"No, you are right, sir. That wouldn't be possible," Lumos said, his tone barely hiding deep animosity.
"You know him?" Kellta asked.
"Of course I do. Ten years is not enough to forget that."
Veriant's polite mask dropped. He no longer wore a smile.
"You should've run when you had the chance. It might've been the only way for you, pitiful creature, to survive," he said with a scowl.
"Isn't that the exact same thing you said to my father?" Kellta asked.
"Your father?" He tilted his head as crimson flames burned along Kellta's arms.
Better not burn my jacket!
"Oh," he said, surprised. "Isn't that the little half-breed that ran away four years ago?"
He smirked.
"Today is a great day—truly wonderful." He joined his hands, slowly walking back and sitting in his chair. "I get to take care of all the old, unfinished business in one fell swoop."
The knights readied their weapons, clearly not surprised by how things had turned.
"I know about your kin's sorcery. I know how much of a threat you pose," Veriant said, the knight in black armor stepping up.
"But can you truly win against a King's Envoy?" he added calmly.
Kellta's face remained hidden, but her posture betrayed a hint of fear.
"Jack, my son here, was sent to Ithaka before you even left the village. He is now back, having completed the knight regiment training," the village chief said proudly.
The man in black armor had the same emerald eyes as his father, though his hair was brown and his horns straighter.
Veriant's hand tightened around a blade leaning against his chair.
"Well then, let's—"
"Enough of your racist villain speec—let's see how your blood talks," Eshrod cut in.
Elion glanced at Farha. The Mute Demon nodded and tossed him the curved sword, then handed weapons to Kellta and Eshrod as well. She grabbed her assault rifle.
The look on her face was quite obvious, hiding a dark glee. It screamed:
King's envoys are great and all, but have you ever heard of a gun?
To be honest, Elion would've liked her being able to talk at that moment—it might've been quite funny.
What am I thinking about?! Did Eshrod infect me?
Veriant was surprised by the hidden armory, but it did not deter him.
Elion had already scanned every fighter present, knowing the best and most efficient way to take them down.
Only Jack was a real problem. The man's defenses were too perfect. There was little opening the young Unlocked could realistically exploit with his current physical capabilities. Even Eshrod would lack the necessary speed.
His armor and blade also seemed enchanted by a different form of runes, closer to the Pale Witch's work.
To be honest, winning a fight against him was hard to fathom. If they could take care of a few knights and flee, that would be the optimal outcome. Of course, seeing Kellta's state, convincing her to run would be difficult.
Elion gritted his teeth.
All the knights—a dozen in total—dashed toward them as Farha's rifle roared.
Her bullets left dents in the armor. They were made of a strong alloy of the Depths, sturdy enough to deflect firearms. Of course, she didn't have chargeable ammo—it would've been suicidal for a newly Unlocked to use such a weapon due to the soul strain.
Still, she remained an incredible marksman. With her first magazine, she managed to take one knight down and slow another. She had shot through the visor of the first one and a joint in the leg of the other.
The knights, probably unfamiliar with such a weapon, were quite surprised—though that surprise quickly gave way to quiet determination.
Jack lunged for Eshrod. He was incredibly fast—something inhuman. There was a force driving his movements, something similar to the Unlocked. Elion could see it. Jack's soul shone brighter than that of other Dwellers of the Depths.
Eshrod blocked a strike aimed at her neck, but the man twisted his sword to draw blood, then sidestepped and lunged to her right, exploiting the blind spot of her closed eye.
Lumos stepped up to help her, grabbing the sword with his bare hand, his fingers swirling with dark ink crawling up Jack's blade.
In the blink of an eye, the King's Envoy turned, elbowing the sorcerer in the ribs.
At the same time, Kellta dashed toward Veriant, a torrent of crimson flames following her. She threw a blast of fire at the village chief—prompting him to… cut the fire?
His sword shimmered with golden runes up to the Ricasso of the blade.
He had a counter to Kellta's flames. Had he always planned on taking her down?
It forced her into close combat, but she had a disadvantage—less experience than the old man and a much shorter weapon. A combat knife against a full-length sword gave him the advantage in reach.
Elion couldn't concentrate on the others' fights for long—a knight was lunging at him. It was the one who had brought them to Orm's house.
His sword followed the chromatic threads that formed his being.
The young cook's combat style favored offense over defense. He didn't really need defense—he already knew where and when to be to avoid strikes.
It didn't make things easy, though.
How is this man so strong?!
Every hit he was forced to block made his arms tremble and his bones creak. It felt like being hit by a mountain. It was similar to fighting the Weaver. The overwhelming difference in strength was hard to deal with.
Though since this was an intelligent creature, Elion had to approach it differently.
A Class III was cunning by nature, but didn't possess the combat prowess of a human or Dweller of the Depths.
They exchanged a couple more blows, but just as Eshrod had taught him, battles against other humans—humanoids usually ended quickly.
Elion's sword passed through the shoulder joint of the knight's armor, drawing blood and severely damaging the man's sword-wielding arm. The battle was over—he had won.
But now, he had to kill him.
He had killed the Weaver without remorse. The thing was a repulsive amalgamation driven only by hunger.
But this… this was different.
For a second, he hesitated.
A second is long in battle. A lot can happen in that span of time.
The knight switched his blade to his left hand and swung it at the young Unlocked's neck.
Elion's eyes widened. He had seen it coming with his ability—but it was already too late.
The only thing he could do was raise his left arm and try to block.
But he wasn't Eshrod. His limbs weren't made of tough onyx scales. The sword cut through his flesh, stopping at the bone.
It was luck, really—a combination of the knight using his off-hand and throwing the strike in a hurry. It made his power less overwhelming.
It still hurt like hell, though.
Elion gasped, the opponent's sword still lodged in his left forearm. He didn't think. Pain wiped away any hesitation. His elegant, curved sword cut the air. He wielded it with his right hand. It passed through the man's neck as if it were butter.
No flesh could conceivably resist a weapon forged by the master blacksmith of Steel.
The head fell to the ground. The body dropped to its knees.
The blade still hung from Elion's forearm, inflicting jolts of pain. He removed it, not even thinking about the blood loss that came with such an extraction.
No—what whispered in his mind made him shiver.
[You have slain a Locked Soul]
[Soul Integrity: 70%]
It hadn't climbed as much as when he killed the Weaver, since the target wasn't even Unlocked.
But the feeling, it was euphoric. His soul wasn't being patched by a monstrosity corrupted by Entropy. It was repaired by something that shone almost as brightly as a human's soul.
It still had ties to Entropy—making Elion wonder what killing a human would do…
No. Don't even think about it.
The power didn't linger, turning cold as it was absorbed by his body. The young cook glanced back at the battle.
Eshrod was bloodied, wounds covering even her reinforced arms. Lumos was now fighting Jack, with the Gremlin supporting him.
The sorcerer's physical prowess was greater than theirs since he was a First Finger, but something was off.
His ability—seemingly using ink to inflict some kind of corrosion—wasn't very potent. Not as much as a First Finger's should be. Maybe he was just unlucky with his ability, but something else seemed at play.
Jack had a cut on his cheek and black ink on his armor, but his movements weren't slowing down.
Farha was still handling more knights, now wielding her warhammer. Each strike she dished out carried immense strength and was delivered with graceful, efficient motion, leaving bends in armor.
Her crimson eyes once again harbored a dark, murderous glee that made Elion shiver.
Just like when she fought me during the sparring lesson in S33…
And there was Kellta.
There was a deep groove across the scorched mask's cheek. She was dancing an awkward waltz—it was clear she wasn't used to fighting her kin.
Veriant was a tactical fighter, supplementing his lack of strength with cunning. With his fire-nullifying sword, it was a bad match for her.
The old man feinted toward her ribs, switching his footwork and raising his blade in an upward slash.
The blade passed across Kellta's chest, inflicting a long cut, blood staining Elion's jacket. It was shallow, but wide—enough to become an issue with movement.
Veriant was about to thrust his weapon through her neck—but she grabbed the sword with her bare hand, slicing her palm.
Where she held the blade, the steel began to glow bright orange.
The village chief's eyes narrowed. He tried to free his weapon—but to no avail. More blood spilled from Kellta's palm, but she didn't let go.
The heat spread quickly, making Veriant grimace. It became a battle of endurance—who would let go first?
One was being burned, the other mutilated.
Smoke and the smell of burning flesh rose in the air.
The moment Veriant let go, Kellta didn't hesitate. She thrust her knife through the man's neck.
Blood pooled in his throat.
"That's for killing my father."
Veriant let a twisted smirk spread across his wrinkled face. His eyes betrayed no remorse.
He grasped for Kellta's arm—only to get burned again. When she removed her knife, he crumbled to the ground, drowning in his own blood.
The fire-wielding imp looked at her mutilated hand. Her flames couldn't burn her, so she couldn't even cauterize the wound.
Then, she raised her face toward the ceiling—unmoving.
Her hands trembled slightly, still holding the bloodied knife.