Chapter 764

Chapter 764
The blade pierced forward with a silent, terrifying velocity.

Pure survival instinct caused Tagmah to wrench his torso to the side. There was no window of time to properly circulate his internal power for a solid defense.

Slaaaash!

He failed to evade the strike entirely. Within his field of vision, he witnessed a spray of his own blood erupting into the air.

Rahamod similarly twisted his frame just before the edge made contact, desperate to prevent a lethal puncture. He felt the chill of the steel clearly; the weapon had been aimed with lethal precision at his windpipe. Even as he shifted away, Rahamod lunged with his right hand, intending to initiate an immediate counterstrike.

In that split second—

—the path of the blade warped in a grotesque, unnatural fashion. It curved with a flexibility that defied logic, moving as if it possessed its own consciousness and life force. Rahamod felt a freezing wave of murderous intent graze past his left arm.

Tap.

BOOOOOOOM!

Ghislain, the architect of the surprise assault, was hurled backward by the explosive discharge of energy Rahamod threw out in response. Having successfully repelled the immediate threat, Rahamod slowly lowered his gaze.

His left arm—from the wrist down—was absent. His severed hand lay twitching on the earth.

Fsssssshh!

From the flat surface of the stump, plumes of dark smoke billowed out. The flesh began to writhe as the injury started to knit itself back together.

“You… you miserable whelp…”

Fury ignited like sparks in Rahamod’s eyes. The fact that his physical form—which typically remained unscathed by almost any assault—had been mutilated by a single ambush was the ultimate disgrace.

Tagmah had come out of the exchange in slightly better condition. A long gash had been carved across his chest, but it lacked depth. This was only because the assailant had focused the brunt of the attack on Rahamod.

Hissssss!

Ebon smoke also began to drift from Tagmah’s chest, and the skin began its rapid regeneration.

Rahamod gathered his power once more. Because he had been fixated entirely on the execution of Grondal, he had neglected his personal wards. Had he been properly fortified with his energy, he wouldn’t have been cut so easily.

He ground his teeth together in rage.

“You bastard… you danced around with those pathetic, grimy tricks before as well… and now you actually managed to draw blood…”

In their previous encounter, that specific technique had been a constant source of irritation. He was beginning to regret his past decision; he should have abandoned the pursuit of Iralniel and slaughtered this man back then. The choice to dismiss him and let him flee had come back to haunt this moment.

“Ghh…”

Ghislain pushed himself up slowly, clutching his side. Even though he had braced his body before the impact, the agony was searing. His reservoir of mana had also taken a significant hit.

Nevertheless, the outcome was worth the toll. Ghislain leveled his blade toward Rahamod and flashed a grin.

“How do you like that? Feels a bit different than our last meeting, doesn’t it?”

“……”

When they had first crossed paths in the Elven Forest, Ghislain had been operating on fumes, his mana nearly depleted. But this scenario was different. Anticipating a confrontation with a prophet, he had been meticulously hoarding his strength.

Ghislain gave his sword a sharp flick and kept talking.

“I told you once before.”

“……”

“Every person who comes for my head… ends up in the dirt. And for you… today is that day.”

“You arrogant…”

‘Man, this sword is incredible. It’s even better than I expected.’

Truthfully, when standing against a titan like Rahamod, the specific type of weapon—be it a staff or a blade—rarely mattered. Until the combatants’ energy reserves were drained, the base statistics of a weapon were usually secondary.

However, this blade—Gramdir—was a complete anomaly. It possessed enough raw power to inflict genuine harm even on a being of Rahamod’s caliber. Of course, such a feat was only achievable through Ghislain’s master-level mana manipulation and technical skill. In the hands of a lesser warrior, the weapon’s true essence would have remained dormant.

Ghislain settled into a combat stance. In resonance with his intent, the sword began to hum with power.

Rahamod’s features contorted as he took a predatory step forward.

“You are incapable of besting me alone. And now, another prophet stands beside me. Knowing that, you still have the audacity to stand in our presence?”

Tagmah also projected an oppressive, terrifying aura. He was clearly committed to shredding Ghislain into remnants within seconds.

Ghislain let out a soft, mocking chuckle.

“Who said I was fighting solo?”

“Not alone? Even if your subordinates arrive, they are nothing more than fodder to us.”

“If I’m standing beside the dwarf king… I think we have a fair shot, wouldn’t you agree?”

“That one is—”

Rahamod cut his own sentence short and slowly pivoted his head. Tagmah mimicked the movement.

“Oh, Goddess…”

Deneb, her voice vibrating with emotion, was channeling divine radiance toward the fallen Grondal. Her innate holy power was generally meager; typically, she could do little more than close minor scrapes.

However, if the ailment was the corrupted energy of the Salvation Order—

—there was no soul more qualified to purge it.

FSSSSSSHHH!

A blinding luminescence swallowed Grondal’s frame. The volume of holy light was far beyond what she should have been able to manifest. She herself was baffled by the source of this power. Even if she had tapped into Lionel’s divine reserves in the past, there was no such catalyst nearby now.

Yet, the radiance was undeniable, and the restoration was absolute. It was a baffling phenomenon, but she refused to let it distract her. Her singular focus remained the recovery of the dwarf king.

“Ghh…”

With a guttural grunt, Grondal surged to his feet. Every one of his lacerations had sealed, and the necrotic energy that had been burrowing into his marrow, leeching his vitality, had been extinguished. While his spent mana hadn’t returned, the fact that his body was mended and the internal rot was cleansed meant he was back in the fight.

Witnessing this, Ghislain felt a surge of internal triumph.

‘Just as I thought! Deneb really is the perfect counter to the Salvation Order.’

It had been a calculated risk, but Ghislain had bet on Deneb succeeding here. He knew she viewed the Salvation Order’s energy through a unique lens, different from typical clerics—it was a form of profound spiritual epiphany. That faith had been vindicated; Deneb had utterly erased the Salvation Order’s corruption from within Grondal.

Ghislain smirked. “My confidence was well-placed.”

Grondal, once again weighing his halberd in his hands, let out a booming laugh.

“Puhahahaha! The Goddess has delivered a miracle upon me!”

He had been certain his end had arrived. That was the sheer terrifying reality of facing two prophets. But then, a priestess had materialized and mended him with such overwhelming sanctity. If this wasn’t divine intervention, he didn’t know what was.

Furthermore, the man who had arrived with her was staggering. To wound prophets of that magnitude, even with a backstab! It didn’t take much thought to deduce his identity.

“Julien Mercenary Corps! Are you the man called Julien?”

Ghislain gave a slight shake of his head.

“I am a member of the Julien Mercenary Corps, certainly, but my name is Astion.”

“I see! Regardless, you are magnificent! Your timing was impeccable! Your prowess is legendary, and that blade you hold is…”

Grondal trailed off, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. The sword was hauntingly familiar. No matter how he scrutinized it, that was the most prized relic of Vallscrum. And the person who should rightfully wield it… was himself.

“Is that—Gramdir? Why? How did that end up in your possession?”

“I obtained it as a just reward for services rendered.”

“But I never released it to anyone?”

Ghislain clicked his tongue softly.

“It sounds like there’s a convoluted story there. One I’m not particularly interested in.”

“Well, I certainly am!”

“This isn’t the time for a history lesson. For the moment, it belongs to me. We can argue over the details later.”

“F-Fine. First, let’s butcher these monsters.”

Grondal rotated his shoulders, loosening up. Fighting alone would have been a suicide mission, but the scales had shifted. With the two of them united, the odds were worth taking.

Rahamod and Tagmah lapsed into a brief silence. A significant hurdle had appeared right at the threshold of their victory. Yet, they showed no signs of panic, as if they had braced for such a complication.

Tagmah fixed a glare on Ghislain and spoke.

“You were correct. Is this the ‘mage’ you mentioned?”

“Indeed, that’s the bastard who meddled before. He claims to be a sorcerer, but his physical martial skills are disturbingly high.”

“Understood. He certainly seems capable of disrupting our objectives.”

Tagmah shifted his focus toward Deneb.

“That priestess… is she the ‘miracle’ you described?”

“She is the one.”

“I find it incomprehensible. Her aura is so pathetic I can scarcely detect it. She is nothing more than a gnat.”

Deneb scratched her cheek sheepishly at the insult. She was well aware of her limitations, but being likened to an insect still carried a bit of a sting.

Tagmah’s voice turned frigid.

“Regardless, she exhibits such power. There must be… something hidden within her.”

Rahamod nodded slowly in concurrence.

“Currently, she represents the greatest threat. Even in the Elven Forest, it was that priestess who caused our plans to unravel.”

The power of the Salvation Order functioned like a parasitic hex, draining an opponent’s vitality and consuming them from the inside out. Those infected became progressively weaker as they fought to contain the spread. Yet, this woman was neutralizing it as if it were a simple cold. No ordinary cleric could achieve that. Deneb was an existential threat to the Salvation Order.

Tagmah’s eyes went cold.

“The priestess must be liquidated. She is an anomaly we cannot allow to exist.”

“Agreed. Though we have to clear out these other nuisances first.”

Rahamod’s gaze locked onto Ghislain.

Ghislain curled his lip into a sharp, lopsided grin.

“Are you two done with your little strategy session?”

“…You insolent brat. You won’t be fortunate enough to walk away this time.”

BOOOOOM!

Before the final syllable left his lips, Rahamod lunged at Ghislain like a localized storm. Simultaneously, Tagmah collided with Grondal.

CLAAANG! CRAAACK! BOOOM!

Tagmah and Grondal resumed their savage, high-impact duel. Both were titans of raw power, and their clashing styles were remarkably similar.

Ghislain’s encounter, however, was a different animal entirely.

Swish!

Ghislain’s form blurred and dissolved into the air once again. He moved like a specter, like a bank of fog, like a sudden gust of wind. Rahamod snarled at the sight.

“That same trick again…”

It was a repetition of their previous bout. Ambushes, feints, and movements designed to exploit the tiniest fractional openings—it was a non-traditional, frustratingly evasive style.

However, Rahamod remained the superior power. He immediately read the atmospheric shifts and discharged a massive wave of energy.

FWWWWWOOOOOSH!

The air groaned, and the very fabric of the space seemed to rupture from the pressure. But Ghislain had already repositioned.

Rahamod whipped his head around.

Slaaash!

The fabric of his sleeve was torn. He lashed out with a palm strike, unleashing more energy, but Ghislain had already merged back into the shadows.

Rahamod’s brow furrowed.

Something was off. He knew that during their last fight, Ghislain had been too exhausted to perform at his peak. But even factoring in a full recovery, the sensation of this fight was entirely different.

It felt like…

Whish!

Rahamod reflexively jerked his head back. The edge of a blade hummed past his cheek, leaving a faint trail of disturbed air. No cut was made. With his skin reinforced by his energy, he was not easily harmed. But Rahamod was rattled by the fact that he had permitted several strikes to get that close at all.

Considering the vast chasm in their power levels, this shouldn’t even be happening.

‘Is he actually anticipating my movements?’

The thought was absurd. Combat mastery isn’t something one simply stumbles upon; it is forged through decades of experience. Even if Ghislain was a prodigy, he had to know that. Yet, the enemy’s blade was arriving as if it knew exactly where he would be.

Rahamod dialed in his focus. He couldn’t fathom how it was happening, but he could no longer afford to underestimate this opponent.

BOOOOOM!

Ghislain materialized, his sword clashing against Rahamod’s reinforced hand. Ghislain showed his teeth in a predatory smile, inches away from Rahamod’s scowling face.

“As I thought, you’re a tough nut to crack.”

“You… how are you doing this…”

“I usually prefer to just steamroll my enemies too, so this is a bit of a change of pace. But I don’t think my current physical limits allow me to trade blows with you head-on.”

“And you think you can win through finesse alone?”

Ghislain’s grin widened.

“If raw power was the only variable in a fight, we wouldn’t have bothered inventing techniques, would we?”

KRKRKRKRKRRK!

Ghislain’s blade moved in a bizarre, multi-angled rhythm, striking various points across Rahamod’s form. The protective energy Rahamod emitted was so dense that the strikes only produced the screeching sound of metal on hardened steel, failing to draw blood.

But there was a hidden cost. Every strike he parried forced Rahamod to expend more energy to maintain his defense.

KRKRKRRK!

FWHIP!

Whenever Rahamod attempted a decisive counter, Ghislain would vanish again, slipping into the void. It was a strategy perfectly calibrated to bleed an opponent dry through attrition.

The longer the fight persisted, the more Rahamod’s irritation spiked. He was undeniably the stronger combatant. Yet, he was being ensnared by his opponent’s dazzling, complex maneuvers.

‘Stay focused.’

He reminded himself that absolute power eventually crushed all skill. He pushed down his rage and sharpened his mind. In that moment of clarity, his senses harmonized, and the world became a map of textures and flows. Within that map, he detected a tiny, discordant ripple.

Now.

BOOOOOM!

“Guh!”

With a single, solid connection, Ghislain was sent hurtling back, coughing a spray of blood. But Rahamod couldn’t capitalize on the opening. Before he could close the distance for a finishing blow, Ghislain had already vanished.

Rahamod ground his teeth until they nearly cracked. He hadn’t been able to end the boy even when he was staggered. At this rate, the skirmish could last indefinitely. And every time he missed a counter, he burned more fuel than he liked.

Rahamod covertly sent a pulse of energy toward the heavens—a silent signal.

BOOOOM!

Ghislain’s blade struck again, meeting Rahamod’s palm. Rahamod didn’t swing back immediately; instead, he spoke.

“I knew you would interfere eventually.”

“So?”

Ghislain wasn’t surprised; he had overheard their earlier exchange.

Rahamod gave a dark, knowing smile.

“It means… we made our own preparations.”

RUMBLEEEEE!

Suddenly, two corridors of darkness tore through the earth and raced toward the combatants. They erupted upward, coalescing into human shapes. One of them charged toward Ghislain’s blind spot, screaming in a frenzy.

“You slippery rat! I’m finally going to end you!”

The newcomer was the Salvation Order’s Executor—Munareff.

Having been humiliated in the Elven Forest, Munareff was a boiling pot of resentment. With his arrival, the pressure on Ghislain became unsustainable.

But Ghislain simply smiled back at Rahamod.

“Did you forget I’m part of the ‘Julien Mercenary Corps’?”

In that heartbeat—

—a figure intercepted Munareff, a sword swinging in a powerful arc.

BOOOOOOM!

The sudden collision forced Munareff to a dead stop.

“You…!”

Munareff’s eyes bulged with rage. A man he had deemed irrelevant was now standing in his way.

The man—Julien—slowly hoisted his sword and spoke:

“I’ll be your opponent.”