Episode-236

Words : 1575 Updated : Oct 1st, 2025

Chapter : 471 He felt the remaining reservoirs of his and Fang Fairy’s power surge through their bond, a final, all-or-nothing torrent, pouring into the perfect, lethal mould he had created in his mind. The air before him didn't just tear; it seemed to un-exist. A point of absolute darkness appeared, a hole in reality, and from it, the Spear of Justice manifested, not with a hum, but in a profound, terrifying silence. It was more brilliant, more dense, more terrifyingly potent, than ever before. It did not just glow; it seemed to burn a hole in the very fabric of the cellar, its light a pure, divine, and utterly unforgiving, white-hot blue. Target: Core, Lloyd’s will commanded. Neutralize. The spear did not launch. It simply... was. One moment it was before him. The next, it was embedded, hilt-deep, in the center of the blinded, staggering chimera’s chest, at the nexus point where the lion’s and goat’s forms joined. There was no explosion. No sound. Only a moment of absolute, perfect stillness. Then, the light began. It started from the spear, a brilliant, azure radiance that spread outwards, tracing every line of the chimera’s corrupt, shadowy form. The black, dripping fur, the crystalline horns, the serpent’s scales—they were all illuminated from within by a pure, cleansing fire of lightning. The chimera, Azgoth, let out a final, silent, layered scream, a scream of pure, spiritual agony as its corrupt, unnatural essence was unmade, un-woven, by the overwhelming purity of the spear’s energy. Its form, which had been a solid mass of shadow and hate, became translucent, a ghostly afterimage filled with a raging, azure storm. Then, with a soft, final sigh, like the last breath of a dying god, it dissolved. Not into smoke, not into dust. It simply... vanished. Erased from existence, leaving behind nothing but the lingering, clean scent of ozone and the profound, echoing silence of its absence. The backlash hit Jacob Croft like a physical blow. He screamed, a thin, high-pitched wail of pure, soul-deep agony, as the bond with his destroyed Black Spirit shattered completely. His Spirit Core, the very engine of his magical potential, which had been stretched and corrupted by his demonic pact, did not just crack; it imploded. He convulsed once on the floor, his eyes rolling back into his head, a final, shuddering gasp escaping his lips, before he went utterly, completely limp. He was not just unconscious. He was a husk. A man whose connection to the magic of the world had been permanently, brutally, severed. Lloyd stood, his posture unwavering, his breathing steady, though a deep, resonant ache pulsed from his Spirit Core. The fight had been draining, yes, but far from depleting. He was a vast reservoir of potential, and he had just unleashed one powerful, but by no means final, wave. The eighty-year-old soldier knew the importance of managing his reserves, of never showing the enemy the true bottom of his well. He had won. Absolutely. He walked calmly across the sludge-covered floor, the stench of the place a foul offense. Fang Fairy, her own light dimmed but her form stable, materialized silently beside him, a guardian of moonlight and storm. He looked down at the two unconscious forms. Joseph, the brawler, still out cold from the initial, brutal application of the chains. Jacob, the schemer, the Devil Worshiper, a magically neutered husk, his dreams of dark power turned to ash. With a final, almost contemptuous flick of his will, Lloyd summoned his Steel Blood power one last time. Thick, heavy chains of gleaming steel erupted from the floor, snaking around the two unconscious brothers, binding them together, back-to-back, in a single, secure, and deeply humiliating pile of failure. The rot had been contained. He stood before them, the White Mask a blank, unreadable void in the greasy, flickering lamplight. The battle was over. The cleansing was complete. The immediate threat, neutralized. And now, standing over the wreckage of his enemies' ambitions, the real work of unraveling the deeper conspiracy could finally begin. — The silence in the subterranean factory was a thick, foul blanket, woven from the stenches of decay, corrosive chemicals, and the sharp, clean after-scent of ozone. It was a silence broken only by the slow, viscous drip of saponified fish-oil sludge from the ruptured cauldrons and the low, ragged, terrified breathing of the two men bound in the center of the floor. Joseph and Jacob Croft, the self-proclaimed masters of the Gilded Hand, were no longer rulers of their grimy little empire. They were just wreckage, trussed up in gleaming steel chains, their faces pale and slick with a mixture of sweat and the greasy residue of their own vile creation. Chapter : 472 Lloyd stood over them, the White Mask a blank, emotionless void in the flickering, greasy light of the single remaining oil lamp. The battle was over. The physical threat neutralized. But the war, he knew, had only just begun. The exhilarating rush of wielding the Spear of Justice, the cold satisfaction of delivering a final, absolute judgment upon the Black Spirit Azgoth, had faded, leaving behind the grim, methodical focus of the Major General. The enemy combatants were captured. The interrogation was about to begin. He could feel Fang Fairy’s presence beside him, a silent, ethereal shimmer in the gloom. She had not fully dissipated, her Transcended form a quiet, beautiful, and deeply intimidating statement of power, her golden eyes fixed on the two bound men with a predator’s unwavering stillness. She was the cage, the unspoken threat that kept the rats from even thinking of struggling. Lloyd looked down at the brothers, his mind a cold, analytical engine, sifting through the intelligence he had gathered. The counterfeit operation was crude, yes. Their product, an abomination. But the genesis of it... that was the heart of the mystery. The knowledge they had possessed—the specific use of a softer potash lye for a liquid variant, the late-stage infusion of scent, the fundamental mechanics of a pump dispenser—these were not details one could guess. They were not concepts one could reverse-engineer from a simple bar of soap. They were foundational secrets of his own research and development process, secrets known only to the handful of people he had, in a moment of naive optimism, begun to think of as his trusted inner circle. The realization was a cold, hard knot in his gut, a betrayal that was far more painful than any physical blow. Alaric, Borin, Lyra, Jasmin, Tisha, Mei Jing... one of them had to be a traitor. One of his loyal team, his found family, had sold him out, had leaked the very heart of his innovation to these pathetic, grasping merchants. This interrogation was not about them anymore. It was not about punishing their crime, or securing justice for the attack on his brand. That was a secondary, almost trivial, concern. This was about finding the viper in his own nest. The Croft brothers were no longer just the enemy; they were a key. A dirty, pathetic, and deeply unreliable key, but a key nonetheless. They were his only link to the person who had betrayed him. He knelt, bringing his white-masked face close to theirs, moving with a slow, deliberate grace that was utterly at odds with the foulness of the cellar. The brothers flinched away, their eyes wide with a mixture of terror and a lingering, sullen defiance. “Let’s have a conversation, gentlemen,” Lloyd began, his voice a quiet, almost gentle murmur that was somehow more terrifying than any shout. “A simple exchange of information. You will provide me with the name of your informant. The one who gave you the secrets to my formula, my designs. In return,” he paused, letting the unspoken offer hang in the air, “I will consider leaving you in a state that the City Guard will be able to identify without the need for dental records.” Joseph, the brawler, still dazed from his brief, ignominious encounter with the chains, spat a glob of bloody saliva that sizzled faintly on the sludge-covered floor. “Go to hell,” he growled, his voice a rough, pained rasp. “We ain’t telling you nothing, you masked freak.” Jacob, the cunning one, his mind slowly rebooting after the cataclysmic loss of his Black Spirit, was more pragmatic. His shifty eyes darted from Lloyd’s blank mask to the shimmering, silent form of Fang Fairy. He understood the power disparity. He knew that defiance was suicide. But he also knew the nature of the man who had funded them, the promises that had been made, the threats that had been implied. Fear warred with a different, deeper fear. “My... my brother is upset,” Jacob stammered, his voice a wheedling, shaky thing. “He doesn't mean... what he says. We... we can make a deal. Yes! A deal! You are a man of... of enterprise, are you not? Like us! We can... we can offer you a partnership! A share of our profits! We have an established network! We can sell your product, the real one! We can be... assets!” Lloyd stared at him, a profound, almost weary, silence emanating from behind the mask. He was being offered a partnership in his own stolen idea, by the very men who had tried to ruin him with a poisonous imitation. The sheer, pathetic audacity of it was almost... impressive.

Episode-236

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