The night wind was shredded into sharp howls at the edge of the rooftop.
Zehrael’s figure flickered amid rubble and dust, like a ghost.
A dark purple summoning array flickered to life and death at his fingertips, transforming into claws that tore through the air, shrieking as they lunged at Falushil from all directions.
Falushil swung the Iron Longsword.
Each arc through the air unleashed a chill as biting as absolute zero.
The claws froze into rigid blocks of ice midair before they could even approach.
The collision of energies was dense and silent.
Dark Corruption tried to pollute and devour, while Sacred Frost sought to purify and freeze.
Yet, a sense of burning tension spread in Zehrael’s heart.
He had thought this would be easy.
A God’s Chosen without an Artifact should have crumbled under his manipulation.
But in reality, Falushil’s fighting will was harder than steel.
There was not the slightest hint of hesitation in her gaze, only an icy blue killing intent to utterly erase her enemy.
That time in the swamp, the scar left by Frost Snow on his chest seemed to ache faintly once more, the searing pain of that sacred power never fully purged.
This feeling of losing control over the situation was a direct challenge to Zehrael’s arrogance.
“So tenacious.”
Zehrael laughed lightly, drifting backward several meters to evade an ice spear that chased after him from Falushil.
He elegantly adjusted the collar of his tailcoat, a sickly pleasure twisting his pale face.
“God’s Chosen, you are indeed more interesting than I imagined. But… it seems you have forgotten the most important thing.”
Falushil didn’t respond, only steadying her breath.
Her entire body’s magic gathered like a volcano of ice and fire, storing up for the next thunderous strike.
To her, Zehrael’s words were nothing but noise to disrupt her judgment.
Seeing her unwavering expression, Zehrael’s smile deepened, tinged with a cruel insight.
“You’re here struggling with me, treating me as your only enemy. But… Falushil, have you considered—if I summoned a legion of monsters within this royal city you swear to protect, what would you do?”
At the moment the words fell, it was as if an invisible ice needle stabbed hard into Falushil’s heart.
Her movements faltered.
In the Forbidden Marsh of the Demon Domain, she could fight without regard for the cost, for it was a battlefield.
But here, in the royal capital, surrounded by countless unarmed civilians, any mistake on her part could lead to irreversible catastrophe.
Zehrael’s threat struck with deadly precision at her only, and most fatal, weakness.
Just a moment’s hesitation.
The smile at Zehrael’s lips reached its peak.
He had been waiting for this instant.
He extended his right hand, five fingers splayed.
In his palm, a complex array of pure dark energy rapidly took shape.
“Truly adorable in your naivety, God’s Chosen.”
He whispered, voice soft as a lover’s murmur, yet brimming with lethal malice.
“Dark Corrosion Spear!”
A black spear, deeper than the night and devouring all light, shot silently from his palm.
It pierced easily through the magic shield, weakened by Falushil’s shaken mind, like a red-hot knife into butter.
Agonizing pain exploded in her chest.
Falushil’s pupils contracted sharply.
The force sent her reeling, blood surging up her throat and bursting forth uncontrollably, blooming into a tragic mist in the air.
Her body lost balance, flung backward like a broken flower in the wind, flying past the edge of the rooftop, plummeting toward the street dozens of meters below.
A sensation of falling engulfed her.
The city lights spun wildly in her vision.
Just as she was about to hit the ground, a black shadow streaked past beneath her, moving even faster than her descent, appearing silently at her back.
A strong arm wrapped around her waist.
Another hand gently supported her nape, steadying her fall.
The motion was light and precise, without a trace of wasted movement, as if plucking a falling leaf from a tree.
Falushil forced her eyes open.
A young man’s face, equal parts playful and excited, filled her sight.
[Shadowfang Breaker].
“Yo, Boss God’s Chosen.”
Jiang You whistled, landing lightly on the rooftop of another building with Falushil in his arms, dropping to one knee in a dashing pose.
“Looks like I arrived just in time. This kind of entrance should score me some affection points, right?”
…What on earth is ‘affection points’?
Falushil had no time to consider.
She twisted and stood, steadying herself.
Freezing magic surged from her palm, sealing torn flesh and the blood flowing freely.
The deep wound was forcefully stitched by fine ice crystals, sending a sharp, numbing chill through her.
It was not healing, but freezing.
She had used extreme cold to freeze her own blood vessels and nerves, locking the sinister black energy and pain beneath a layer of ice.
It was a method akin to drinking poison to quench thirst—brutal yet effective—allowing her to ignore her body’s agony for now.
She stifled a groan, her face paler than ever, but the cold in her eyes did not diminish.
Zehrael’s brow furrowed again.
He stared hard at the player who had appeared out of nowhere, wariness flickering in his gaze.
These Outsiders, with their incomprehensible immortality and strange powers, were the greatest uncertainties in his plans.
“Another insect arrives,” he said coldly.
But the reply did not come from Jiang You.
“You bastard…!”
A furious, pain-laden cry rang out from the stairwell, followed by a blazing pink magic shot that howled past Zehrae’s face, shattering a stone ornament behind him.
Aileen was the first to storm onto the rooftop, staff in hand, her chest heaving.
When she saw Falushil bleeding on the distant rooftop, her eyes turned red instantly.
“Your Highness!”
At her shout, more figures surged onto the rooftop.
A dozen magical girls spread out swiftly, forming a battle formation.
The colorful glow of magic lit in their hands, illuminating the rooftop as bright as day.
Anger and resolve were etched on every face, their gazes sharp as blades, fixed on Zehrae.
The most elite magical girl unit of the Kingdom of Arslan had finally arrived.
Zehrael surveyed the encirclement, expressionless.
Then, with a flourish, he raised his gloved hand, five fingers spread as if to grasp the entire night sky over Arslan’s royal city.
“It seems the warm-up is over.”
His voice echoed on the night wind, clear in every ear, an emperor’s declaration.
“God’s Chosen, your mistake is always assuming the battlefield remains within the limits you set. To me, any place can become my stage.”
As his words ended, the space behind him warped violently.
A dark purple rift tore open under invisible power.
Inside, chaos as thick as ink churned, radiating a stench of sulfur, rotten flesh, and abyssal mire.
Shrill howls and screams burst forth, chilling to the bone.
The voices of the Demon Domain’s Forbidden Marsh, a chorus of despair from countless beings twisted, devoured, and remade.
“Come forth, my children.”
Zehrael chanted softly, as if calling beloved pets.
“Let this bustling cage taste true freedom.”