Gravion did not back down. He hoisted his staff with both hands, and the very air within the narrow alley shifted.

It wasn’t just heavy. It was as if the world itself sought to crush Dayat into nothingness. Stone fragments from the walls, shattered by earlier gunfire, began to hover, swirling into a vortex around them. Dayat felt his body being pulled in every direction at once—up, down, left, right—as if dozens of invisible hands were trying to tear him apart.

Dayat gritted his teeth. He released the .44 Magnum; the weapon dissolved into green particles and vanished. In his hands, something new began to take shape. Shorter. Sturdier. A Remington 870. A sawed-off shotgun. For point-blank devastation.

Bam!

The roar echoed through the alley. Pellets sprayed out, slamming into the gravitational vortex. But Gravion merely gave his staff a slight flick, and the lead shot froze in mid-air, spun momentarily, then fell harmlessly to the ground.

“Pointless,” Gravion said flatly.

Dayat didn’t stop. The Remington 870 vanished. In its place, an AK-47 materialized. He aimed and unleashed a rapid burst. Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Three rounds. Five. Ten. Gravion spun his staff, conjuring a gravity wall before him. The bullets slowed, swirled in the air, and then fell like a rain of lead.

“You are merely wasting energy,” Gravion remarked. “These weapons will never pierce my defense.”

Dayat didn’t answer. The AK-47 disappeared. In his hands, an MP5 took shape. Lighter. Faster. He fired while on the move, trying to find a gap in the gravitational wall.

Gravion tilted his staff to the left. The bullets slowed, spun, and dropped.

To the right. The same.

Above. The same.

There was no opening.

Dayat gnashed his teeth. The MP5 vanished. He took a step back, creating distance. In his hands, an M4 Carbine formed. He fired in burst mode—three shots, three shots, three shots—shifting positions with every pull of the trigger.

Gravion remained rooted to the spot. His staff spun slowly, and every bullet that drew near slowed, spun, and fell.

“You have already lost,” Gravion said. “But you fought well.”

Dayat dropped to one knee. His chest heaved. His energy was nearly depleted. The green veins beneath his skin pulsed dimly.

“I haven’t lost yet.”

“You cannot move. You cannot shoot. You cannot—”

Dayat closed his eyes.

Gravion raised his staff for the final blow. Purple light gathered at its tip—brighter than ever before. Dayat could feel the air vibrating. The stone walls to his left and right began to crumble.

“Farewell.”

Dayat snapped his eyes open. Green particles began to swirl in his hand—but not for a new manifestation. He was summoning something from another dimension. Something he hadn’t touched in a long time.

The air before him distorted. Purple particles began to emerge, forming a silver hilt with intricate engravings. Then, a long, shimmering blade appeared. Adamantite. Silver Thorn.

Gravion paused. His eyes narrowed. “That… is an interesting weapon. I can feel the Mana within it. Strong. Very strong.”

Dayat didn’t respond. He gripped the hilt of Silver Thorn. The sword felt warm in his hand—as if something living dwelled within. Mana flowed from his body into the silver blade, and the metal began to glow. A brilliant, radiant green.

Gravion watched him warily. “Do you think that blade can defeat me?”

“Let’s find out,” Dayat said. “Can your magic hold this?”

He closed his eyes. The green veins beneath his skin flared with blinding light. In his hand, Silver Thorn began to change.

The blade melted, reshaping itself. Not into a pistol. Not into a rifle. This was something entirely different. A long barrel with a sealed end. No magazine. No bullets. Within it, the Adamantite Mana gathered, heating up, vibrating at a frequency the human ear could not perceive.

Gravion frowned. “What is that?”

Dayat opened his eyes. “Something you’ve never seen before.”

He pulled the trigger.

There was no loud bang. Only light. Red, thin, and perfectly straight. The beam shot forward, slicing through the thick gravity wall like a hot knife through paper.

Gravion’s eyes widened in shock. He spun his staff, trying to reinforce the shield. But the beam had already passed through. It pierced his stomach. It exited through his back.

The gravity wall collapsed. Gravion’s staff fell, clattering onto the stone floor. He staggered, one hand clutching his wound, the other reaching futilely for the fallen staff.

“You…” his voice came in ragged gasps. “That weapon… impossible…”

Dayat lowered the weapon. Silver Thorn still pulsed with a faint glow in his hand.

“I told you. I’m not the same man I was before.”

Gravion fell to his knees. Blood soaked his black robes, pouring from the wound. He looked at Dayat with eyes that were starting to grow glazed.

“I… do not regret it,” he said softly. “I only… chose the wrong side.”

He turned his head toward the distant mountains in the north. To the place where he was born.

“You… can go home now,” Dayat whispered.

Gravion offered a faint smile. Then, his body slumped to the floor. Motionless.

Dayat stood in the middle of the silent alley. Silver Thorn was still warm. He gazed at Gravion’s body for a moment, then lowered his weapon.

There was no time for this.

He turned and walked away. There was something he had to finish.

At the Viperion Family Mansion.

Alaric sat in his study, his hands trembling. Before him lay a blank sheet of paper. Outside, the night had grown quiet—a sign that none of his forces remained. He was alone. Truly alone.

He grabbed a pen and began to write. Fast. Panicked. His hand moved uncontrollably, ink splattering across the page.

To the Holy Church of Gear-Breaker and the Kingdom of Brassvale,

The Maiden’s Envoy has returned.

He comes with weapons that are immensely powerful and nonsensical. Weapons that pierce magic, pierce all defenses, pierce everything. My forces are decimated. Gravion…

He stopped. His hand shook. He didn’t know for certain that Gravion was dead. But he knew that if his strongest right-hand man couldn’t stop that man…

He continued writing. He is no ordinary human. He is a demon. A demon in disguise, come to destroy us all. I beg of you, send reinforcements. Immediately. Before he—

From outside the window, the sound of wings flapping reached his ears. Alaric looked up. A white dove with glowing red eyes—a magical messenger bird used only in dire emergencies.

He folded the letter quickly, tied it to the bird’s leg, and released it into the night air.

The bird took flight. Alaric exhaled—relieved. But in his chest, terror still lingered.

Atop the Highest Tower of Bakasa.

Dayat sat leaning against the wall, catching his breath. Silver Thorn had returned to its sword form. He stared at the silver blade for a moment before storing it back into his manifestation dimension.

In his left hand, a small tablet glowing with green light formed—a Mana detection radar. Particles of light moved across the screen, forming tiny dots. The Mana of adventurers, the remaining guards, and ordinary citizens. But he was searching for only one.

A purple dot. In the mansion. In Alaric’s study. Still there. Hadn’t left.

Dayat stood up. Silver Thorn emerged from the manifestation dimension once more, and in his hand, the sword began to change. Not into a DEW. Something smaller. More precise.

A Pindad SPR. A long-range sniper rifle. He aimed through the mansion window in the distance.

Through the scope, he saw Alaric writing. Panicked. Trembling.

He aimed for Alaric’s head. He held his breath. The distance was considerable, and the target was moving—Alaric stood up, walked to the window, and looked out. Dayat adjusted his aim.

In his mind, Dola’s broken voice whispered. He touched me. There. In that room.

Dayat took a breath. He cast aside all doubt.

He pulled the trigger.

There was no loud report. Only a soft pop. The bullet tore through the air, shattered the mansion window, and entered the study.

Alaric was standing by the window, his eyes still following the flight of the bird. He had just let out a sigh of relief.

The bullet entered through his right temple.

He didn’t have time to feel pain. He didn’t have time to see what had hit him. His body slumped to the floor with a heavy thud. His eyes remained open, filled with shock, still staring toward the window where his bird had flown.

Dayat lowered his weapon. He stared at the mansion for a moment, then sat back down, leaning his back against the tower wall.

It was done.

He closed his eyes. Silver Thorn returned to the manifestation dimension. The radar tablet vanished. He simply sat there, atop the highest tower in Bakasa, beneath a night sky that was beginning to brighten.

In his hands, there was no weapon. No sword. Only empty hands that were still trembling.

In a Safe House, Middle District.

Dola opened the door of an old house at the end of an alley. The oil lamp inside glowed dimly, illuminating a cramped, dusty room. The prisoners had already left—they were too terrified to linger. Only two remained.

Dalgor, who lay unconscious in the corner, his body hot, his breath shallow.

And an old Elf with a thin beard, sitting on a wooden chair by the window, his eyes narrowing as he saw Dola enter.

“Vael,” Dola greeted, pulling back her hood.

The old Elf blinked. His eyes widened. “You… aren’t you Dayat’s former assistant? The stiff one, the—”

“That was then.” Dola sat across from him. “I need to ask you something.”

Vael nodded. “Ask. I owe my life to you both.”

“Do you know Kancil?”

Vael’s expression shifted. His eyes softened slightly. “That boy? He used to frequent my library. Years ago, when he was just a child. Liked looking at picture books, even though he couldn’t read yet. I ended up reading them to him.” He smiled faintly. “Why? What about him?”

“Nothing. I’m looking for his friends. Riri, Tomas, Sany, Loy. Do you know them?”

Vael let out a long sigh. “I do. They joined the bandits. I saw them myself when I left the city a few months ago.”

“Bandits?” Dola repeated, her eyes narrowing.

“Yes. They said it was better to be a bandit than to starve on the streets. Or be arrested by the Inquisition on suspicion.” Vael looked at Dola. “What’s really going on? Why are you looking for them?”

Dola didn’t answer. She looked at the unconscious Dalgor, then toward the window facing north, where the bandits were.

“Thank you, Vael. You may go.”

Vael stood up. Before stepping out, he paused. “Kancil… he’s a good kid. If you can, please look after him.”

“We already are,” Dola said.

Vael nodded, then stepped out, closing the door behind him.

Dola sat beside Dalgor. The old Dwarf lay still, his chest rising and falling slowly. He needed treatment. Soon.

She stared out the window again.

At Castle Zero, Mourning Forest.

Kancil woke up.

Not because of a nightmare. Not because of a noise. But because of a howl. The wolves of the Mourning Forest were howling long—longer than usual. Deeper. More persistent. As if something was disturbing them in the dead of night.

Kancil sat up in bed, staring at the binary ceiling projecting the night sky outside. The castle’s automatic night light glowed dimly, casting soft shadows on the walls.

The howling stopped. Silence.

He waited. Still silent.

Kancil sighed. He glanced at the next bed—empty. Lunethra was still in her own room, likely asleep.

He murmured softly, his voice barely audible in the vast room.

“Brother Dayat, Sister Dola… I wonder when they’ll be home…”

He lay back down, hugging his pillow. Outside, the Mourning Forest was dark and silent. But far away, in Bakasa, the night was still long. And in his chest, there was a feeling he couldn’t explain.

Longing.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep