Translator: CinderTL
A gruesome wound remained there.
If that were all, this scar wouldn't stand out much compared to the myriad other healed or faintly scarred old wounds scattered across his body.
But what was truly terrifying was that, unlike the other scars, this one was slowly seeping wisps of nearly imperceptible black mist.
Even stranger was the wound itself.
It was a disturbing deep purple.
Its edges weren't the usual pink, healthy flesh of a healing wound, but rather resembled charred, decaying tissue, as if corroded by a powerful acid.
No blood flowed from the wound, nor did any bodily fluids seep out. Only a desolate, lifeless darkness remained, as if all vitality had been stripped away from the flesh.
"Damn it, what kind of power is this?"
Seeing the wound still refusing to heal and even showing signs of further decay, Graham couldn't help but curse inwardly.
As a powerful knight who had entered the Transcendent Realm, his life energy surged like a furnace.
Ordinary wounds, even deep lacerations that exposed bone, would heal at a visible rate thanks to his formidable physique. Blood would clot, the wound would close, and a scab would form before his very eyes.
But this wound, inflicted by that bizarre enemy, had clung to him like a stubborn leech, stubbornly resisting all attempts at healing.
He could clearly feel a cold, lifeless, and highly corrosive force lingering deep within the wound. It wasn't a physical toxin, but rather a pure concept of "death"—an energy diametrically opposed to the vitality of the living.
Whenever his life energy instinctively surged toward the wound to repair the damaged tissue, this chilling force would coil around it like a waking serpent. The pale pink flesh of new growth would barely begin to sprout before a dark, leech-like current would wrap around it, rapidly turning it gray and decaying, even dissolving it entirely.
The two opposing energies waged a constant tug-of-war within the wound, moment after moment. The pain wasn't a sharp, tearing sensation, but a slow, insidious torment that felt as if it were freezing his marrow and draining his life energy drop by drop.
It felt like an icy chain coiled around his shoulders, steadily seeping inward to corrode his core strength.
"Jashu... Fisher... you have to hurry..."
Graham gritted his teeth, fine beads of cold sweat beading on his forehead.
Meanwhile, the other two transcendent professionals Graham was calling out to, Jashu and Fisher, were already deep in crisis, unable to spare a thought for him.
Somewhere in the Mistland, thick mist churned, twisted shadows flickering within the fog walls.
The lingering embers of battle radiated a bone-chilling cold.
Across the scorched, blackened earth, carefully laid spell traps still pulsed with an ominous dark purple light, like the veins of a dying behemoth.
Skeletal remains shattered by immense force and blood frozen into icy clumps littered the ground.
At the center of the battlefield, Knight Fisher knelt on one knee, his head bowed low.
His once-impenetrable armor was now torn and scarred, as if clawed by countless withered hands, covered in deep gouges and pale frost-etched marks.
Piercing his chestplate, the most heavily armored part of his body, were several black bone spears formed from pure negative energy, radiating a stench of decay.
The flesh around the wound's edges had taken on an eerie, ashen pallor and crystallized, with no blood flowing. Only wisps of cold, black mist continued to seep out.
The greatsword, which had drunk the blood of countless demonic beasts, now lay broken in two, its halves diagonally embedded in the frozen earth. A thick layer of dark ice crystals coated its blade.
The severed, mist-shrouded skeletal arm remained locked in a death grip on Fisher's forearm, where his armor had failed to protect him. The finger bones had sunk deep into his flesh, staining it an ominous purplish-black.
The air was thick with the icy chill of death, the fetid stench of decaying earth, and the soul-chilling, hollow echo of negative energy.
Around Fisher, the ground was a grotesque tapestry of spiderweb-like scorch marks and deathly white frost, the result of the violent clash between his final burst of life energy and the negative energy that had invaded his body.
Here, only death remained.
A moment later, a shadow, carrying an icy breath that pierced to the bone, silently coalesced beside the lifeless, majestic form of Knight Fisher.
As the shadow receded, it revealed a figure cloaked in tattered robes woven from ancient burial shrouds and shadow itself.
Beneath the hood, there was no flesh and blood, but a terrifying face covered in dry, withered skin, tightly clinging to a jagged skull.
Two faint, yet burning, wisps of cold, spectral blue soulfire flickered in the sunken eye sockets, like dying candles in the wind.
The withered figure extended a hand with long, bony fingers, seemingly reaching to touch Fisher's armor, but its movements were subtly delayed.
A deep, bone-deep crack ran across the hand bone, extending from the knuckle all the way to the forearm.
The already tattered cloak it wore was now riddled with tears and scorched holes.
Thin streams of pure, icy negative energy seeped slowly from the largest tears, like black blood, dissipating into the air and greedily absorbed by the surrounding spell traps.
Pthwack!
Just as the withered figure's fingers were about to touch Fisher, a muffled sound like parchment being pierced abruptly shattered the silence.
Immediately afterward, the sound of fierce fighting erupted in the distance, rudely intruding into this dead realm.
At the same time, a figure materialized beside him.
The newcomer was tall and clad in silver-white armor, but their face was as pale as a dying man's.
"Yo!"
With a flippant greeting, the towering figure stepped forward.
"Ellis, it seems you've had a fruitful harvest!"
The tall figure's voice was tinged with amusement as his gaze swept across the battlefield.
"The transcendent professionals of this era are laughably arrogant..."
The gaunt figure known as Ellis shook his head slowly. His eye sockets, where faint soul flames flickered, remained fixed on Fisher's massive frame, his tone dripping with disdain.
"Without even scouting the situation, they charged headfirst into my carefully laid spell trap like reckless brutes. If this were before the Final Epoch... hmph!"
"Alright, alright..."
The tall figure grinned, extending his palm to slam it heavily onto Ellis's shoulder blade.
Crack!
A faint but distinct sound of bone cracking echoed through the air.
The already dim soul flames in Ellis's eyes suddenly contracted violently, as if on the verge of being extinguished entirely.
"Damn you, Holland!"
Ellis's soul-piercing scream, filled with pain and rage, exploded directly within their minds.
"You reckless fool! Be more careful with your movements!"
"Alright, Ellis..."
The tall figure named Holland retracted his hand and shrugged innocently, a gesture that seemed incongruous with his heavy armor.
"I was just saying that in an era where most ancient traditions have been severed, transcendent professionals like them are viewed by ordinary people as invincible gods."
He spread his hand, gesturing to the surroundings.
"So, during battle, it's natural for them to lack sufficient vigilance and preparedness. Besides..."
His gaze swept across the scorched earth, where countless spell marks still faintly glowed. Holland couldn't help but click his tongue, producing a metallic rasp.
"Who would have thought you'd be so utterly insane as to lay down so many spell traps?"
"For these little ones who've never witnessed the true power of a spellcaster, it's like facing incomprehensible and unstoppable doom. But..."
Holland retracted his gaze, turning to the fierce battlefield nearby.
"Your cultists are putting up quite a fight, aren't they?"
As his eyes landed on the distinct eye patterns emblazoned on the backs of the white-robed figures, a mischievous, mocking smile spread across his bone-white face.
"But... tell me, Ellis."
Holland drew out his words, his tone dripping with undisguised mockery.
"I seem to recall you used to despise those lofty gods above all else. What happened? After slumbering for centuries, you've awakened only to humble yourself and serve Oghma, the God of Truth?"
(End of the Chapter)
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