Chapter 195: The Guillotine, Shurahat
He appeared before him in a flash of spatial distortion and, with Org already drawn, he struck. He did not aim for his heart or his head, but for the hand that was reaching for the corrupted holy sword.
Shurahat, caught completely off guard, only had time to throw up a single shield. But it was useless.
Squelch.
An arm, and the magic rings on its fingers, fell to the floor.
"AHH!" he screamed, and stumbled back, trying to put some distance between them. Two hundred years, and the man was even stronger than before.
"I did say, 'third time's the charm'," he said.
No matter how far he retreated, he was there, in front of him, a ghost, a phantom, a whisper of a deadly intent. His spells, his magic... they were useless. For a pure mage, to be in a close-quarters battle like this... the outcome was already decided.
"Give me the spell, and I will give you a quick death," he said, the tip of Org now at his heart. "The spell that allows one to bear the power of faith. It is your only remaining value."
"Heh... hehehe. I see," he said, clutching his bleeding stump. "So you, too, are after that power. Could it be... are you the god-slayer from a thousand years ago?"
He had seen it, the small, almost imperceptible, flicker in his eyes.
"So it's true," he said with a wry, defeated smile. "A human who can stand beside the great Serie, who has lived for so long... it can only be him." He should have known. The immense power, the holy sword... it could only be the man of legend. He had just never imagined that he could have lived so long.
"You are a powerful being. You have even broken the very limits of your own life. I'm curious... why are you so interested in this power?"
"I'm not here to talk. Give me the spell," he said, his own patience now wearing thin.
"Hahaha! Then you'll have to take it from me. The spell... it has a seal. Even if I die, you will never get it."
His words were cut short. With a single, swift and clean stroke, his head was separated from his shoulders and sent flying through the air, an expression of a pure and utter shock still frozen on its face. The headless body stood for a moment, then collapsed in a pile of ash.
"A waste of time," he said, and caught the falling head. He cast a preservation spell, and it was now a grotesque trophy, a "specimen" in his hands.
If you won't give it to me, he thought, I'll just take it. The magic to read the memories of the dead, especially the memories of a demon... he hadn't quite perfected it yet. But he had time.
The battle outside stopped. Riwal had finally broken through his barrier, but it was too late. "Lord Shurahat... is dead?" a demon mage said, his voice trembling.
"Impossible," Macht, his face now a mask of a pure and utter horror, said. "He was the most cunning of us all, the one with the strongest will to survive! How... how could he have been killed? By that... that... ordinary human!?"
Serie, who had been on the verge of finishing them all, now paused, a look of a cool and detached understanding on her face.
A new and terrifying silence fell over the hall. Shurahat had been second only to the Demon King. His death was a cold bucket of water on the fiery ambitions of all the demons. They now finally understood. The man who stood beside Serie... he was no ordinary person. Shurahat... he had been right.
He wrapped the head in a cloth and, without a word, walked back to her. The demons, the ones who had been about to overwhelm her, now just stood there, their own bravado gone, replaced by a new and terrible fear.
"I'm done here," he said. "What about the rest?"
"Kill them all," she said, her own killing intent now rekindled, her magical power now once again unleashed.
But just as they were about to finish them, a new, and even more terrifying, pressure, a pressure that was so immense it was almost a physical thing, descended upon them.
(End of chapter)
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