Aphelia whipped her blade. Rock layers split like cracked ice, and she burst back to the surface. Her Arcane Power surged on instinct, shaping a shield against gushing flame.
Yet that “simple” flame shattered her ward in a blink. Heat bit her armor, scarring it black. Shock punched her chest; she yanked back, widening the gap.
She finally saw the foe, and her spirit snapped taut like a bowstring. She didn’t dare relax for a breath.
It was a Hydra, vast as a magitech battleship, bellowing up at Aphelia hanging in the air, a storm‑mad beast.
In her memory, a Hydra in true form moved slow, but its mixed elemental breaths hit like equal‑rank spells. Its anti‑magic hide rivaled a dragon’s. Mage or warrior, everyone cursed facing a true Hydra.
Worse, this one wore nine heads. With Hydras, headcount was power: one to seven matched novice to Titleholder rank; eight marked a Demigod; nine, without question, stepped into True God tier.
The thing before her… a True God? Impossible. Could the Demon World still harbor a True God?
In this world, any who become True God get rejected by the world itself. The longer they linger, the stronger the rejection. In the end, they’re cut off from magic and elements. So True Gods depart for the God Realm.
“How is this possible!”
Aphelia didn’t dare slack. Arcane Power poured into a tight shield, wrapping her like layered glass. She squared off with the nine‑headed Hydra. Then it halted, as if blind to her, and started clawing at the mine her wards had sealed.
The shift left her both startled and relieved. Dodging a duel with a True God was a gift from heaven. But she kept her guard high, breath steady.
A True God shouldn’t just “lose the target” like a blind man. Becoming a Hydra didn’t mean losing reason. If anything, flesh grew stronger, and the mind processed faster—like several thinkers sharing one skull.
She edged her senses outward, testing the frenzied digger. It didn’t react to her “bold” probe at all. A guess bloomed in her chest—wild, almost absurd.
To prove it, she went all‑in. She flung her senses wide and swept the nine heads. She read the ripples—elemental tides, soul flickers—head by head.
Her eyes widened, shock like cold water. This… this was real?!
The result was clear as daylight. Inside that vast body, the soul was missing in large chunks. Nine heads showed, but at least four were soulless—only tatters pushed them to follow instinct.
“A True God reduced to this—what had it endured?”
She dropped her earlier idea. A True God is still a True God. Even with a torn soul, power clings to flesh. She didn’t believe she could take several True‑God‑tier strikes.
One breath had already shattered her ward. If nine heads breathed at once, could she endure? Her heart had no answer.
“So True Gods are showing up now… How did they do this? The Demon World runs deeper than I thought.”
She exhaled, a quiet decision settling. This place was no longer safe. If a full Arcane cocoon could blind the Hydra, she’d slip away under that veil.
She turned to go. The air shrieked. A sudden elemental breath slammed her shield and hurled her from the sky. Heat seared through her armor; frost bit to the bone.
Why now? How did it suddenly find her?
She didn’t hesitate. A spatial spell snapped her back into the air. Her old spot took another breath—this time, three layered exhalations.
Flame, frost, and racing lightning braided into a storm that chewed the ground bare. When it passed, elements still hissed, and a vast crater gaped.
Above the Hydra, a figure in pure white armor had appeared, silent as snow. It faced Aphelia across the empty air.
Her gaze fixed on the shield in that figure’s hand. The aura flowing from it washed over the Hydra below, and the nine heads quieted like waves under moonlight.
A wry chill brushed her spine. So that was the ploy—hide, loosen her guard. Too bad for them; that last strike hadn’t killed her.
If the nine‑headed Hydra only attacked under control, then cut down the controller, and the door out would open.
With that, she finished several quick chants. Her blade slid back to her waist. She settled into a draw stance—breath low, eyes steady.
At the split second the white figure’s spell primed, Aphelia moved. Her Holy Sword carved a silver arc in midair. She unleashed the fastest Titleholder speed, close to light itself.
She refused to test the waters. From the first heartbeat, she went all‑out. She would use her strongest technique. The fight would end the instant it began.
“Ancient Martial Flow—Ephemeral Bloom!”
A silver blade traced a perfect circle before the white figure, bright as a full moon. The arc even cleaved the forming magic circle. It was about to claim a head.
But the strange shield swelled, becoming a heavy infantry wall. It boxed the figure in. The silver arc met it and stopped. A deep sword scar dug into the face, and a heavy clang rolled through the air.
Below, the nine‑headed Hydra spat twin elemental breaths under the figure’s command. Aphelia had to slide back, heat and storm snapping at her heels.
“Not good…” A startled cry leaked from the white armor. The shield had borne a single scar; suddenly, a second carved in. Then a third, a fourth—scores of marks bloomed like frost cracks. The impact crushed the white figure from the sky. It slammed straight onto the Hydra’s vast back with a muffled boom. Even the Hydra roared.
Aphelia smiled, breath fogging the air. Ephemeral Bloom was a technique she refined after becoming a Titleholder. What had been a near full‑power strike, she accelerated into hundreds of cuts within a blink. If they dared to trust that shield, let them test it.
This move hit hard, but it taxed her body. Even with a Titleholder’s grip on time to accelerate the process, muscle fatigue didn’t vanish with speed.
She panted, right arm aching like a drawn bow left too long. She pulled a magic scroll for support and lifted her blade again.
With the scroll’s aid, she finished a quasi‑Titleholder acceleration spell in under a minute. This time, she wouldn’t use Ephemeral Bloom. Her body refused another high‑intensity technique so soon.
This time, one lightning thrust would end the half‑dead white figure. Her body drew like an arrow from the string. Her blade stacked layer on layer of Arcane Power.
A razor danger pricked her side at the last instant. She cut the technique mid‑motion. Arcane Power thickened beside her into a shield.
Her instinct saved her again. From the void, a cold gleam flashed, striking for the space under her left ribs.
Whatever it was, she wouldn’t take it head‑on. She set a draw and slashed, decisive and clean.
The sweeping sword aura met that needle of cold and stalled it midair. In that heartbeat, she opened distance and streaked away.
Clearly, more than one enemy lay in ambush. That void‑cutting strike spoke of a Titleholder, one steeped in the assassin’s path. She only felt the killing intent at the instant of the blow. A common assassin, no matter how long they waited, couldn’t slip past her senses.
