This was a premeditated ambush. The attackers lured the dragon-slaying heroes into a dead zone corrupted by Dark Aura, split their ranks down the middle, and cut off their front and rear from each other. Then they began to pick them off one by one. This team gathered several top experts from various races—representing the strongest forces on the continent today, and the crucial weight keeping all races in peaceful coexistence. If they fell here, the continent would surely plunge into massive turmoil.
"Are humans stirring up war again?" Amidst the chaos, a voice like clear water sighed softly—cool and pure.
Melissara’s gaze remained serene, her breathing soft and even. Even trapped in this bloody battlefield, facing two formidable opponents, she appeared utterly composed, almost nonchalant—as if the surrounding slaughter and shouts meant nothing to her. As if she were merely sipping tea with a friend.
"Your words miss the mark," Herman said, hands clasped behind his back. A faint smile played on his lips, but his eyes were icy steel—two chilling orbs that made one’s blood run cold. "War stems from division. Precisely because the continent is fractured into so many pieces do different races and powers clash over interests, escalating into conflict. Conflict spills blood. Our great Emperor wishes to see none of this. He has resolved to unify the entire continent, erase differences between races and powers, and bring eternal peace. And you," he paused, "are obstacles to that grand vision."
"Nonsense!" Loran raised his sword, its tip aimed at Herman. "This is nothing but human greed!"
He then shot a look of disgust at the motionless figure beside Herman—cloaked head-to-toe in black. "Demonkind? That stench, like something dredged from a dung heap—it’s the culprit that ‘killed’ these trees, isn’t it?"
The black-cloaked man seemed deaf to his words. He stood like an iron tower, only the faintest crimson glow visible beneath his hood where half-lidded eyes gleamed dully. Lifeless. Like a puppet waiting for strings to pull.
Herman chuckled lightly. "Respected Captain, such crude comparisons tarnish your elegance. And Maelon won’t appreciate it, will he?" He directed the last two words at the black-cloaked figure—no, the demon.
As if summoned by Herman’s words, the demon’s body began to tremble. A series of sharp *crackling pops* echoed from beneath his robes—like firecrackers snapping bone by bone. His breathing grew ragged, thick mist puffing from his mouth. A low, guttural moan escaped him, as if struggling to contain something monstrous.
Loran lifted his sword slightly higher. Silently, he channeled mana into the blade. A faint golden sheen coated the steel, radiating tangible warmth and holiness in the gloom—a force that drew all living things near.
Of course, "living things" did not include Demonkind.
【Holy】-attribute magic brought light to the world. Its lethality ranked just above 【Light】-attribute magic—gentle, almost harmless. Yet it was a devastating weapon against demons.
The intensifying holy glow clearly unsettled the black-cloaked demon. To Loran’s notice, Herman’s expression also twisted slightly, his earlier composure fraying.
"Seems the Captain dislikes negotiations," Herman murmured, stepping back almost imperceptibly. His gaze shifted to Melissara. "Then, Your Majesty the Elven King—what is *your* stance?"
Melissara hadn’t moved an inch. She stood defenseless yet utterly still, eyelids lifted just enough to gaze ahead—not at the demon, but *through* him, into the darkness beyond. Only when Herman spoke did her eyes flicker, sweeping over his face for a fleeting moment.
"You are also Demonkind," Melissara said softly. "But... a defective product."
Herman’s smile froze. Then it stretched wider, sharper. "Defective? I fear today, Elven King Melissara, you’ll die by the hand of that very ‘defect’ you scorn!"
As Herman’s words fell, the black-cloaked demon threw his arms wide. He threw back his head and unleashed a deafening roar. His hood slipped, revealing a corpse-pale young face—veins bulging on forehead, neck, and cheeks, eyes blazing crimson. Thick, ink-like death aura erupted from him, swallowing the last traces of light. In the suffocating dark, only one thing remained visible: the faint golden gleam of Loran’s sword, radiating warmth.
The instant the demon moved, Loran was ready. Though sight blurred and senses compressed under the death aura, years of instinct and combat experience guided him. Without hesitation, he slashed forward in the simplest, shortest arc—a smooth golden curve cutting through darkness.
*Clang!*
Metal shrieked on metal. A savage force slammed into his blade, driving down with brutal weight. Loran didn’t flinch. He stepped back smoothly, retracting his sword while pouring more mana into it. In his mind’s eye, the enemy’s form and weapon snapped into focus. He thrust—straight for the heart!
*CLANG!*
Another explosive ring of steel.
The opponent had somehow crossed his weapon inhumanly fast, deflecting the killing strike. Both fighters recoiled a step.
*Speed.*
That was Loran’s only thought.
The darkness thinned. Loran saw his opponent clearly now—Herman. He held a sword of his own, wreathed in faint death aura. His face had turned corpse-pale, eyes glowing with that same eerie crimson light.
The death aura had weakened because the black-cloaked demon—Maelon—was gone. And so was Melissara.
Loran scanned the area calmly. Herman had planned this meticulously. No dragon-slayers. No imperial soldiers. A barrier isolated this space, sealing them inside like gladiators in a fighting pit—locked in a battle to the death.
Judging by his own situation, Melissara must have been lured away similarly, forced into single combat with that black-cloaked demon.
"Worried for your King?" Herman’s grin split his pale face. "I’d worry about *yourself* first, Captain."
