Chapter 129 — The Righteous Projectile
Blade of Dawn · Page 3 of 4
Yet Gao Yang showed little joy. Frowning, he walked over to the great hole and looked down at the charred fragments left behind after the cultist's body was pulverized. Owing to the astonishing heat of the Pathfinder's Sword, the remains were severely carbonized, with no trace of flesh and blood to be seen. "Something's off... I keep feeling that last part was off..."
Pi Yun came over, bent down to pick up a fragment, and slowly crumbled it between his fingers. A moment later his expression darkened, as expected. "This is scorched bark—a fell art of the fallen druids. The fellow got away!"
...
At that same moment, on a rooftop near the outer corridor of Viscount Andrew's castle, a patch of unnaturally lush vines suddenly began to rustle and writhe. Then a great bulge swelled up amid the vines, and with a sickening sound like churning slime, the bulge tore open and a black-robed figure crawled out in utter disarray.
This dark shape was none other than the All-Things-End Society cultist who had narrowly escaped. He reeked of scorched stench, his left arm hung limply at his side dripping blood, his robe was in tatters, and his hood was gone entirely, revealing the gaunt, pallid face of a middle-aged man with disheveled brown hair.
In his right hand he still gripped that "one-handed sword"—but the costly transcendent armament was now reduced to less than half its length.
Cursing under his breath, the cultist stowed the broken stump of the blade and staggered forward, intending to flee this place before that terrifying opponent could react.
But he had taken only two steps when he abruptly raised his head and stared at a corner not far off.
Sir Byron was standing there, and he too had just looked up to stare blankly at the cultist emerging from the vines, looking gravely wounded. For a moment the two simply gaped at each other, neither reacting.
But the stupor lasted only a blink. The cultist quickly came to his senses and raised a finger at this knight who had somehow survived, and despite the stabbing pain in his brain, began forcing out an incantation to finish off this obstacle.
Sir Byron reacted in that same instant. He reached into his bosom, pulled something out, fumbled with it, and hurled it at his opponent. "Eat my righteous projectile!"
An honorable knight—even when throwing a concealed weapon, he had to announce it.
The cultist merely sneered in disdain and easily caught the "projectile" Byron hurled at him. Wounded as he was, he was hardly about to be done in by a level-three knight—especially one who had recently fallen under his curse and was now weakened himself!
"You overestimate yourself," the cultist said, gripping the object Byron had thrown. He sensed no trace of poison or active magic upon it, so he felt no worry at all. "Very well—I'll use you to replenish my life... Hm?"
He suddenly heard a ticking sound from within his hand...
Byron saw it perfectly clearly: the cultist had reacted at the final moment. The crystal grenade was purely mechanical before detonation—there truly was no magical reaction inside—but the mana aura of the charged crystal could still be sensed with careful attention. A mid-tier transcendent would naturally realize something was wrong once alarmed. Yet his reaction was still a beat too slow. Although he had already flung the grenade away and a glow of protective magic had risen around him, the rune trigger had already been pressed, and the detonation array had activated.
Catching an inferno barehanded, taking a fireball point-blank—the point was to go out in a blaze of glory and utter confusion.