Chapter 50: The Horn of the Final Battle

Zeheriel liked high places.

Standing on the rooftop of the inconspicuous Tax Office Building across from the Golden Iris Hotel, he could take in everything below at a glance.

The evening wind, carrying the city’s unique blend of food aromas and the damp scent of water channels, brushed past, lifting the ill-fitting City Guard leather armor on his body.

He frowned, feeling the rough leather chafe against his neck with disgust.

This disguise made him feel stained with the filth of the mundane, like a snake cloaked in a rat’s skin.

But he needed this vantage point.

He needed to witness with his own eyes how his creation—the summon named Mina, codename [Bunny Cute Can I Take a Bite]—fulfilled her final mission.

Inside the hotel lobby, everything was visible through the vast floor-to-ceiling glass windows.

His little puppet lay limp in a chair, the face once feigning innocence now left only with despair and death.

Life was rapidly draining from her body—the backlash of the contract, the inevitable result of a summoner reclaiming their power.

For a tool that was exposed and had lost its value, this was the most efficient way to dispose of it.

And his real target, Falushil, sat opposite Mina.

Divine Favored…

Zeheriel’s lips curled into a cold arc.

He watched her like a discerning collector appraising a coveted treasure.

What an enchanting presence.

Half a month ago, in the forbidden marsh of the Demon Realm, their clash hadn’t claimed the Prophecy Stone, but the longsword named Frost Snow Lead had wounded him, letting him feel for the first time both threat and… intrigue from this human woman.

The sacred magic imbued in the blade still ached faintly, like an ice spike lodged in his soul—a constant reminder of that imperfect hunt.

Yet it was this pain that made his desire to possess her burn hotter than ever.

He wanted to have her—utterly shatter that stubborn soul, to see her display that mesmerizing, fragile submission before him.

Yes… just like now… lost, despairing…

Zeheriel watched as Falushil staggered out of the Golden Iris’s main door and disappeared into a narrow alley.

Heh, this woman—did she really think she could escape my observation like that?

He saw Falushil retrieve an object from her waist pouch.

It was a fist-sized, translucent white stone, with swirling nebulae within.

Prophecy Stone?

Zeheriel’s pupils contracted, then relaxed again—a derisive laugh escaping from deep in his throat.

How childish.

She thought she could use this little trinket to lock onto a Demon King Apostle’s location in a sea of people? Naive.

This was a weapon for the weak—dependent on external objects, riddled with limitations.

Falushil, your greatest weakness is your pitifully human imagination.

He leisurely watched as Falushil channeled a thread of magic into the Prophecy Stone.

The stone emitted a faint glow, the nebula within spinning slightly faster, then… nothing more.

All within expectations.

Zeheriel’s smile deepened.

He could already imagine the disappointment and anxiety churning in Falushil’s heart.

Such… delicious emotions.

She must be thinking—the traitor has fallen, but the mastermind has vanished without a trace, and all her leads have broken.

What will she do next? Turn the hotel upside down in rage, or wander back to the Church with that cooling corpse in confusion?

Either way, it was a struggle of the defeated, a spectacle he enjoyed.

He continued watching.

Falushil gripped the Prophecy Stone, but none of the emotions he anticipated showed on her face.

Her expression remained as icy as ever, as if whether the holy artifact worked or not was irrelevant.

This isn’t right.

Zeheriel’s smile froze.

A thought, sudden as lightning, struck his mind, illuminating all the details he’d overlooked and connecting them into a chilling truth.

She didn’t take out the Prophecy Stone to search for him.

She did it to rule out everyone else!

Only the abundant magic within himself could block her detection, but in this vast royal city, besides him, whose magic could surpass that of the Divine Favored Falushil?

In a daze, Zeheriel seemed to see again, from the Greyrock Outpost ambush, that single, world-shaking sword strike from this magic-exhausted woman three hundred meters away.

That instant, the deathly killing intent still made his soul tremble.

Damn it!

A surge of uncontrollable fear shot up Zeheriel’s spine to his brain.

No! I have to leave here now!

His arrogance was instantly overwhelmed by the instinct to survive.

Zeheriel’s body reacted faster than his mind.

Magic exploded within him, and the City Guard leather armor was instantly corroded and torn by black miasma, revealing the elegant cut of the Ballroom Sword beneath.

He prepared to activate Shadow Leap—the closest magic to teleportation on the Continent of Tingyue, able to move him hundreds of meters away in a breath.

But at the very moment his magic surged, an even purer, colder power swept in from all directions, like an invisible net, enshrouding the entire building.

The Silent Frost Domain barrier!

When did she set it up?

Zeheriel’s heart clenched.

He jerked his head up toward the only exit to the rooftop.

There, at some point, someone was standing.

Long, pale blue hair swayed in the night breeze, ice-blue eyes devoid of emotion, only an abyssal stillness like the far northern sea.

Yet just by standing there, she seemed to become the center of the world.

“Demon King’s Seventh Apostle, Zeheriel.”

Falushil spoke, her voice light yet as sharp as an ice-forged blade, cutting through the night and stabbing into Zeheriel’s ears.

“Are you looking for me?”

Zeheriel’s face turned deathly pale.

He could sense at least twenty powerful magical presences racing here from all directions of the royal city.

They’d completed the encirclement, sealing all escape routes.

Sky, ground, even underground—all had been saturated with that freezing magic.

This was no longer the royal city of Arslan, but an ice-bound prison Falushil had crafted just for him.

“Divine Favored Falushil,”

Zeheriel slowly straightened, adjusting the collar of his Ballroom Sword, a mask of elegance and composure returning to his face—as if the earlier panic had never happened.

“I have to admit, you surprised me. Even in these circumstances, you kept your cool and found the one path to victory… You intrigue me more and more.”

“To deal with you, any price is worth it.”

Falushil gripped the sword at her waist.

It wasn’t Frost Snow Lead—just an ordinary longsword.

Cold crept up the blade like vines, steel groaning as magic gathered.

This time, there’s absolutely no way I’ll let you escape.