Chapter 833

Chapter 833

Aars Pugnae, the combat art characterized by explosive fairy mana, was crafted specifically for the theater of duels. Consequently, utilizing its full potential in a chaotic environment was a significant challenge. Nevertheless, she managed to integrate fragments of the technique into her current movements.

The igneous monstrosities birthed by the Salamander were sliced apart, detonated, and disintegrated before they could reach Shinar. They were halted by the impenetrable barrier of the Mad Order of Knights, while Esther neutralized every manifestation of fire magic. It was a staggering display of prowess; Shinar recognized that every maneuver they executed was of extraordinary caliber.

“They are truly relentless,” she noted.

Through swordplay reliant solely on fairy mana, she had reached a threshold where she could no longer keep pace with them. Every member of the Mad Order possessed that same terrifying drive. This realization didn’t spark envy in her; rather, it served as a clear signal that she needed to step up her own contribution.

Shinar raised her weapon. At some point, the blade had shifted into a slender needle, its form tapering like a sharp awl.

“Winter.”

Instead of charging blindly into the fray, she infused the biting chill of the frost season into her steel. While beastmen drew upon the raw essence of life, a fairy’s power was rooted in the authority of the four seasons. Armed with a needle saturated in wintry cold, she stood against the downpour of embers. She didn’t need grand movements; she simply traced a protective arc with her blade, creating a shield that extended from her crown to her feet.

When the frigid curtain collided with the falling fire, a sharp hiss erupted as steam filled the air. This bought her a brief window of safety—a frozen bulwark capable of lasting roughly three long breaths.

She executed a single, sweeping rotation: starting from her head, passing her right ankle, and returning to the left. As she completed the circle, she tossed the sword into the air, catching it deftly in a reverse grip. The fairy tapped the hilt to send it upward, snatched it back, and planted her left foot firmly, using her ankle as a pivot to twist her entire frame.

Kinetic energy flowed upward from her ankle to her hips, then through her elbow to her wrist—a perfect chain of transmission. Upon this, she layered her fairy mana onto the needle of winter. Specifically, she condensed the energy at her fingertips and released it.

“I refuse to be left behind.”

Her motivation wasn’t spite, but a hardened resolve. Shinar was well aware that she was the lagging link within the Mad Order, but instead of conceding, she pushed forward. She channeled the principles of Aars Pugnae into the blade and even mimicked the projectile techniques she had observed Rem using. Then, she let the needle fly.

Her silver locks whipped violently in the wind. Her body coiled and uncoiled with a dynamic force rarely seen in a fairy. Every bit of recoil in her muscles was harnessed as she lunged forward, launching the Needle of Winter from her hand. It became a streak of pure light.

*Bang!*

The moment the blade departed, the atmosphere fractured, pushing the scorching heat aside. To an observer capable of sensing thermal shifts, it would have appeared as a solitary blue trail cutting through a landscape of suffocating yellow heat.

*Boom!*

The sword pierced the heart of the fire-cloud and detonated. The dragonkin shifted his gaze, instantly recognizing the fairy’s intended target.

“As I suspected,” he whispered.

He had already identified the missing piece of the puzzle. It was the lingering residue of the heat parasite—a dense core where malice and corruption had coalesced. Amidst the swirling embers, a pillar of murky, discolored fire surged upward before sinking back into the haze.

The event was silent, yet everyone present possessed heightened perceptions. Enkrid and Jaxon were naturally aware, and Audin used his holy power to track the pockets of spite within the Salamanders. Rem was already in a throwing stance, waiting for the slightest opening to strike.

Shinar had simply moved first. From the spot where the dark pillar had risen, black soot began to seep out. Within the sea of fire, it looked like a blotch of foreign, dark matter. As Dunbakel might have described it, it was soot that carried a foul stench.

—

Is a fragmented intent distinct from the primary entity?

Indeed it is. It lacks the overwhelming power of the original form and cannot summon the legions from the Demonic Realm. It is similarly incapable of manifesting a high-tier host.

The parasite—the intent—contemplated:

“So, do you truly believe I am helpless because of that?”

Was that why they had dared to prick him with such a pathetic little toothpick? A shard of ice had struck him, but the damage was negligible. It was, perhaps, slightly irritating.

Even as a mere splinter of the original consciousness, it maintained the same ego and pride.

“How dare these creatures?”

The insignificant beings of this land labeled him a demon. The parasite of heat was well aware of the name the mortals used for him. He also understood they used it because he performed feats far beyond their comprehension.

“With a mere needle?”

This was an act of defiance. The parasite transformed his irritation into cold fury. He wouldn’t erupt like a frantic mortal; that was beneath the dignity of a demon. Instead, he would orchestrate a far more brutal reality for them. He hadn’t been fond of the situation from the start, so the choice to simply annihilate every crawling thing below was an easy one.

“A human actually slew Balrog?”

It had to be fortune. Or perhaps that fool who lived for the struggle had essentially ended himself. It was for this reason that the host carrying the greatsword, warped by the parasite’s own arrogance, had underestimated the opposition from the beginning. In the meantime, the ones leaping about with flaming swords and showing no fear were starting to grate on his nerves.

The parasite began to separate and refine his emotions. He felt the intense loathing trapped within the Salamander. To put it simply: a spirit creature suffers just by existing in this environment, for it is not its natural home.

“Hatred sired by agony.”

He injected a portion of his intent into that suffering, dragging the resentment to the surface—a hatred stained with midnight soot. In the deepest recesses of the Salamander’s consciousness, a figure cloaked in grime whispered:

“Your desires are irrelevant. Your intentions are meaningless. You are nothing but a vessel of flame. A fire that exists only to consume.”

Those were the words of the one who had bound the spirit beast through a deceptive pact. The pure essence of fire had been abducted and driven to madness.

“Resentment toward the false oath.”

The parasite of heat was a creature that thrived on corrupting minds. While he couldn’t dominate a spirit beast in the same way he would a mortal, he could still goad its instincts.

“Let the hatred gather.”

He concentrated every negative impulse and destructive urge into a single point. The agonizing spirit beast was unable to resist. It couldn’t be possessed as a host, but it could be molded into a monstrous shape born of loathing. The parasite executed this with his inherent authority.

Initially, the Salamander had only projected illusions to keep intruders at bay. It hadn’t sought a confrontation. But once those illusions were bypassed, the Salamander was vulnerable. Drowned in hatred, it was forced to fight.

The parasite whispered to the spirit’s fractured mind:

“Give yourself to the rage.”

The spirit’s consciousness split. One half remained a witness to its own suffering, while the other succumbed to the pain and lashed out. This was the only rebellion it could manage.

The parasite intended to show these insects a phenomenon usually reserved for the Demonic Realm. The price for the viewing was their lives. If things went well, he might even find a suitable host to make this journey profitable. Though he had lost the swordsman, if he could claim the body of the one who killed Balrog, it would be a significant victory.

“You gave me the title of ‘demon.’ Now, I shall demonstrate what that truly entails.”

The needle Shinar had thrown had struck the intent, but it wasn’t enough to destroy it. Furthermore, the winter she unleashed hadn’t just affected the parasite. It triggered an unforeseen consequence. The parasite realized he was no longer alone in his mental space.

“What are you?” he demanded within the realm of images.

A shimmering green radiance coalesced into a form. Through the emerald glow, a cascade of silver appeared. A figure with hair of silver and eyes of green spoke.

“You.”

Shinar’s spiritual essence had entered the Salamander’s inner world to confront the demon.

“You are truly repulsive.”

Because the parasite viewed physical form as a mortal concern, the words themselves didn’t sting. However, since a fairy speaks only truth, the weight of her sincerity made the encounter deeply unpleasant. Her feelings toward him were crystalline: pure disgust and hatred.

In this spiritual plane, words were secondary. They shared their emotions instantly, measuring one another through raw will.

“An arrogant fairy… shall I shred your soul? Or perhaps give you to my minions as a plaything?”

A demon’s threats are not empty; they are glimpses of a destined future. And the parasite was partially right—Shinar was a fairy who had been forged in the presence of One-Killer, leaving her without fear.

“I decline. And for the record, I wasn’t invited.”

She looked past the demon toward the torrent of fire. Immediately after throwing her needle, she had heard a desperate plea for help. It was a sound so soft that only a fairy of her standing could have perceived it. Shinar had not turned a deaf ear. That was why she was here.

—

Dark soot surged through the clouds of fire, followed by a sudden eruption of flames. The temperature spiked instantly. The air became so dry that sweat couldn’t even form; it was a heat that would crush even a seasoned knight.

“Watch the tongue.”

As the heat intensified, the dragonkin gave warning. Enkrid was already in motion, catching the unconscious Shinar—who had collapsed the moment her sword left her hand—and tucking her under his arm.

A whip of concentrated heat lashed out from three directions, targeting Rem, Ragna, Audin, and Enkrid. Even with the protection of Sacred Radiance Armor, a direct hit was out of the question. The tongue of flame was a blade of ruin; whatever it touched didn’t just burn, it turned instantly to black ash.

The lash missed the group, gouged the earth, clipped a burning timber, and retreated into the sky. The timber it touched collapsed, and the moment it hit the ground, it exploded into fresh fire.

*Snap.*

Esther snapped her fingers, snuffing out the new blaze. It was an impressive feat of control, but compared to a spirit beast that was currently rewriting the local climate, it felt like a minor trick.

“This is a problem.”

Esther moved closer to Enkrid, eyeing Shinar. She was the only one who could truly diagnose the fairy’s condition.

“Why is she out?” Enkrid asked.

“Her spirit has linked upward,” Esther replied tersely.

“Upward?”

“To the Salamander.”

Enkrid was stunned. She could have stayed back and defended; why would she take such a risk? There was no logical reason; it was a freak occurrence.

“Fortune has abandoned us today,” Enkrid grumbled. He knew Shinar hadn’t done this on purpose, yet it hadn’t happened against her will either.

Following the tongue’s strike, the rain of fire became a deluge.

“Is this thing trying to dump its whole life’s worth of spite in one afternoon?” Rem complained. To him, the legendary beast was just another nuisance. His frustration was valid—even his specially treated alchemical slings were fraying and snapping in the extreme heat.

Ragna remained stoic, lifting Sunrise and angling the blade. The falling fire seemed to be sucked toward the steel and extinguished. His calm demeanor made his presence feel even more formidable. While he spoke of saving the spirit, his resolve suggested he would kill both it and the dragonkin if the situation demanded it.

Audin dimmed his holy light, weaving through the fire with surprising agility. To a spectator, the large man looked like a bear performing a nimble dance. Jaxon moved through the flames with a single dagger, his path a series of precise dodges.

The ground was now a carpet of fire. It was a living hell of flames that consumed even the smoke. Yet, despite the intensity, none of them felt truly cornered. That was Jaxon’s assessment. They were here to resolve the crisis, but they could all escape if they chose to. He doubted the spirit beast could even track his presence, let alone catch him.

“It would be simpler just to end it,” Jaxon thought. He had plenty of tools for this. He had spent his resources and influence to gather relics from across the land. His lover’s basement was practically an armory of ancient power. His only real worry was how much effort it would take to put out the forest fire once the beast was dead.

Above Esther, a canopy of black velvet manifested, intercepting the rain of fire. When the fire hit the fabric, it shattered. Looking closely, the individual embers resembled tiny, elongated lizards. Everyone, including Enkrid, could see this through their battle-sense, but the knowledge didn’t change the danger.

“If you kill the beast now, Shinar dies with it,” Esther warned. She was peering into the magical ley lines of the world. A faint green thread connected Shinar to the spirit above—fragile, yet absolute.

Now, killing the Salamander was no longer an option.

Meanwhile, fire began to wrap around the black soot in the sky, forming a viscous mass that reached toward the earth. Enkrid watched it, reminded of molten glass being pulled from a forge. As the red flames descended, they shifted into hues of yellow, blue, and finally, a blinding white.

The dragonkin’s eyes glowed with an intense yellow light.

“Protect me as well,” he said simply, then his eyes drifted shut.

Rem stared at him, bewildered. “Since when did we start doing that?”

Had the dragonkin been conscious, he would have answered with his usual bluntness. But he had already slipped into a trance, leaving Rem to mutter to himself in the heat.