesh, yet they were worlds apart. Strictly speaking, most vampires had been extraordinary beings in life—many were even master mages.

  Ethan had no time to wonder how the vampire had gotten there. Fighting the zombies and skeletons outside had already drained his remaining strength; the Healing spells he had cast along the way, and the final fireball that had blown up the three-headed dog, had left his magic nearly exhausted. By his own judgment, the best option now was to run.

  But he couldn’t. No matter how dangerous the situation, no matter if he abandoned the emperor or the nobles—there was one person here he could not leave behind.

  Ethan cursed the marquis for meddling. Glancing around frantically, he finally spotted Sophia lying on the ground in the distance. Her face was still flushed, not the deathly pale of the corpses—she seemed only unconscious.

  Ethan breathed a sigh of relief, but immediately felt goosebumps again. The naked monster—who looked like a delicate, fair young man—was staring at him, his eyes raking up and down Ethan’s body.

  “Strange,” the vampire murmured, his gaze lingering on Ethan as if he were a naked woman. “You’re weak now, but I can tell you have good physical strength and magical ability. Your looks are passable too. Logically, you’d make an excellent first subordinate… but why do I find you so annoying?”

  “The feeling’s mutual,” Ethan replied, struggling to regulate his breathing with meditation. He hoped to buy time to recover more strength and magic. “I find you pretty annoying too.”

  “Perhaps you just don’t fit my refined aesthetic,” Degar concluded, waving a hand dismissively. He pointed a finger at Ethan, pronouncing his death. “So die.”

  “The feeling’s still mutual,” Ethan ground out. “I want to kill you too.” But his words were not born of anger—he was wracking his brain, recalling every legend he knew, desperate to find a way to hurt the monster. Sunlight? It was high noon. A cross? Even skeletons and wraiths didn’t fear that. Garlic? He couldn’t imagine something he ate every day would ward off evil, and he had none with him anyway.

  Before he could think of an answer, Degar waved his hand. The two skeletons—until now motionless as statues at the tent entrance—suddenly sprang into action. They moved not with the clumsiness of ordinary skeletons, but with the agility of monkeys, leaping toward him. The two wraiths floating in the air also darted forward.

  These zombies and skeletons were far superior to the shoddy, mass-produced ones Vedenina had summoned in Whispering Woods. They were elite warriors, crafted with immense effort by early Necromancers. Otherwise, the marquis would never have used just a handful to attack the royal hunting party.

  Ethan swung his sword, shattering one skeleton into pieces. But at the same time, the other skeleton’s rusted blade sliced a long gash across his back. These creatures had little strength, and their weapons were dull, so the wound was not deep. He barely managed to smash the second skeleton, but then he saw the vampire striding toward Sophia—still unconscious on the ground.

  “What do you think you’re doing? I’m right here!” Ethan shouted. He rolled clumsily to avoid the two wraiths, then charged at the vampire.

  “I know,” Degar replied, not even glancing at him. He waved a hand and muttered a few monosyllabic incantations.

  With a crash, Ethan slammed into an ice wall that had appeared out of nowhere. The inch-thick wall shattered, and his bones felt as if they had cracked too. He was thrown backward, landing hard—just as the two wraiths swooped over his head.

  The vampire continued forward, pausing to pick up the longsword Sophia had used to pierce him earlier. He had not forgotten that strange woman; she was the real threat. Though she lay motionless—perhaps dead—he could not take chances. He would cut off her beautiful head with his own hands, watch her dangerous blood drain into the earth. And that pretty girl—she seemed to be her sister. Whether this strange constitution was hereditary or not, he would kill her too.

  Beautiful women were lovely, of course—playthings, tools. But when it was time to kill, he would not hesitate.

  Yet the man who had crashed into the ice wall struggled to his feet and stumbled toward him again. He paid no mind to the two wraiths chasing him, shouting as he raised his sword and stabbed at Degar.

  The man was weak, and the collision had clearly injured him—his steps were unsteady. But the sword strike was fierce, filled with all his remaining strength and speed, a suicidal lunge to die together.

  Degar scoffed. He did not fear death—he even enjoyed when others risked their lives, for he had no life to lose. Only theirs would be forfeit.

  The two swords pierced two chests almost simultaneously. Degar felt the blade slide through his body clearly—a sensation he had experienced many times, like swallowing a whole, cold berry. By comparison, he preferred the feel of his own sword slicing into living flesh. The man’s muscles were taut; he could even sense the vibrant pulse of his body through the blade—though that pulse would soon fade. Degar savored the feeling.

  The two men collided. Both swords protruded from their backs—one stained with bright red blood, the other still gleaming clean.

  “Fool,” Degar sneered, looking down at the lowly creature who had thrown his life away. But the face he saw was not one of fear or despair at the realization of his mistake. Beneath the caked blood, the man’s features twisted into a ferocious grimace, burning with resolve.

  The man—impaled through the chest—reached out, grabbing Degar’s neck and shoulders. His hands were surprisingly strong, his fingers digging into Degar’s flesh as he yanked hard, swapping their positions.

  At that moment, the two wraiths lunged forward, nearly touching the now-swapped Degar.

  Boom! The entire tent was torn to shreds by a massive explosion from within. Most of the people lying on the ground were thrown into the air; a few closer to the blast were sent flying. More than a dozen were stunned or injured.

  The wraiths’ pale, insubstantial bodies were more fragile than paper in the storm of magical energy and air. They were torn apart instantly, their magical structure shattered, vanishing into thin air.

  Amid the rain of tent fragments, a sword clattered to the ground—the one that had been stuck in Degar’s chest. The vampire was gone, not a trace of his body left.

  The other sword still protruded from Ethan’s chest, its tip sticking out his back. He too had been thrown far by the explosion, lying motionless on the ground. The fierce resolve on his face had faded to stillness—finally, the expression one would expect of a man run through with a sword.

  But then he slowly moved. With great effort, he reached up, grabbed the hilt of the sword in his chest, and carefully pulled it out, inch by inch.

  The sword had not so much “stabbed” him as “slipped” through. It had squeezed between the muscles of his chest, brushed past his heart and lungs, and slid beside his major arteries—only wounding the muscles of his chest and back.

  Ethan finally had to admit that his time working with Sandro had not been for nothing. Watching the old man take organs out of bodies and put them back like toys had not sparked his interest, but he had absorbed enough to know the human body’s structure intimately. Years of meditation had also heightened his awareness of every part of his body—he knew the position and state of every muscle and organ, could even shift them slightly. That was how he had pulled off this desperate gamble. As he charged toward the blade, he had adjusted his body to let the sword “slip” through.

  He held his breath—daring not even inhale—as he gripped the hilt and pulled slowly. The blade was pressed right against a major artery; every heartbeat left a tiny scratch on the vessel wall. If that scratch deepened even a little, if the fragile barrier broke, blood would gush out like a fountain.

  Finally, he pulled the sword free. Ethan let out a long breath. Blood still flowed from his chest and back, but it was only muscle damage. Now, he could not even cast the weakest Healing spell. Worse, he would be unable to use magic for days—the fireball had drained nearly every drop of essence from his organs.

  Even now, he still had no idea what the vampire’s weakness was. But whatever it was, blowing him to pieces should be enough to stop him—right?

  A hissing sound reached his ears. Ethan turned his head, and there was the vampire—supposedly blown to bits—holding a noblewoman. In two bites, he drained her dry, leaving her pale and shriveled.

  “Impressive… dangerous,” Degar said, dropping the corpse and standing up. He licked the blood from his lips with a long, sharp tongue—bright red against his fair skin, a horrifying contrast. Though he praised his opponent, his tone was casual, his charming smile fully restored. “I would have liked to see more of your tricks, but your body’s now like an empty, dried-up sack.” He flicked his blood-red tongue at Ethan, smiling. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes,” Ethan admitted. It was true. He had a little strength and fighting spirit left, but what good would that do against such a monster? He could feel his face turning blue as he glared at the creature. “Damn it… are you really unkillable?”

  “Death?” Degar said, walking slowly toward him. The sense of superiority on his naked body was bizarre. “That’s just a word to me. But you’ll soon feel it—tangibly.”

  On the ground nearby, Chris finally regained her senses and screamed: “That monster’s afraid of my sister’s blood!”

  Degar’s face changed instantly.

  Ethan’s face changed too—because he saw the vampire’s reaction.

  It sounded absurd: a vampire who feared a human’s blood. But the vampire’s reaction proved it was true. Ethan snapped: “You fool—why didn’t you say so earlier?” He turned and ran toward Sophia, still lying on the ground.

  But the vampire was faster. He did not use magic—there was no time. He blurred like a wisp of smoke, appearing in front of Ethan and throwing a punch.

  Ethan could not dodge, dared not. If he moved, the vampire would have time to cast magic. “Get out of my way!” he roared, throwing a punch of his own. All his hope rested on this strike—he poured every last bit of resolve and strength into his fist.

  The sound was not clear and crisp. Degar’s pale, elegant fist shattered like a ripe apple. Ethan’s fist did not stop, slamming into the vampire’s thin chest.

  A dozen ribs cracked at once. The two figures flew apart; one body crashed to the ground and rolled several times.

  Degar stared at his wrist—now just a few strips of flesh hanging from his arm—then looked down at his chest. His ribs were not broken; they had been crushed to pulp along with the surrounding flesh, leaving a gaping hole.

  He looked at his opponent—thrown aside by a knee strike, ribs broken—and shook his head in admiration. “You can use battle qi too? A warrior who can use magic—I’ve never even heard of such a thing. And you’re a priest?” He stepped forward, grabbing Ethan’s tattered clothes and lifting the larger man off the ground with one hand. “If you could use advanced light magic too, even I might fear you. But it’s a pity… that’s why I have to kill you now.”

  But then he saw the man—dying, on the verge of collapse—smiling. A mocking smile, a relieved smile, even a hint of joy. It was not the expression of someone who knew death was coming.

  Degar was confused, but he was not worried. The man had truly exhausted all his magic, battle qi, and strength. His knee strike could have killed a bull; the fact that Ethan still breathed was a testament to his tough body. As for the others—most could not move, and those who could dared not.

  Eliminating all possible variables, he frowned and asked: “What are you smiling at?”

  “I’m smiling because I’m an idiot,” the man said, still smiling—more broadly now. He looked not idiotic, but insane.

  “An idiot?” Degar asked. “I think you’re insane.”

  “I just realized I could have beaten you easily,” the man said, even though speaking clearly was a struggle with his broken ribs.

  Degar laughed. He pressed his other hand to Ethan’s head, ready to crush it like a watermelon. “Then tell me—how?”

  The man opened his mouth, but instead of answering, he spat out a mouthful of blood.

  The blood sprayed in a fine mist—Ethan had twisted his neck deliberately as he spat, covering Degar’s face, head, and chest. When the blood touched the vampire’s skin, it hissed and boiled, eating away at his flesh like acid.

  A scream unlike any before tore from Degar’s throat. He dropped Ethan, staggering backward as he tried to grab his sword—but his hand fell off mid-reach, corroded by the blood on his skin.

  He could no longer make a sound. His face and throat had melted into a bubbling mess. The blood did not just corrode the surface—it seeped into his body, tearing him apart from the inside. His neck was nearly severed, his distorted head lolling on his shoulders. His once-slender body now twisted and sagged like a rotting zombie, collapsing further by the second. Finally, he fell to the ground, twitching weakly—unable to control even the smallest movement. In moments, the monster dissolved into a puddle of slime, then shrank into a pile of dust that scattered into the air, gone forever.

  It took a long time for anyone to believe the monster was truly dead.

  Everyone on the ground stood up. With the caster dead, the Slow spell finally lifted. The tent site erupted into chaos—crying, screaming, calls for the royal guard and priests. Most crowded around the emperor, shielding him.

  Ethan lay on the ground, listening to the panic around him. He wanted to move to Sophia’s side, but he could not even sit up. He could not cast Healing magic, and his injuries were too severe—his consciousness began to fade. Then, he heard footsteps approaching. Finally, someone was coming to help him.

  But when the person reached him, they poked him—right in his wound. Ethan yelped in pain.

  “Oh, you’re still alive!” a voice said. A somewhat disheveled but still beautiful face leaned over him—it was Chris.

  Ethan gasped: “Why didn’t you say so earlier? If you’d told me he was afraid of your sister’s blood, I would have known how to beat him.”

  “Who are you calling a fool?” Chris poked him again, making him yelp. “In a scene that scary, the fact that I even remembered to tell you is amazing! That monster almost bit me too—look!” She pointed to her neck, as if showing off a badge. Two faint red marks marred her white skin. “I stayed calm even then! Look at everyone else—they were all scared silly! Without me, you’d all be dead. Isn’t that amazing?”

  “Fine, fine—you’re amazing,” Ethan said, nodding weakly. “How’s your sister? Is she okay?”

  “She’s still unconscious, but she’s better than you—at least she’s not dying.”

  “Good,” Ethan said. With that, he finally fainted.