Percival snapped, “Who do you think you are, belittling the Malevolent Path Hall?”
Swish! Percival’s tirade ended mid-word, his head spun into the sky, a crimson geyser erupting from the stump of his neck.
The gathered cultivators froze mid-breath, their faces draining of color in unison, as though some unseen hand had wrenched the air itself from the plaza.
Not a soul had noticed Maxwell move. His arms stayed tucked inside his cloak, his boots rooted to the flagstones, yet Percival’s head now tumbled across the marble, severed clean, crown still perched absurdly atop it.
“Prince Percival!” Esorin stared helplessly, mouth sagging open. The rest of the Malevolent Path Hall’s retinue could only gape, eyes ricocheting between the fallen head and the man who had apparently killed without lifting a finger, their minds scrambling for logic that simply was not there.
“How dare you butcher the heir of our hall?!” Esorin’s voice thundered, yet his feet edged backward, instinctively measuring escape routes.
The murderous calm clinging to Maxwell’s shoulders warned him that caution, not rage, would decide whether he saw another sunrise.
“He’s only the beginning. Not one of you is walking out of here alive.”
Before the final syllable faded, Maxwell’s sword flashed from its sheath, a streak of argent moonlight too swift for mortal sight. A single crystalline hiss sliced the air, razor-sharp and impossibly soft.
Instantly, tens of thousands of Demonic Cultivators—fighters Esorin had rallied only moments earlier—saw their heads lifted from their shoulders in perfect unison, as though snatched upward by invisible strings.
Scarlet fountains erupted where bodies remained, painting towering columns of blood that rained back upon the square like a grotesque thunderstorm.
Enaricus and his surviving men stood paralyzed, stupefied to discover they alone still possessed functioning necks amid the suddenly silent sea of corpses.
Jared felt his pulse hammer against his ribs. He had witnessed formidable swordplay before, but annihilating tens of thousands with a solitary stroke belonged to a realm of power he had never even imagined.
A dark thrill curled through him despite himself; he could almost taste Maxwell’s savage delight, the intoxicating euphoria of displaying overwhelming dominance with effortless grace.
Esorin pivoted, staring at the endless carpet of bodies stretching behind him. Carrion steam rose in wavering veils, and his own hands began to tremble uncontrollably.
Raw strength alone rarely unnerved him, yet the butcher’s lust radiating from Maxwell felt bottomless, predatory, eager to exterminate every spark of life it touched.
One sword, tens of thousands dead, no errant soul-wisp escaped the strike, resurrection was impossible. The feat bordered on myth, beyond anything expected on level eight.
Esorin’s stomach sank with realization, this man must hail from a plane far above, where laws bent and existence itself became a weapon.
“Stranger, from which level do you hail? The Malevolent Path Hall’s reach extends beyond level eight. We have allies in on level twelve, too.”
The question was less inquiry than warning, a desperate attempt to wrap Maxwell in the shadow of powers even he might hesitate to offend.
“So what?” Maxwell said expressionlessly.
The retort knocked the breath from Esorin’s lungs. His brows knitted, confusion battling dawning dread.
“Trash,” Maxwell added.
“Very well. If that’s your answer, then we fight to the death, you and I!”
Esorin finished speaking. With a sudden, almost frantic motion, he drew a jet-black token from his robe. His fingers flashed through a series of incantatory gestures. The token ignited, hissing into a spear of midnight light that tore upward through the sky.
“Stop him! He’s summoning reinforcements!” Onneas felt her stomach knot.
Esorin was summoning warriors of level twelve. If those monsters arrived, none of them, herself, Jared, or any other soul present, would leave this field alive.
Against such beings, they would not even manage a single glance. One careless breath from a level-twelve sovereign could snuff out their lives like candles in a hurricane.
Jared turned, seeking Maxwell’s face.
Maxwell did not stir. His expression remained an unreadable mask. That calm told Jared everything, even if fighters from level twelve descended, Maxwell would not flinch. Neither, therefore, should Jared.
A quiet thrill rippled through Jared’s chest. With Maxwell at his command, he might one day roam unchallenged on level twelve. After all, Maxwell was obliged to obey Jared’s every word.
Above them, the burning token shed layer upon layer of crimson flame. Each flicker congealed into Fire Charms that spiraled together, forging a colossal teleportation array mid-air.
The instant the array completed, a dreadful aura poured outward, thick as molten lead.
When the black token finally disintegrated, the array, constructed by Fire Charms, ballooned, swallowing light itself, a black sun devouring day. The dimension shrieked, fracturing like glass under a hammer.
