Chapter 125: So Cold-Blooded

The man’s eyes went wide. Flora pulled out her sword. He fell and didn’t move again. Flora stood there, breathing heavily.

The surroundings fell silent, with only the sound of rain falling steadily.

Flora looked around. On the ground lay more than a dozen people, twisted and sprawled. Some faced up, some down; some curled up, some with limbs splayed.

Blood flowed from under them, mixing with the rain and spreading everywhere. The air was thick with the heavy smell of blood, overpowering the scent of rain.

She looked at the bodies, one by one.

They were all frozen.

Some had eyes still open, staring at the sky, at the rain; some had mouths agape, as if they wanted to shout something but couldn’t; some faces still held fear, some confusion, some had no expression at all—just lying there.

She suddenly remembered what those people had said before they died.

“Her mana… bloodline suppression.”

“She’s a demon, and her bloodline level is higher than ours.”

They had sensed it.

Before they died, they had sensed that suppression in her mana—that instinctive fear from the depths of their bloodlines, the fear low-ranking demons feel when facing high-ranking ones.

That was why they had been so vulnerable.

Not only because her power was strong, but also because their bloodlines were afraid of her.

Flora looked down at her hands.

They were covered in blood—dark red, sticky, dripping down mixed with rain.

She raised one hand and touched her face. There was blood on her face too, but most of it had been washed away by the rain, leaving her skin still wet and slippery.

She lowered her hand.

Her fingers were trembling, uncontrollably.

She stared at the blackish-red blood on her hand, stunned.

This wasn’t like before, when she had stopped people or subdued them.

This was the first time she had used her power to kill.

This was complete death.

More than a dozen people.

In just over a minute.

All dead.

She stood there, head lowered.

After standing for a long time, she suddenly clutched her chest and took a few deep breaths.

Everything just now had been done instinctively.

She had only felt a strong surge of emotion rush into her mind, and then all her actions were driven by bodily instinct.

She hadn’t thought about anything—she just followed her subconscious, doing what instinct told her to do.

Those people’s eyes kept replaying in her mind.

Frightened, angry, incredulous.

The way they had stared at her right before death, as if they wanted to carve her image into their bones.

Then she suddenly remembered what she had looked like just now.

Rushing out, killing, one after another.

No hesitation, no pause.

She had just wanted those who had hurt Eileen to die.

She had never thought she would be like this.

She had never thought she could be like this.

Kill so many people.

So fast.

So…

She didn’t know how to describe that word.

Cold-blooded?

Cruel?

Or maybe… contempt?

Flora stood there, staring at the corpses.

The rain fell on her, cool.

The wound on her shoulder still hurt, the place where the knife had stabbed her was still bleeding, but she couldn’t feel it.

She just stood there, breathing heavily, her heart pounding very fast.

‘Those people were bad. They had hurt Eileen. They deserved to die.’

Her mind was empty and yet full.

‘Those people were bad. They had hurt Eileen. They deserved to die.’

But… she didn’t think further.

She only knew that her hands were still trembling.

Trembling badly.

Suddenly, she remembered that Eileen was still lying there.

Eileen was still bleeding.

She didn’t know how she was doing.

She was still waiting for her to come back.

She snapped back to reality and turned to run back.

After running two steps, she stopped and looked back.

The firelight behind her was still flickering.

Those bodies lay in the rain, their blood slowly being diluted by the rain. The light from the lanterns fell on their faces, flickering.

The rain fell on them, on their open eyes, on their open mouths.

Flora looked at those eyes, then quickly averted her gaze and continued running back.

She ran very fast, almost faster than flying.

Soon, she ran back.

From a distance, she could see the house.

The light in Eileen’s room was on, shining through the curtained window, especially striking in the rainy night.

No one was outside.

In the yard, the spot where Eileen had fallen was empty, and most of the blood was gone.

It seemed Ilya had carried Eileen into the room.

Flora ran to the door and pushed it open.

The room was very quiet.

Only the sound of rain came from outside, muffled.

The light was on, casting a warm yellow glow over the entire room.

Ilya stood in Eileen’s room, beside the bed, watching her.

She stood very steady, not moving.

Her clothes were still wet, her hair was wet too, long hair sticking to her back.

She faced away from the door, head lowered, quietly looking at the person on the bed.

The blanket was pulled up to Eileen’s chin, leaving only her face visible.

That face was still frighteningly white, but a little better than before—slightly more color, yet still pale.

A clean white cloth was wrapped around her forehead, with no blood seeping through.

Flora looked at Eileen on the bed.

Then she immediately ran over, stood by the bed, and looked down at her.

Eileen’s chest was rising and falling.

Very lightly, very slowly.

But it was still rising and falling.

Flora opened her mouth to ask something, but her throat felt blocked, and she couldn’t make a sound.

She turned to look at Ilya.

Ilya was also looking at her.

“How is she?” Flora finally asked, her voice trembling.

“She should be fine for now. Luckily we arrived early. She’s temporarily stable.”

Ilya’s voice was very calm, just like usual.

Flora froze for a moment.

She stared straight at Eileen again.

Then, as if all her strength had been drained away, her knees gave out and she knelt directly on the floor.

She knelt by the bed, both hands gripping the edge, looking level at Eileen’s fragile body.

Her shoulders began to shake.

First lightly, then more and more violently.

She bit her lip, not wanting to make a sound, but a thin whimper still escaped from her throat.

Very soft, suppressed in her throat, like a small animal crying quietly.

Something welled up from her eyes, trickling down her cheeks.

Ilya stood beside her, not speaking, not moving.

Flora just kept letting out suppressed, trembling sobs.

Long and short, intermittent.

She clutched the bedsheet tightly, gripping hard.

Her real emotions and the thought “I don’t want to cry out loud” were struggling against each other.

The sobbing lasted for a long time.

Flora knelt there, her shoulders shaking.

She herself didn’t know how long she had cried.

Maybe half a minute.

Maybe a few minutes.

Then she suddenly felt something move.

A hand.

Very, very lightly moved on the bedsheet.

Flora snapped her head up and looked at Eileen.

Eileen’s eyes were still closed, her face expressionless.

But her hand—the hand exposed outside the blanket—moved slightly.

Very slowly, very weakly.

Her fingers curled slightly, then spread out again.

Then the hand gently swayed from side to side, as if feeling for something.

Flora stared at that hand, stunned.

The hand was still moving gently, swaying left and right, as if searching for something.

The fingers touched the sheet, paused, then continued swaying.

Seeing this, Flora felt as if something had twisted painfully in her chest, almost suffocating her.

But she still suppressed those emotions.

She looked at Eileen’s face, at that gently moving hand, her lips pressed tightly together.

She took a deep breath.

Then another deep breath.

Her chest still hurt.