Chapter 48: The Apprentice's Battle

Everyone watched as the exceedingly impolite blind man, crouching low, felt his way forward, groping and reaching—
And grabbed the sorcerer’s hem.
"This ritual cannot be disturbed! How is there a blind man—"
The sorcerer cried out in alarm!

Roland hurriedly let go of him, a look of shame washing over his face, apologizing profusely, "I'm sorry, sir! I'm sorry, I'll—I'll wipe it off for you right now... My handkerchief... Where is my handkerchief..."
Releasing the other's hem, he quietly gripped the struggling Cherie with one hand while sliding his other hand toward his inner pocket.
Right at that moment, everyone heard a crisp, loud—
Pop.
Like a wine cork being pulled out.

In a fraction of a second, the sorcerer realized that the youth who had just been full of humility and bowing apologies had suddenly raised his head, staring at him with those cold, brilliant golden eyes.
By the time he sensed something was wrong, it was already too late.
Golden liquid poured out from a slender glass bottle.
It was liquid, yet the moment it touched his body, it abruptly transformed into a lethal, murderous blade!

Within the dim dreamscape, Cherie stood amidst the scattering, fleeing crowd.
She saw a fluttering black trench coat, the youth gripping a hiltless golden blade, slashing a brilliant arc before himself like the scorching midday sun!
The blade struck the sorcerer!
He roared in agony—
"The Incinerator!!"

Any 'righteous' ritualist could craft purifying holy water through the rituals of the Father of All Things.
Yet one who resorted to violence without a word of nonsense...
Could only be an Incinerator from the Tribunal.
That was simply their style.

In an instant, the room descended into chaos.
The sorcerer kicked away a table, exposing a wooden box hidden beneath.
With his index finger curled, he made a bizarre gesture, pointing straight at the crowd:
A living corpse burst forth from the box!

—Before he could complete those actions, Roland’s dagger had already pierced his shoulder and lower abdomen.
"Heart, neck, spine, kidneys..."
The youth, drifting like a black raven feather, whipped up a dazzling storm around the sorcerer.
Before the living corpse's saliva could hit the ground, the figure had already drifted far away from danger—Roland kicked aside a frantic, blocking stranger, grabbed the panicked Cherie, and smashed open the side door of the small chamber.

Outside, flames were already soaring into the sky.
This was a «Domain», though mortals could rarely perceive it.
They merely ran wildly with the stream of people, trying their best to avoid the fire and the wooden beams that grew brittle from the heat and collapsed downward;
Those luxurious decorations had now transformed into life-claiming blades and boulders, smashing people's heads open and leaving them wailing endlessly.

Outside the door, Roland spotted Beatrice Taylor, who was still lingering near the beverage tables. Grabbing her by the hand, he continued running wildly without looking back.
His brilliant perspective allowed him to notice more at the same time.
There was more than one enemy in this mansion.
In other places, cultists were also harvesting lives.
This was a premeditated attack.

«I thought you would place them in a safe spot and say, "Wait for me here"—»
«Charge on!»
«Brave youth!»

—I'm not crazy.
Roland blundered blindly through the mansion like a headless fly until Cherie, having regained her wits, pointed him in the right direction—the washroom, go to the washroom.
It was the closest, most secluded place with the fewest people.

Yet regrettably, someone was closely pursuing Roland from behind.
That cultist he had just wounded.
Perhaps...
Shouldn't he be a cultist?
Strange.
Fernandez had said that only ritualists of the Ring of Eternal Silence could craft and command living corpses...
And the 'scent' he was familiar with was the exact same one exuded by the living corpse in the alley that night.
The man possessed it too.
That was why he had used holy water directly.

Bang!
Roland shoved the two women into the washroom, fired a shot backward while raising his hand, slammed the door shut, and rolled away in a single motion, hiding behind an overturned table.

«The hero chooses to protect his beloved and face the enemy alone!»
-The washroom is a dead end, you idiot.
«It's outdated, Su Yue said it's outdated, Roland!»

Roland had no time to entertain the voice, his eyes fixed on the ripples of white noise expanding in rings—the sounds were far too dense, wave after wave overlapping in his vision, chaotic and crowded.
"An Incinerator..."
"To think there's an Incinerator at the banquet... Hahahahaha..."
«Look, he's "giving you directions".»
-Miss Nina was right, villains really do die from talking too much.

Calmly, Roland rechanged his magazine, pressing the muzzle against the table while tilting his head to judge the distance...
"When I peel your skin off, how much will your Holy Father still pity you?"
Bang!
The bullet pierced through the wooden table, though who knew where it flew.
First shot.
Roland murmured inwardly.

Creeak.
The intruder's leather boots stepped upon wood shavings.
Bang!
The bullet, spreading into a web, struck its target, yet hit something resembling gelatinous matter.
Second shot.
Roland frowned and rubbed his arm.
He had already been 'bitten' twice.

"Have you ever heard the sound of a flute?"
Instead of approaching directly, the man paced in a semi-arc before Roland like a predator toying with its prey.
"A flute blown through densely packed holes drilled into bone..."

Location.
Accurate.
With cold eyes, Roland calculated the distance and pulled the trigger.
Bang!
Third shot!
This time, it took effect.
Not only did the annoying muttering vanish, but he also heard a muffled grunt, alongside...
A slithering rustle like a snake...
No!

Twisting his ankle, Roland dove sideways!
The sprayed blood instantly corroded the exact spot he had occupied a second before.
The fresh blood burned fiercely.
Half of the man's face standing in the midst of the fire was scorched; as the skin peeled away, his true appearance was revealed: a face overgrown with a bloody spiderweb, features indistinct, his eyes crowded with squirming black threadworms.

Coiled around his shoulder was a red python whose tail melted into the earth, turning into fresh blood that bubbled as if boiling.
It reminded Roland of Seth Weir.
That last bullet should have hit his arm.
He was injured.

'Firearms are effective against ritualists, Roland. We are not as powerful as we look. Below the Ten Rings—everyone under the Immortals is merely mortal.'
'Yet most ritualists will not expose themselves to the muzzle, nor give the enemy a chance to realize their identity...'
'Or counterattack...'
'That would be too foolish.'
Yet here was one right now.
Fernandez.

Roland pulled out Spider's Kiss, pointing it from afar at the man.
Fourth shot.
Bang!
Hit—
The bullet formed a pale silver thread, piercing straight through the man's chest. Upon passing through, it spewed a mist of blood.
He walked toward Roland's direction, then suddenly collapsed, unable to support himself.
He melted into the piping hot soup of fresh blood.

Roland had just let out a breath...
«Careful.»
Suddenly.
An arm shot out right past his cheek—emerging from the pool of blood beneath his feet.
Then came the head, the neck, the body. The man had melted into the blood, yet regenerated anew from within it...
Dripping with red blood from head to toe, he reached out and gripped Roland by the neck.
He closed in on Roland.
As if he felt no pain at all.

"You haven't grown accustomed to a ritualist's way of fighting..."
"Apprentice."
Wearing a mocking expression, the threadworms in his eyes pulled taut into black strings, almost reaching into Roland's mouth.

Bang!
Fifth shot.
Roland jammed the muzzle right beneath his chin.
The silver-plated bullet fired at point-blank range completely shattered the man's skull. Yet, no hard bone fragments flew about.
Like a water-filled bladder, it suddenly burst into a mass of bloody mush.
Then, under Roland's expressionless gaze, it slowly condensed back into a brand-new head.

"A perfect path."
"I should have known long ago that the so-called choice is actually only one."
"Join us, apprentice."
"I will let you see the true world."