Chapter 255
The trembling hands of Theo cradled the fallen Lorena. Beneath his touch, crimson blood flowed steadily.
“…No, it can’t be.”
Yan bit his lip, observing Theo’s panicked state. Despite the approaching monstrosity, Theo seemed oblivious—shocked beyond comprehension.
Drawing Ascalon, Yan pounded the ground. “Theo! Snap out of it! Take Lorena and flee! She can still be saved!”
The urgency in Yan’s words spurred Theo into action. He held Lorena tightly and retreated, while Yan leaned over to assess her injuries.
Though her abdomen had been pierced, vital organs had been spared. Theo’s quick application of ice had stabilized her, but prolonged exposure could lead to hypothermia.
They needed to end this quickly…
“Why bother… Where are you looking?”
Yan’s swift strike with Ascalon followed the voice. The blade missed its mark, and Yan’s instincts kicked in—he instinctively ducked.
Hair strands fell as the blade grazed past. Yan wiped sweat from his brow, astonished by the speed.
“How can anyone be this fast?”
Even if they were a transcendent being, this exceeded normal limits. How could they attack while Yan’s attention wavered for mere moments?
Yan crouched low, extending his leg toward the incoming attack.
The blade emerged from his shoe, aimed at Natae.
Natae, grinning, effortlessly evaded. “Ouch.”
He seemed to anticipate Yan’s moves. The blade swirled through empty air, and Yan’s counterattack missed.
Regaining his balance, Yan pushed off the ground.
He landed gracefully, satisfied but wary. Dodging the lethal blade hidden in his shoe was unexpected.
“How fast is this person?”
Yan had to witness it firsthand to evade such attacks.
Suddenly, Natae’s body, twenty paces away, convulsed and vanished from sight.
Without hesitation, Yan sprinted forward.
The ground crumbled where he’d stood, and Natae’s head turned toward him.
But Natae couldn’t retaliate—the menacing Ascalon prevented it.
Yan’s swordplay seemed to predict Natae’s every move. The blade aimed for Natae’s throat.
Yet, now wasn’t the time for deep analysis. Ascalon, imbued with power, hurtled toward Yan’s neck.
Natae’s transformed arm extended, thrusting Ascalon forward.
The clash—swift and fierce—repeated several times. Yan defended, scanning for weaknesses or clues.
“Something’s off… Starting with that impossible speed.”
Even transcendent beings had physical limits. While mana manipulation allowed some deviation from natural laws, true freedom remained elusive.
Yet this person moved faster than anyone Yan had encountered.
Twenty paces away, Natae trembled and vanished again.
Yan charged, determined.
The ground crumbled as Natae reappeared.
“Enough… of this.”
Natae’s expression shifted from boredom to agony.
“Arrgh! Aaargh!”
He collapsed, writhing and screaming. Yan sensed an overwhelming force.
More formidable than anyone he’d faced before.
Perhaps only for this moment…
The source of this power?
None other than…
“Lorena. Theo… Helena?”
The guardian of the northern realm, surveying injured or fallen family members.
Duke Beowulf.
* * *
Duke Beowulf remained silent. The enigmatic trail left by Yan and the inexplicable energy emanating from this place had guided him here.
His original plan had been straightforward: eliminate the kidnapper who had taken Lorena and return home. Despite the wounds inflicted by that adversary, Beowulf assumed victory would come easily—especially with Yan having presumably weakened.
But now, this scene defied reason.
Why was Lorena’s abdomen pierced and bleeding? Why did that wretched son clutch her, weeping? And why did Beowulf’s wife lie here, instead of resting peacefully in the family tomb?
Helena, especially—she should have been at the ancestral burial grounds, not here.
Beowulf’s icy demeanor cracked. His usually rational mind blazed with anger. Perhaps breaking something would ease this turmoil.
His cloak billowed like a storm, and the surging energy radiated outward. Hans, despite his injuries, dared not meet Beowulf’s gaze. Vila, regaining control, had retreated to a corner.
Finally, Beowulf’s tightly sealed lips parted.
“Explain.”
The one he addressed was Yan.
“A fainting maiden, claiming she could revive Helena, brought Lorena and Theo here. She offered to enter Helena’s spiritual realm for the resurrection, but…”
“Enough.”
“To protect Lorena and Theo from the Seven Sins, Helena chose self-sacrifice.”
Beowulf’s gaze shifted toward the prone Natae.
His eyes held the northern winds and volcanic fury. Natae, who had rolled helplessly, squinted back.
“Ugh?”
And then it happened.
A deep rumble echoed.
A chasm opened beneath Natae, who had been sprawled on the ground.
Beowulf retrieved his fist from the newly formed pit.
Natae…
Yan’s gaze focused on Beowulf’s left hand.
“Caught?!”
Beowulf’s grip held Natae’s hair. It seemed he’d captured the elusive adversary.
Natae struggled, but Beowulf’s grip didn’t waver.
How did he manage this? Beowulf was slower than Yan had experienced with Natae.
Yet he caught him.
Though Yan couldn’t decipher the details, this information was valuable.
As Yan stood, gripping Ascalon, Beowulf issued a warning.
“Step forward, and I’ll kill you.”
“Understood.”
Beowulf’s stern warning made compliance the wisest choice. Especially with Beowulf’s current state.
As Yan sheathed Ascalon, Beowulf’s gaze shifted to Natae’s other arm.
Natae, desperate, transformed his hand into a blade and sliced his own hair.
Beowulf’s attack seemed inevitable.
His hand, still held by Beowulf, swung upward.
Beowulf’s grip tightened.
“You’re about to experience unimaginable suffering today.”
An irrevocable sentence.
But Natae didn’t seem to agree. He grinned.
“You… will…”
At that moment, Natae’s entire body pulsed with light.
His skin bore the same geometric patterns as Yan and Beowulf.
Vila’s gaze widened to disbelief.
“Why does he—”
Natae’s laughter echoed.
“Kehehe.”
Perhaps Natae had a different perspective.
His hand transformed into a blade, aiming for Beowulf.
But Beowulf’s expression remained unyielding.
He raised Natae’s head, ready to strike.
“Such futile resistance.”
Beowulf’s fiery eyes met Natae’s.
Natae’s face solidified.
Beowulf’s fist descended.