The refugees exchanged uneasy glances. Most didn't know magic, nor did they dare try to explain what just happened for fear of causing a misunderstanding, so everyone kept their mouths shut.
Shapiro, his huge scythe on his back, scanned the refugees, his frustration and anger flaring even higher.
He was just about to grab someone and grill them for answers when a voice rang out from the distance: "Father, I'm over here!"
Ilarode bolted through the crowd like a madman, finally finding Nidalee hiding far from the battlefield, her face etched with exhaustion.
A few unconscious nuns lay beside her. Their habits and chainmail were slashed open and stained bright red with blood.
But based on his vast experience, Ilarode was able to tell these nuns were no longer in any mortal danger.
He heaved a deep sigh of relief, his voice trembling with aftershock: "Thank the gods, Nidalee, you're safe!"
The eight-person hunting squad hustled over next. Spotting Nidalee and recognizing her as a fellow spellcaster, they wasted no time bombarding her with questions:
"What the hell just happened?"
"What were those magical arrays lighting up the sky?"
"Where's Montport? What happened to the Abyssal Lord?"
"And that explosion—what caused it?"
They all spoke at once, hounding Nidalee until she snapped with irritation: "Shut up!"
Shapiro's anger surged—he wanted to grab this stubborn highlander woman by the collar and force her to talk.
Fortunately, their redemption paladin quickly pulled him back. "Hey, everyone calm down! Let this lady speak."
Nidalee took a deep breath and patiently explained, "We were holding the camp on the far side, buying time for the women and children to evacuate. Suddenly, Priest Charles got a message—Montport had teleported directly onto the refugees' escape route…"
She relayed everything, from start to finish. The group listened, stunned—struggling to believe such a cunning, powerful Abyssal Lord had actually been killed here.
"…That's how it ended—the Abyssal Lord's death triggered a massive explosion, tore a hole in the earth, and everyone fell in."
Nidalee finished, then pointed at the enormous pit. "So, if any of you still have spell slots left, maybe dig the real hero who defeated that demon out of there."
Shapiro gripped his scythe, veins bulging on his forehead. "You're saying the Demon Lord was killed by him? He's the hero? What about us?!"
Defeats piling up, all their hard work snatched away at the last minute—it was maddening for the proud, self-important Shapiro.
Plenty of the other hunting squad members felt the same, but held their tongues, keeping their resentment in check.
Their half-elven paladin quickly intervened, reminding him this wasn't the time for arguing credit. Up front, Ilarode pondered his daughter's words, his feelings toward Charles growing only more complicated.
But since his daughter was already bonded to Charles, he finally said, "In any case, Montport is gone. Whether he's truly dead or managed to escape, we should know in a few days."
Suddenly Nidalee remembered: "Torun fell in too! Father, you always liked him most—help dig him out!"
Ilarode shot Nidalee an exasperated look, but didn't argue. He immediately began casting Transmute Rock, liquefying stone and shifting it aside, carefully excavating the pit without causing a cave-in.
As the whole group worked, no one noticed that, at that very moment, Theresa had quietly vanished.
Meanwhile, Underground
"Cough, cough—cough, cough!"
Still barely conscious, caked in mud, Charles rummaged through his Bag of Holding, pulled out a spellbook, drained one of its charges, and cast Cure Wounds on himself—the searing pain across his body finally eased a little.
When Montport detonated, Charles had absorbed most of the blast with Absorb Elements, but the demon's energy was overwhelming. Even with that precaution, Charles was still left with grievous injuries.
And after that, he'd fallen into the tunnels beneath, battered against the rocks on the way down. Honestly, surviving the impact without being brained was a miracle.
Now healed just enough to move, Charles didn't bother looking for an exit right away—he opened his system to tally up his spoils.
His heart pounded with anticipation: How many Purification Points would he get for purifying Montport?
But the instant he checked—huge disappointment hit him.
Forty-one hundred?!
That whole Abyssal Lord… 4100 points?!
Was it because he technically killed himself, and thus wasn't fully purified?
Damn… Well, it's better than nothing.
He forced himself to swallow the disappointment and pushed it from his mind. He cast Light on his shield, using it as a powerful searchlight as he pressed forward, searching for a way out.
Not far ahead, something caught his eye—a massive object stuck upright in the ground.
It was Montport's twin-bladed polearm, standing tall in the rock—a weapon purpose-built to become an artifact.
Charles's eyes widened, disappointment vanishing in a surge of excitement—he couldn't take his eyes off the weapon.
Damn, I can't believe Montport's weapon is still here in the mortal realm!
A Demon Lord's personally-forged weapon—who knew what kind of legendary might it held? Maybe even on par with the Gnoll Lord's triple flail, the Crimson Cleaver of the Minotaur Lord, or the Dark Prince's Serpentine Blade.
It was enormous—much too big for Charles to wield—but in this world, Enlarge/Reduce was just a simple 2nd-level spell, and many class features let you shape weapons to your needs anyway.
And luckily, Charles had chosen the "Pact of the Blade" at level three, meaning he could reshape a Pact Weapon to suit his own size.
He strode to the massive polearm, gripped the thick circular hilt, and channeled magic in—trying to forge a pact.
The moment he did, a psychic wave crashed through his mind. Endless crazed impulses—
Murder, arrogance, rage, hunger, greed, lust—
A tidal wave of negative emotions threatened to pull him under, his vision growing crimson, teetering at the edge of madness.
This was a weapon forged by a Demon Lord, bathed in the agony and blood of countless victims. No mere mortal could just "claim" it without a fight!
Charles realized if he kept pushing, he'd end up like Montport—a mindless killer.
But he didn't panic. He simply whispered: "Purified!"
A wave of milky-white radiance burst forth—and instantly, those tsunami-like surges of negative emotion recoiled, rapidly fading to nothing.
Charles let himself breathe, waiting for the purification to finish before trying the pact again—when he suddenly heard a terrified, familiar voice in his head:
"No, please, wait, whoever you are—please don't erase my soul!"
It was Montport!
Charles's eyes narrowed as he stared at the polearm. The voice was coming from within.
So that's it!
He never fully died! No wonder I only got a fraction of the Purification Points. His intact soul hid itself within the weapon and escaped judgment!
Charles grinned, wickedly.
Well now, looks like you're at my mercy.
He paused the purification, clutching the oversized weapon and speaking into it in his mind:
"You're still alive, Abyssal Lord?!"
His inner voice took a sharp, accusing tone:
"So many Mountain People died at your hands. So much blood left unavenged. If I don't erase your soul, the world will never be right!"
"Die, Montport!"
He began to channel Purification again—Montport's voice went from terrified to desperate:
"No! Please, my lord, hero, Master! Mercy! Spare me!"
"I know all sorts of secrets about the Infinite Layers of the Abyss, about other Abyssal Lords, about the Nine Hells and Devils—so much arcane knowledge! If you spare me, I'll tell you everything, help you destroy all evil!"
Charles wavered for a second.
"Fine, long-term, you're more valuable alive. But don't get any ideas—one wrong move, and I purify your soul instantly!"
He channeled Pact of the Blade's power again, forging the connection with Montport's massive twin-bladed polearm.
Instantly, the weapon felt like an extension of his own body, completely under his control.
One thought, and the enormous polearm shimmered, shrinking down to a manageable two-meter form—a true pact weapon.
The new twin-bladed polearm had a thick, eighty-centimeter handle, perfect for Charles's grip. Blades over sixty centimeters jutted from both ends—razor sharp and grooved, with jagged serrations for cleaving through flesh.
As he weighed the heavy weapon, Charles beamed with excitement. Through the pact, he could feel its immense power—definitely an artifact.
But because it was crafted by Montport and anchored to his soul, the weapon's main strength still came from him—from the plane of the Abyss his soul was bound to.
Abyssal Lords weren't self-proclaimed: to claim the title, you had to rule an entire layer of the Abyss, fusing your soul to the realm for an endless supply of power.
Montport once held that power. Now, his soul's in the polearm, so the entire world he once ruled now powers this weapon—hence, its artifact status.
Guess I can't just erase Montport's soul so carelessly if I want to keep using this blade…
Charles muttered, then spoke sharply through the pact:
"I'll spare your life for now, Montport. But from now on, you work for me—help us atone for the evil you've done!"
"If you ever betray me, I'll purify you on the spot. Is that clear?"
Montport quickly agreed: "Clear, Master! I'll obey your every command, no hesitation!"
"Good!" Charles replied, then offered a smug promise: "Do well, serve sincerely, and perhaps, just maybe, your soul can one day find peace and salvation."
Montport chuckled inwardly—these Justice types are always so easy to manipulate. Out loud, he said, "I always knew I wasn't cut out to be a leader. I was hoping to find someone strong, selfless, and righteous to follow!"
"For centuries I failed—until I met you. You may seem weak, but you bested me, and you've proven yourself. If you'd permit it, I'd even take you as my godfather!"
Charles shuddered at the thought. "Let's not go that far—I don't want to be an Abyssal Lord's dad, thanks."
"Anyway, for now, serve me and atone, understood?"
Montport laughed. "Of course, Master!"
Both of them grinned, each thinking they had the upper hand—a contest yet to be decided.
With that, Charles waved his hand, and the polearm dissolved into starlight, merging into his body.
He left the chamber, following the chthonian tunnels, searching for a way out.
He'd barely gone a few steps when he heard something struggling—a sound like someone moving rubble.
Charles tensed, wary—maybe another demon? He only had three spell slots left—not enough for serious fighting.
Stepping quietly, he used his shield light as a spotlight and peered ahead—
There, a minotaur was pinned under boulders, struggling to lift the rocks off himself.
Spotting the light, the minotaur flinched, turned, and locked eyes with Charles.
It was Torun.
During that last battle, after Danche had been sent flying, Torun had rushed in to fill the breach. When Montport exploded, he fell into the underworld alongside Charles.
Seeing him, Torun finally exhaled in relief.
"Oh! My brother," he groaned. "Didn't think you'd be the one saving me again—pretty embarrassing."
Charles gave an easy smile, letting his guard down, and knelt beside him. "Embarrassment has nothing to do with it. You nearly died fighting Montport—it's only right friends help each other out."
Torun sighed. "Still, if not for you knocking Montport out with your warhammer, I'd have been dead for sure."
"I'll never forget that debt. For as long as I live, I'll repay your kindness."
With that, he pleaded, "So, brother, help me move these rocks, would you?"
Charles sat beside him, not moving yet—just catching his breath. "Don't thank me. Thank this Storm Warhammer. Without it, there'd have been no way to stun Montport and save you."
He pulled out his leveled-up warhammer and placed it beside Torun.
Torun nodded, deeply moved. "True enough. Having a Storm Warhammer… your standing with the dwarves must be something else."
Charles shook his head, smirking. "Nah, it wasn't my status. It was a dear friend who begged and pleaded a dozen forgefathers to get this made for me."
He looked at Torun, voice softening. "Bruno."
Torun blinked, recognizing the name. "Bruno? As in—?"
"The dwarf we rescued together in the Tide Caverns," Charles replied gently. "I asked for his help. He played tough in public, but in private he got several forge domain clerics on the job—finally, they upgraded the hammer for me."
Torun's eyes lit up. "Now I remember! Next time I see him, I'll thank him in person!"
Charles smiled. "You should."
Suddenly, Torun tensed. "Is he… still around? How is he?"
"He's gone," Charles said quietly. "The night Rockseeker's Outpost was destroyed—a minotaur cut him in half. There wasn't even a body left to bury."
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