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Novel Catalog
Chapter 120
The Terranova ninja’s sword struck deep into Cillian’s stomach, launching him backward. His body slammed against the mansion wall with a heavy thud, and he was pinned there, bleeding heavily.
At the same moment, Cillian’s sword aura completed its arc, slicing cleanly through the ninja—splitting his body into two halves that dropped to the ground with a wet thump.
But the horror wasn’t over.
The corpses still under the influence of dark magic picked up their bloodstained knives and charged toward the mansion like a tidal wave of death.
Lloyd slammed both palms to the ground, summoning what little energy he had left, and pushed himself upright. He stepped forward, placing himself at the mansion’s entrance, a fierce resolve burning in his eyes.
Zakariah followed, picking up a fallen longsword and joining him.
George, despite having lost a foot, leapt and landed beside them, gritting his teeth through the pain.
Janson exhaled deeply, his eyes calm. “If I die today protecting the warden, I will die without regret.”
He stepped forward, taking his place beside the other three.
The four men stood together, shoulder to shoulder. Bloodied, battered, but unyielding. They exchanged faint smiles, the kind born from brotherhood forged in battle.
Over thirty reanimated killers rushed toward them, weapons raised high. The air was thick with murderous intent, pressing down on them like a mountain.
They had nothing left—no energy, no strength. After two hours of brutal combat, their inner energy was depleted. Even breathing was difficult. Their eyes fluttered shut, prepared to meet their end.
But then—
Creak.
The mansion’s doors swung open.
Skadi stepped out, trying to sound brave. “Come at me if you’ve got the guts…”
The horde of killers didn’t hesitate. They ignored the four men entirely and charged at Skadi.
With a startled yelp, Skadi darted out of their path.
A blur of red and gold flashed past her.
Nash.
Sword in hand, he emerged like a ghost from the shadows. The heavenly sword danced in his grip, cleaving through the attackers like a divine scythe.
Wherever he passed, blood sprayed. Bones shattered. Flesh was flung aside.
By the time he stopped moving, the thirty killers were reduced to skeletons, crumbling to dust.
—
Up north, in the straw hut, the thirty voodoo dolls on the altar burst into flames.
The old priest howled in fury. “F** you, Master Nash… Just you wait…*”
—
Back inside the Zell mansion, the battle was over.
In the quiet living room, Stellar gently laid Philix on the bed and tucked a thin blanket over him.
Though Philix’s face was flushed with color, his body remained emaciated.
Cillian sat cross-legged on the floor, channeling inner energy to heal his wounds. His face was pale, and blood soaked through his robes.
Skadi crouched beside him, her voice shaky. “Cillian, are you alright?”
Cillian glanced at the twin wounds in his chest and abdomen. “I’ll survive.”
From the floor, Zakariah groaned dramatically. “Aren’t you going to ask how I’m doing?”
Skadi blinked. “Oh—Grandpa!”
Only now remembering her injured grandfather, she scrambled to help him onto the couch.
Nearby, Nash’s face was deathly pale as he carefully retrieved the twenty-four snake-shaped golden needles from Philix’s body. Once bright and golden, the needles were now dull and lifeless.
He checked Philix’s pulse and finally exhaled in relief.
It had worked.
The entire night of ritual, sacrifice, and spiritual warfare had not been in vain.
Above, the stars shifted. The General Star moved into orbit around the Purple Emperor Star. The Apocalyptic Star faded south.
Philix stirred.
His eyelids fluttered, and he opened his eyes slowly to the night sky. “Am I… still alive?”
Stellar rushed over, gripping his hand with emotion. “You are, Warden. You’re alive. Nash changed your fate… he saved you.”
Philix struggled to sit up, his eyes scanning the room.
When he saw the bloodied and injured people surrounding him, he frowned. “What… what happened?”
Stellar, ever the storyteller, began to recount the evening’s events. His words were vivid, full of emotion and drama—half battlefield report, half legend in the making.
Meanwhile, Nash quietly stepped away. He removed his bloodstained robe and biretta, unfastened his golden amulet, and returned his worn tools to a weathered tote bag—patched and mended countless times.
No one noticed the new strands of gray now peppering his once-dark hair.
Altering a man’s fate took more than divine skill.
It cost years of one’s own life.