Skip to content
Novel Catalog
Chapter 112
Stellar was a man of his word. Calmly, he lifted his pistol and leveled it at Howard’s temple. The cold, black barrel made Howard’s blood run cold. In all his seventy years, he had never faced such brazen defiance—yet now, faced with certain death, he could not summon a protest. He knew, beyond doubt, that Stellar would not hesitate to pull the trigger.
“Colonel… sir… I… I…” Howard stammered, voice cracking. He knew his wealth and titles held no sway against the might of the Northern Territory’s colonel. Life weighed more than pride, and he swallowed his dignity in surrender.
“Get out,” Stellar ordered, voice low and steady. Howard hurried from the room, flanked by his family’s guards.
As they retreated, Nash arranged thirty-six earthen bowls in a perfect circle around Philix’s prone form. Lloyd eyed the formation and said, “Those bowls correspond to the positions of the thirty-six decan stars. It looks like a magic circle.”
Cillian, previously impassive, inhaled sharply. “It is the Decan Soul-Locking Formation.”
Lloyd’s eyes widened. “The Decan Soul-Locking Formation?”
Cillian nodded. “This formation defies the natural order. At best, it shaves years from your life. At worst, it invokes a divine curse. I cannot believe Master Calcraft entrusted this technique to someone so young.”
Softly, Cillian addressed Nash. “Are you certain you wish to employ the Decan Soul-Locking Formation?”
Nash did not reply. He stepped to the leather couch and unzipped a tote bag, producing a fine brush, a bottle of crimson ink, and a stack of parchment. Skadi’s eyes narrowed as she watched his deliberate movements.
Before meeting the Smiling Grim Reaper, Father Cillian had been her idol. A ninth-division grandmaster, his prowess in martial arts was matched only by his arresting beauty—so perfect, he seemed plucked from a scroll painting. In comparison, Nash, a stage three grandmaster, was scarcely worthy of such disregard.
Disgusted, Skadi swept her phone from her pocket and began a tirade to Hera. Lloyd’s patience snapped. “Young man, he is the priest of the Quiet Winds Church and a ninth-division grandmaster. He offers you guidance freely, yet you dismiss him?”
Nash ignored the rebuke. His brush hovered above the parchment, sketching an outline of ancient symbols.
Lloyd exploded, “Are you even listening?”
Nash looked up and unleashed a pulse of inner energy. Lloyd reeled backward, collapsing into a chair, blood trickling from his lips. Only then did he recall Cillian’s warning that this young man possessed genuine profound-state power.
Cillian gripped his horsetail whisk tightly. Though his own power ranked ninth division, he could still contest Nash if he combined it with his ancestral techniques.
Nash turned to them coolly. “If you have no further business, please leave so you do not disturb the warden’s rest.”
Cillian kept his voice even. “The General Star has fallen. Heaven’s will is absolute. Only Master Calcraft—holder of the Apocalyptic Star in his Palace of Fate—can reverse destiny.” His tone carried both warning and challenge.
Nash sighed softly and laid down his brush. From the tote bag he withdrew a folded yellow robe, a square biretta, and a golden talisman. He donned the robe, placed the biretta on his head, and wound the amulet around his waist, tightening the sash with deliberate care. From the bag’s final pocket, he withdrew a small velvet pouch.
In the growing silence, the room seemed to hold its breath, waiting for whatever would come next.