Chapter 29: Fall Behind, and You Will Be Beaten

When Marlon finally caught every word of the heated exchange, the truth struck him like a thunderbolt.

So that crimson, eight-armed phantom of a Durel slave—its eyes forever closed, its form exuding an otherworldly menace—was none other than the so-called false god Balto, the very being Master Claw Druid had warned them of.

And the mysterious elf who, until moments ago, Marlon hadn’t even known by name—this silver-eyed mentalist—was revealed to be Nephthu–Ekramon, scion of none other than the divine goddess of revelry and the hunt, Eshilia.

Marlon’s breath caught in his throat. The weight of such revelations pressed on him, almost crushing. But before his heart could steady from shock, the battle had already begun—

The phantom Balto, tethered to the Durel priestess, clashed headlong against Nephthu–Ekramon, the god-blooded elf who wielded both mind and spell.

Yet it was nothing like what Marlon had expected. This was no elegant contest of psychic sorcery against the profane rites of a false god.

No—Nephthu, descendant of Eshilia, moved with startling defiance of expectation. As Balto’s roar thundered across the battlefield, shaking the cavern walls, Nephthu flipped his hand, and to the astonishment of every watching soul, drew forth a weapon wholly out of place in this age.

A weapon of war, wrought entirely of pure mithril, its sleek surface inscribed with countless elven runes that shimmered like starlight, its contours flowing with predatory grace.

A weapon unlike any Marlon had seen in this world.

A weapon unmistakably a barrier-breaching rifle.

Yes, by the beard of Old Mao whose portrait lay on the soft currency of Earth itself, Marlon could swear it—what Nephthu had produced was a weapon more than two meters long, its bore no less than eighteen millimeters. A monstrosity of destruction.

Earth’s anti-materiel rifles were instruments of brutal functionality, epitomes of “violent aesthetics.” But the weapon in Nephthu’s pale hands was something more, something far deadlier in spirit. It was beautiful to the point of blasphemy—pure, radiant, merciless. A weapon that embodied not “violent aesthetics,” but aesthetic violence.

And though the words were but an inversion of each other, the difference between them was the difference between heaven and hell.

Then the thunder began.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!

Seven thunderclaps in rapid succession, and with them, seven emerald spheres of energy—each the size of a clenched fist—erupted from the weapon’s muzzle, shrieking through the air toward the phantom of Balto.

The recoil shattered the silence of the battlefield. Each shot rippled through the air with visible shockwaves, concentric rings of force that hammered outward like ripples on a storm-tossed sea.

Durel rebels unlucky enough to stand in the path of those emerald orbs never even had the chance to scream. Long before the spheres closed within three meters of their bodies, they were ripped apart as though a thousand warhorses had torn them limb from limb. Their flesh burst into a rain of gore, painting the air with crimson mist.

Balto was no mere phantom—his name carried the echo of godhood, however false. As the seven emerald spheres bore down on him, he threw back his head and roared, unleashing thousands of wailing souls, their spectral forms wreathed in soul-burning flame.

They rushed forward like a tide, shrieking, immolating themselves, layer upon layer, until at last they managed to halt the emerald barrage a scant three meters from his illusory chest.

But in that fleeting moment of distraction, Nephthu vanished. One heartbeat he was two hundred meters away, rifle in hand. The next—gone, dissolving into the air like smoke.

Marlon’s eyes widened. “Close combat… his next strike will be close combat. That false god is finished!”

He could scarcely believe what he was witnessing.

And he was right.

Nephthu reappeared behind Balto, suspended in midair like a phantom himself, raising his rifle for a point-blank shot. The blast nearly shattered Balto’s form in one blinding explosion of emerald fire.

But Nephthu was not finished.

He glided forward, his movements eerily graceful, his pale hand—slender, almost feminine—stretching forth like a blade. With surgical precision, he plunged it into Balto’s spectral chest, piercing directly through the illusionary heart.

When his hand withdrew, it clutched something horrific and wondrous—half-real, half-phantasmic—a flaming heart, burning with unnatural fire, within which writhed countless blackened souls, screaming as they were consumed by the flames.

Balto’s phantom shrieked in agony, a sound so piercing it rattled the bones of every witness. Before his form dissolved into ash and shadow, he left only a curse, a scream like a scar upon reality itself:

“Nephthu–Ekramon! I curse you! You have ruined my designs again! I will return, and when I do, I will have my vengeance! I swear it!”

Nephthu only sneered, contempt darkening his flawless features.

“Vengeance? From you? A false god who does not even comprehend the essence of divinity?” His voice dripped with scorn, the fiery heart blazing in his hand. “Foolish relic. The age has changed. No longer can dull-witted tyrants like you, who know nothing of progress, build nations of flame and terror. That era is long gone.”

As he spoke, the burning heart burst open. Thousands of wailing souls erupted, shrieking, ignited, scattering like sparks in a gale. They surged outward, attacking every living creature within a kilometer.

Marlon’s stomach dropped. They were within range.

The swarm descended. But before despair could consume him, gunfire blazed anew—not from Nephthu, but from Alice, whose loyalty to Marlon bound her soul and weapon alike.

Her revolvers roared like twin thunderclaps, each shot clean, precise. Every screaming spirit that drew near was torn apart into whirling ghostfire. Not one breached her defense.

But the gunfire drew Nephthu’s eyes.

Without a word, without warning, he summoned his rifle once more, its runes blazing. Another emerald sphere erupted from the barrel, a bolt of searing doom aimed directly at them.

Only then did Marlon truly understand the horror of that emerald light.

He had no time to move. No time to scream. No time to exist.

The sphere was upon him, and the shockwave alone tore his body apart, ripping him into bloody fragments that scattered like leaves before a storm.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

Yet in that fading moment, before consciousness fled entirely, Marlon thought he heard Nephthu’s cold whisper, carried away toward the flames:

“Pitiful worms… you dared follow me into my hunting ground. Your fate was sealed the moment you did. To be nothing but prey beneath my hand. Eshilia, goddess of revelry and hunt, blood of divinity flows within me—your court will rise again…”

Revive Eshilia? The goddess who had long since fallen into ruin?

But wasn’t it said that fallen gods became nothing but aberrations, their kingdoms swallowed into alien realms?

“I need to ask Old Kang when we return…” The thought barely formed before Marlon’s awareness dissolved.

And then—he awakened.

He had returned from death.

So too had Musa-Mein, who had been torn apart by the same emerald weapon.

But Alice?

No. Alice could not be revived. Not now, not ever.

“I understand now!” Musa-Mein exclaimed, eyes gleaming with a feverish light as soon as he drew breath again. “Brilliant! That madman has fused ordinary energy, psychic power, and the raw savagery of natural force—he’s turned them into medicine! How in the world did he accomplish such a feat?!”

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