The night was like a piece of silk sliced open by a blade. Deep within the torn opening, a dark red light shimmered.
The bushes were pressed low. Owen knelt in the shadows with his right hand braced against the damp soil, his breathing suppressed to a faint whisper.
Footsteps approached from behind, and several heavy breaths sounded intermittently through the darkness.
“Boss… are you sure it’s this way?” a voice asked softly, barely daring to breathe.
“Yes, Kaan.”
Owen glanced at the herb casket gripped tightly in his hand. The ironwood casket’s latch was still tightly shut, but he knew the item inside was quickly losing its temperature.
The demon heart flower had to be kept fresh within six hours of harvesting. Otherwise, it would be useless. If that happened, the hope for his sister Eileen’s life would vanish along with it.
Owen leaned against the back of a tree, his fingers digging into the casket with a force that seemed ready to crush it. His sister’s breathing was growing weaker.
The doctor said she wouldn’t live past three days. To cure her, he had to use a demon heart flower. And the demon heart flower only grew in the deepest parts of the demon race territory.
He gritted his teeth. This plant was extremely difficult to harvest, not just because it grew in the demon heartlands, but because the demon heart flower was incredibly fragile.
It was easily damaged during collection, which would cause it to lose its effects. Therefore, he had to do it himself.
“Owen, we should prepare to withdraw,” the most experienced teammate in the group said, tapping his shoulder. “We have the flower. If we stall any longer, we’re all going to die here.”
Owen looked back at them. These men should have been living their own lives, but because of a single sentence from him—’My sister is dying’—they had followed him across the border and into the demon heartlands without a second thought.
Owen took a deep breath and spoke in a voice as steady as possible. “Withdraw. Now.”
The group retreated, almost half-running and half-fleeing, keeping the sound of their footsteps on dry branches to a minimum. However, they all stopped at once when they reached a clearing on their evacuation route.
The wind stopped. The insects fell silent. The air felt as if it had been frozen, becoming unnaturally “quiet.”
Just as they stopped, the light in the clearing ahead suddenly dimmed. It wasn’t that the sky had turned dark; it was as if the light in that specific area had been consumed by something out of thin air.
Immediately after, a speck of silver-purple light ignited in the center of that darkness. Like ink dripping into clear water, it rapidly spread outward.
A figure slowly emerged within the light.
Owen’s breath hitched instantly, and his heart hammered against his chest like a drum. He could even hear the faint clattering of his own teeth.
It was a woman.
She was stunningly beautiful, but it was the kind of beauty that made one’s skin crawl. Her moonlight-silver hair flowed like liquid mercury.
Her face was so cold and elegant that she didn’t seem like a living creature. Most terrifying of all were her eyes—pure silver.
When she looked over, Owen felt as if his soul had been frozen solid. She wore a dark purple gown and stood there silently, the surrounding air seemingly curdling because of her presence.
The Demon Queen, Ilya Vilantia. Owen had only heard this name in the rumors of adventurers.
Kaan’s legs went weak, nearly bringing him to his knees. The staff in Cole’s hand began to tremble uncontrollably.
Ilya’s gaze swept over them and finally landed on Owen… or rather, the casket in his arms.
“To take without asking is the act of a thief,” her voice rang out. It wasn’t loud, yet it pierced clearly into everyone’s ears. It carried an indefinable ancient cadence, but strangely, there was no killing intent.
Owen’s throat was parched. He suddenly took a step forward, shielding his brothers behind him as his right hand clamped onto his sword hilt. “We only came for medicine to save a life! We’ll leave as soon as we have it. We want no trouble!”
“To save a life?” Ilya’s silver eyes seemed to flicker slightly. Her gaze fell on Owen’s face, which was taut with tension. “Using a rare treasure of my race to save a human life?”
Her tone was flat, but Owen felt the surrounding pressure suddenly intensify, as if invisible hands were strangling his throat.
“Owen!” Cole called out anxiously from behind.
Owen knew they couldn’t wait any longer. He shoved the ironwood casket into Kaan’s arms and roared with all his might, “TAKE IT AND GO! QUICKLY! I’LL HOLD HER BACK!”
Kaan froze for a moment as he took the casket, his eyes instantly reddening.
“GO!” Owen turned and glared at him, his eyes bloodshot.
Kaan gritted his teeth and bolted like a cheetah. The other two teammates snapped out of it as well, supporting the nearly immobilized Cole as they ran back the way they came.
Ilya did not stop them. Her gaze remained fixed on Owen from beginning to end.
The look in her eyes was strange. There was no anger, no impatience from being disturbed. Instead… there was a deep, almost scrutinizing calmness. It was as if she were confirming something.
“You let them leave?” she spoke softly. Her voice was like a feather brushing against Owen’s heart, yet it made his hair stand on end. “You are quite loyal.”
*Clang!*
Owen drew his longsword. Ice-blue electric arcs crackled across the blade—this was his trump card, his Thunder Mana. He knew he would likely die here, but he had to stall for every possible second.
“Cut the talk! If you want the herb back, you’ll have to go through me first!” He roared fiercely, but his heart was pounding, and the palm gripping his sword was slick with cold sweat.
Ilya looked at his “formidable” display of bravado, and the corner of her mouth seemed to curve upward almost imperceptibly. The curve was so shallow and vanished so quickly that Owen doubted his own eyes.
“Commendable courage,” she remarked. It was impossible to tell if she was praising him or something else. “It is just… a bit foolish.”
Before her voice had even faded, Owen felt his vision blur. The purple figure appeared before him as if she had teleported!
*Whoosh!*
So fast!
He didn’t have time to think. Relying entirely on combat instinct, he swung his sword, which was imbued with all his mana, in a violent slash! The lightning flashed like a roaring silver snake.
Ilya simply raised her right hand. Her slender, fair fingers met the edge of the blade and flicked it gently.
*Ting—!*
The crisp sound was enough to set one’s teeth on edge.
Owen felt an indescribable, massive force travel through the blade. The webbing of his thumb instantly split, and blood flowed freely. The sword nearly flew out of his hand.
His entire body staggered back seven or eight steps uncontrollably before he managed to steady himself. His chest heaved with surging blood, and a sweet taste rose in his throat, but he forced himself to swallow the blood back down.
He looked in horror at his trembling sword, then at Ilya, whose hem hadn’t even been ruffled. A chill settled in his heart. The gap between them was too vast.
“ICE SEAL!!”
Unwilling to give up, what little ice mana remained in his body surged out. The ground instantly froze into a thick layer of ice, and over a dozen sharp ice spikes erupted from the earth, thrusting toward Ilya from all directions.
Ilya stood her ground, not even changing her posture. The menacing ice spikes stopped abruptly about 0.5 feet from her body, as if hitting an invisible wall. They shattered into a cloud of ice crystals with a loud *crack*, falling like snow.
‘Could it be?’
Within the miniature blizzard of ice crystals, she continued to watch Owen quietly. A very faint trace of… helplessness seemed to pass through her silver eyes.
“Do you wish to continue?” she asked.
Owen panted heavily, sweat mixed with blood dripping from his brow. He knew he couldn’t win, but he couldn’t retreat.
“As long as I can still move…” He gritted his teeth and raised his sword again, even though his arm was shaking violently.
Ilya sighed softly. The sound was faint, yet it struck Owen’s heart like a hammer.
She finally moved.
She didn’t attack. Instead, she took a step and walked toward him.
Her pace was elegant and slow, yet with every step, Owen felt the surrounding air grow thicker and the pressure grow stronger. Strangely, there was still no killing intent within this pressure.
She walked up to Owen, coming so close that he could smell a cold, pine-like fragrance on her, similar to a forest after a snowfall.
She slowly reached out her hand. But she didn’t attack. Instead, she used her cold fingertips to gently brush away a few strands of black hair that were stuck to his forehead by sweat and blood.
The overly intimate gesture made Owen freeze, his mind going completely blank.
“This stubborn look…” She studied his face and whispered to herself, her voice so soft it was almost only audible to the two of them. “…You really look like her.”
Owen’s eyes widened. ‘Who do I look like? What is this woman talking about?!’
Before he could figure it out, Ilya’s palm pressed gently against his chest.
There was no expected agony. Instead, an extremely warm, almost burning power surged into his body, both gentle and domineering.
In the face of this power, his own ice and Thunder Mana were like streams flowing into the ocean—instantly embraced, guided, and distributed throughout his limbs.
An irresistible wave of exhaustion washed over him, and his eyelids felt as heavy as lead.
“Is it not tiring to struggle for so long?” Ilya’s voice seemed to come from far away, carrying a softness he couldn’t understand. “It is time to rest.”
Before his consciousness sank completely into darkness, Owen felt himself being picked up. He vaguely heard her final words, which filled him with both confusion and fear.
“Welcome back, Flora Vilantia.”