Chapter 40: War of Words

Twin bladed staffs carved through the air in perfect unison, one left and one right—a flash of silver elegance slicing through the stagnant air like ribbons of light. As they carved low arcs through the gloom, a sharp whine followed in their wake. The force of the strike, unleashed with the full momentum of the black-robed nun’s frontal charge, collided with a bloodstained scimitar in a shower of sparks and steel. This was no ordinary attack—it was the Dance of Slaughter. A sword technique designed to unleash the full potential of one’s Strength, Agility, Perception, and Constitution, all at once. At Maria's velocity, this high-speed assault could cleave straight through the frontal plating of a hardened steel cuirass like paper. Yet the curved blade held. Not a scratch. Not even a chip on the edge. It wasn’t forged from any mundane metal she knew. And the hand holding it—unshaken, unmoving—radiated terrifying strength. But that wasn’t what made Maria’s heart sink. No, what disturbed her most... was the nature of that arm. It was no longer human. The limb had already begun to mutate—twisting, gnarled, and grotesque. Though it still vaguely retained the shape of a man's arm, it was covered in hardened carapace ruptured by protruding spikes. Beneath the squirming muscle, veins of writhing black ichor pulsed and flowed. Shffft! Shffft! Shffft! Even as Maria and the well-dressed monster clashed, a volley of steam-powered bolts screamed through the air from a diagonal angle, closing off all avenues of escape. The heavy-duty crossbow bolts didn’t rely on muscle strength, but steam cores—boosting both firing speed and penetrating force. Even an extraordinary being with Agility over 10 wouldn’t dare claim to evade such precision volleys unharmed. And more importantly— These shots weren’t meant to hit. They were meant to trap. And Moll, the so-called “Refined Man,” knew it immediately. He would not allow a specialized crossbowman to pin him down. With a howl, the scimitar curved mid-air like a sliver of moonlight, tearing free of the twin blades’ pressure. Maria’s dual weapons, perfectly poised to restrain the blade a moment before, suddenly lost their leverage and slid away, showering sparks. She didn’t doubt it: had that crescent blade struck her unguarded, she would’ve been cleaved clean in half—bone, flesh, and all. In the split second that the scimitar was freed, Moll’s silhouette blurred—and vanished into the dark once more. “Incoming!” Maria’s sharp voice cut through the shadows like lightning. She had seen it—the strange shift in the gloom, the telltale ripple of motion. The faint light barely kept the darkness at bay, but it was enough. Tyr and Ralph, who had just emptied their bolt drums, fumbled to draw their melee weapons, panic rising like bile in their throats. From his shadowy perch, Moll sneered. Sending such feeble believers onto the battlefield? It was laughable. A gift. He would take their blood, their lives, and paint his masterpiece of blasphemy. The hate radiating from his twisted form sharpened into a blade, ready to strike. Tyr and Ralph felt it. An overwhelming despair. This wasn’t a fight they could win. The difference between them and this NPC of the Fractured World was like sky and earth. A chasm no player, no matter how skilled, could hope to cross at this stage. “Stand down, heretic!” A thunderclap roared behind them—Captain Phoenix, the hidden vanguard, finally emerged from the dark! His massive sword was wreathed in flame, searing through the shadows with righteous fury. The holy warrior's firelight blazed brighter and purer than Maria’s faint glow, radiating an uncontainable wrath. “Radiance!” A burst of divine white light exploded into the chamber. The Radiance spell, pure and overwhelming, erupted at full intensity. In the confines of the sewer, every shadow was blasted away in an instant. The thick darkness, once a safe haven for the infiltrator, was annihilated by the incandescent flood. “Gh—!” Caught mid-motion, Moll was dragged out of the shadows like a rat exposed under sun. The sudden shift—from dim glow to searing holy brilliance—was brutal. His mutated eyes, adapted to the gloom, couldn’t handle the assault. Pain lanced through his skull, and for a crucial instant, he was blind. The others had prepared. Tyr and Ralph squinted. Phoenix narrowed his eyes. Maria had already stepped back and shielded her gaze. But Moll—he had no such luxury. “Die, heretic!” Bathed in holy light, Phoenix seemed cloaked in fire, his crimson cape flaring behind him like burning wings. The temperature in the sewers soared. Moll, barely shielding his eyes, saw only a fiery blur charging at him with meteoric speed. He raised his scimitar in desperation. It didn’t matter. Flame Warriors were paragons of brute force and iron resolve. While Maria fought with elegance and speed, Phoenix struck like a battering ram. The sheer force behind his swing sent Moll flying sideways across the corridor, his warped body skidding across the mossy floor. “I can’t vanish...” The thought clawed through Moll’s mind. The light—the accursed light—had banished every nearby shadow. The closest patch of darkness was dozens of meters away. He couldn’t hide. Not now. Even a child would know—they wouldn’t let him reach it. And Moll knew it too. He grinned. A horrible, jagged grin on his rotting face. “My- aren't you just a faithless—little nun… You’re smarter than you look.” “Silence, wretched beast!” Phoenix roared. To call a nun —there could be no greater insult to a servant of the gods. His rage surged. The weight of that word struck deeper than any weapon. “Pitiful creature...” Maria stepped forward into the halo of light, her silhouette framed in radiant gold. There was sorrow in her eyes. Genuine, delicate sorrow. The kind that weighed on the soul. She crossed her twin blades before her. “You hate the gods. You blaspheme their names. You writhe like a forsaken child, screaming for the attention of parents who no longer see you. And yet... it is not their neglect that damns you. It is your blindness—your refusal to see the sin that clings to your very soul.” Her words grew sharper, each syllable a blade of judgment. “The greatest sin is not heresy. Not murder. Not war. It is this—to be steeped in sin, and not even realize it.” Her voice surged like a storm, raining judgment and truth upon Moll's tainted heart. The deeper the wound, the greater the yearning. That was the sickness festering inside his soul. A child, unloved and cast aside—not because the gods hated him, but because he chose hatred over hope. And in that moment—under the radiance of divine light, between Phoenix’s fury and Maria’s voice—Moll froze. For the first time... He felt exposed. Naked. Helpless. And for reasons he couldn’t explain, he felt a flicker of fear.