His decision made, Silas immediately began to strategize how to eliminate the man.
"He's powerfully built; I'm frail. He's armed; I'm not. He possesses mystical powers; I currently have none. A direct confrontation is out of the question." Silas's mind raced as he walked.
"Fortunately, it's peak commuting hours, and the streets are crowded. He's mindful of his police identity and hasn't made a rash move yet." As Silas thought, his eyes darted around, searching for a solution.
Moving swiftly along the road, Silas soon passed through the densely populated intersection and entered a commercial district slightly closer to the city center.
Most of the shops here had yet to open, and the streets were quiet, with only a few scattered individuals.
Silas glanced back subtly. Jace Paskell was still following him.
"What do I do? What do I do?!" Panic began to grip Silas more tightly. If this continued, Paskell would inevitably corner him.
Whoosh…
A blast of cold wind struck him head-on. Just as Silas felt completely at a loss, a faint voice suddenly whispered in his ear.
"Twenty meters… turn left. Thirty meters… turn right."
"Who's there?!" Silas's heart leaped.
The voice offered no reply, vanishing as if it had never been.
Silas was instantly thrown into a state of turmoil. He couldn't discern if the voice was benevolent or malevolent; it could very well be a trap set by Paskell.
Glancing behind him again, Silas's sharp eyes spotted Jace Paskell, about twenty meters away, slowly drawing his pistol.
"That kind of police revolver has an effective range of sixty meters. At this distance, I'm dead!" The thought made the hairs on Silas's entire body stand on end. The next second, without any hesitation, he surged forward, breaking into a desperate sprint.
He had no other options. Ignoring the voice meant certain death; listening to it offered at least a sliver of hope.
Behind him, seeing Silas bolt, a dark look flashed in Jace Paskell's eyes. He, too, accelerated, charging after him.
"Let's see where you can run!" Paskell was confident in his physical prowess. At this distance, it would only take him a dozen seconds or so to catch up.
"Turning? He's really desperate, running blindly. That alleyway is just a dead end for trash, no other exit." Having worked in this district for over a decade, Paskell knew every street and alley like the back of his hand.
"This time, I'll make sure you stay dead, and you'll become my corpse slave." A strange, unsettling green light flickered in Paskell's eyes.
Silas, after rounding the corner, ran frantically, his hand brushing against the wall for balance, all while constantly looking back.
Just as he turned his head, he saw Jace Paskell, his face a grim mask, closing in. The distance between them was now less than fifteen meters.
"So fast!"
In a panic, Silas quickly shrugged off his overcoat and flung it backward, hoping to momentarily obstruct Paskell's line of sight. He then summoned every last ounce of strength and sprinted towards the second corner.
As he rounded this turn, Silas didn't see a safe passage or sanctuary. Instead, he found himself in a dead-end alley, piled high with refuse.
Yet, faced with this seemingly hopeless situation, an indescribable glint of exhilaration ignited in Silas's eyes.
"That voice… it didn't lie to me!"
It was indeed a dead end, but within it lay a tattered corpse, seemingly mauled by feral dogs.
The corpse itself was unremarkable. What gave Silas hope were the two individuals standing beside it.
They were clad in black greatcoats, each adorned with a golden chalice emblem overflowing with blood on the chest. On their heads, they wore black, leather tricorn hats, and animal-hide shawls draped their shoulders.
Strapped to their backs were two swords, one long and one short. At their waists were crossbows and revolvers. Darts and ammunition pouches were secured to the outsides of their thighs. They looked like two heavily armed special-forces operatives.
Hearing the commotion, the two figures slowly turned. Golden, slit-pupiled eyes, like those of a cat, met Silas's gaze.
These were no ordinary men. They were two Demon Hunters from the Church of Holy Blood.
Demon Hunters belonged to one of the Church's agencies dedicated to handling mystical incidents. Upon becoming Demon Hunters, these individuals supposedly lost all human emotion, transforming into killing machines.
Therefore, Silas didn't worry about them having any ties to corrupt police or evil cults.
Furthermore, Demon Hunters operated under the authority of the Inquisition; hunting Demonesses and cultists was their sacred duty.
"Help! Help me! I'm being hunted by a necromancer from the Death Cult!" Silas shouted desperately.
At the mention of "Death Cult" and "necromancer," the middle-aged Demon Hunter on the left, who sported a white beard, showed a flicker of interest. As he raised his gaze, he saw Jace Paskell, pistol in hand, rushing towards them.
"Oh no!"
The moment Jace Paskell saw the two Demon Hunters, he reacted like a mouse spotting a cat. The hairs on his body bristled, and a terror emanating from the very depths of his soul instantly overwhelmed his reason.
Without a word, without even an attempt at an explanation, he instinctively spun around and fled.
The middle-aged Demon Hunter didn't move. He merely gave a subtle glance to the younger, green-haired Demon Hunter beside him.
Silas felt a faint whoosh of air, and the young Demon Hunter was gone.
Seeing the Demon Hunter give chase, Silas let out a profound sigh of relief. He leaned heavily against the wall, panting raggedly.
The middle-aged Demon Hunter regarded Silas with keen interest, his voice a low, raspy drawl. "How did you know we were here? Judging by your current physical condition and heart rate, you've only just run about seventy meters at full tilt. This alley has two turns, totaling fifty meters. An ordinary person would have no idea what lies within. That man must have been tracking you for some time, yet your sudden sprint seemed to have a clear purpose, leading you directly to us."
Hearing this series of precise deductions, a flicker of fear touched Silas. "Such analytical skills… he's more impressive than any movie spy protagonist."
To the Demon Hunter's question, Silas didn't lie. He answered truthfully, "Yes, that cultist had been following me for nearly a kilometer. Just when I was at my wit's end, I suddenly heard an ethereal voice telling me to come here. I figured I had nothing to lose – a desperate gamble – so I started running and ended up before you."
The Demon Hunter's golden, slit pupils fixed on Silas. "What kind of voice was it?"
Silas frowned slightly. "It's hard to describe. It was like… a voice carried on the cold wind."
The Demon Hunter didn't press further, falling into a thoughtful silence.
Before long, the young Demon Hunter returned. He was dragging Jace Paskell's robust corpse as casually as if he were carrying a dead chicken. "Dealt with."
Silas carefully looked at Paskell's body. His heart had been pierced with pinpoint accuracy, no deviation whatsoever.
"Less than twenty seconds have passed!" Silas thought in shock.
"Tell him… Tell him! I died so miserably… Avenge me! Those madmen…"
As his body trembled, Silas once again heard that ethereal, disembodied voice.
"I hear it! I hear it again!" Silas suddenly exclaimed.
The middle-aged Demon Hunter asked, "Heard what?"
"The voice… it's telling me to tell you that he," Silas gestured towards the gnawed corpse in the alley, "died a horrible death. It wants him avenged. It says a group of madmen killed him."
Hearing this, the middle-aged man stepped aside, looking at the mangled corpse. "I see."