The mental clash and backlash had seemed endless, yet in reality only a few seconds had passed.
Number Nine stared blankly at the “soldier” who had suddenly grabbed its tentacle and then keeled over dead-straight. Its mycelial tentacles instinctively curled up.
It had indeed picked up quite a few toxin skills from the Mycelial Lord, but it hadn’t even used any of them just now!
How did this person just… die?
Number Nine had no idea what had happened on the soul level. All it knew was that it had just been framed.
Panicking, it glanced around. Luckily, no one had noticed this corner yet.
Deciding instantly, Number Nine scurried away on its stubby legs, disappearing around the corner in a flash of surprising agility.
Not long after it fled, someone finally discovered the body on the ground.
By the time people gathered around, the disguise magic on the corpse was already fading, revealing the true appearance of a succubus beneath.
The soldiers muttered among themselves, but the topic of discussion wasn’t the succubus spy herself.
After all, what kind of bizarre infiltrators hadn’t they seen during this period?
From brain-burrowing parasitic worms that hijacked their hosts, to doppelgangers and shadow demons… compared to those, a succubus was practically run-of-the-mill.
What truly baffled them was who had silently taken out this spy without stepping forward to claim credit.
There were no signs of struggle at the scene, no corpse of a comrade who had died bringing her down…
…
Meanwhile, the culprit—or rather, the one who believed itself to be the culprit—Number Nine, was sprinting on its two short legs, puchi-puchi-puchi, straight back to Fifteen’s temporary quarters.
The moment it reached the door, it crashed into Fifteen’s leg as he returned from outside.
“What’s got you in such a panic?” Fifteen casually pulled out the telepathy stone he always carried and pressed it against one of Number Nine’s mycelial tentacles.
Ever since the little guy had solemnly declared that “casually touching a mushroom cap is disrespectful to the mushroom race,” he had switched to this method.
“P-panic? Who’s panicking?! The day we carved our way through ten thousand troops, I didn’t panic once!” Number Nine’s cap shook wildly, its short legs unconsciously scraping the ground. “I was just… running a tiny bit fast, that’s all!”
Fifteen eyed it suspiciously for a long while but ultimately said nothing more.
That day’s breakthrough had indeed been thanks to the sudden burst of enhancement spores Number Nine sprayed. Though afterward he had vomited and voided his bowels for half a day (discovering he’d been hit with three different toxins at once), it was that surge of power that had let him evade Xenophon’s killing pursuit.
If he had been forced to use the distress signal then, even if he had escaped alive, the responding defenders would have paid a terrible price.
Fifteen kept that debt in his heart.
It was also that shared battle that had earned this noisy little Puchi genuine recognition from him.
At first, when he brought Number Nine back, he had only been thinking of letting Master and the Archbishop study this strange intelligent magical beast.
Now, while the research still needed to be done, if anyone suggested dissecting the little guy, Fifteen would be the first to stand in opposition.
Of course, any real study of Number Nine would have to wait until the war was over.
Fifteen had just come from the command center. He had keenly sensed that his master and His Grace the Archbishop had something to discuss, so he had taken the initiative to excuse himself.
Walking back to his quarters, he couldn’t help feeling puzzled—what matter could be so sensitive that even he had to be kept out?
But that doubt was soon overtaken by another emotion.
Thinking of how his master’s complexion had improved day by day after receiving the Hazy Moon, Fifteen’s heart filled with hope.
In the end, Master’s injury had only succeeded because that treacherous Blood Prince sacrificed an abyss beast for a sneak attack.
He had always believed his master was the strongest on the continent.
As long as Master could return to peak condition, no Blood Prince, no demon commander—none of them would be his match!
Threehill City’s crisis would surely be broken!
…
Inside the command room, Sword Saint Airaven gazed at the Hazy Moon resting across his knees, his fingertips gently tracing the flowing moon-patterns on the scabbard, eyes full of reminiscence.
Under the dual effects of the Hazy Moon’s pure moonlight and Archbishop Ditas’s divine purification, even the insidious blood poison of a Blood Prince was gradually dissipating.
Though his body was still somewhat weak, Airaven could feel that his return to peak strength was not far off.
Yet unlike the pure confidence of his disciple Fifteen, both the Sword Saint and the Archbishop were soberly aware that the tide of war could not be turned by his strength alone.
“If you faced Visarius head-on, what are your odds?” Ditas’s voice rang especially clear in the silent room.
Airaven considered for a moment. “One-on-one, sixty-forty. I take the sixty.”
The answer brought no comfort to the Archbishop.
Sixty-forty meant the gap wasn’t large; other variables could easily tip the balance, and on the battlefield the greatest variable was naturally the armies on both sides.
Right now, the disparity in military strength was overwhelmingly against them. If not for Threehill City’s sturdy defenses, they would have fallen long ago.
Unless Visarius suddenly lost his mind and charged into the city for a duel, any confrontation would take place outside the walls, surrounded by the demon hordes.
And both men knew that old bat who had lived for centuries would never play at knightly honor; he would choose the safest strategy: siege warfare.
Moreover, the crisis went beyond that.
What truly worried them was Duke Brennus’s stance.
Duke Brennus was also inside Threehill City, yet the fact that the two of them were quietly excluding him right now spoke volumes.
During the period when demon spies were most rampant, several times more spies had been caught around Brennus’s residence than anywhere else. Combined with past impressions, it was hard not to be suspicious.
They couldn’t brand him a traitor outright, but they had to guard against him.
In truth, both men suspected Brennus was wavering. If he had truly defected, he could have opened the gates while the Sword Saint was gravely wounded; the city would have fallen long ago.
As though having made a painful decision, Ditas let out a heavy sigh and drew from his robes a vial filled with roiling black mist.
“There is one other way… We can hold the demon army back for you.”
Airaven looked at the vial radiating thick dark energy in Ditas’s hand, a rare flash of disgust in his eyes. “Are you sure about this? That stuff completely violates Church doctrine.”
“Only if people live free can faith endure. Let all the sin fall on me alone.”
In the Archbishop’s eyes, the Sword Saint caught a trace of despair he had never seen before.
Ditas lowered his voice and revealed a secret he had kept buried for many years:
“The God of Light… has not issued a single divine oracle in a full century. Laughable, isn’t it? I, the Archbishop, have never once heard the voice of God since taking office. I cannot even be certain whether He has abandoned us.”
Even Airaven’s expression changed at this. “But… we successfully summoned a Hero, didn’t we?”
“Yes…” Ditas’s voice was bitter. “Summoning the Hero was not only to face the demon threat; the most important reason was to confirm whether God was still there. Yet even in that momentous ritual, none of the attending priests… heard the voice of God. I cannot fathom what this means.”
Or rather, Ditas dared not fathom it.
A long silence spread between them.
Finally, the Archbishop put the vial away, his tone resolute:
“We will look for a chance at decisive battle. For the survival of humanity, I will remove every obstacle and create an opportunity for you to face Visarius alone.”
(End of Chapter)
