Chapter 131: Chapter 131: Lysandra’s Vengeance

Chapter 131: Lysandra’s Vengeance

The mud beneath our boots was thick with soot and Elven blood.

Kaelith, Nyssa, and Anise stepped back, forming a tight perimeter. They raised their Arcane Assault Rifles, systematically gunning down any Purist reinforcements trying to interfere.

They did not look at the four High Elven Commanders. They respected the sacred law of the pack. This was Lysandra’s hunt.

"Brutal," Kaelith muttered softly, watching the dark aura bleed from the Succubus’s body.

"They earned every single second of what is about to happen," Nyssa replied coldly, pulling her trigger and dropping another Elven scout in the distance.

Lysandra stood perfectly still. Her massive maroon wings were fully extended, casting a dark shadow over the four men who had once kept her in chains.

The lead Commander let out a furious battle cry. He surged forward, raising his glowing greatsword.

The other three followed, channeling dense wind magic to boost their speed. They aimed to cut her down in seconds.

Lysandra did not draw a weapon. She did not even blink.

Her glowing pink eyes flared with blinding light.

The B-Grade mind magic hit the four Commanders like a solid wall of iron. They froze mid-sprint. Their momentum died instantly.

Their heavy swords slipped from their paralyzed fingers and splashed into the mud.

"Did you really think a quick death would be your punishment?" Lysandra whispered. Her voice echoed directly inside their skulls.

"A quick death is a mercy. And you have never shown mercy to anyone."

Lysandra closed her fist.

The world around the four Commanders instantly vanished. They were plunged into a horrifying mental hellscape.

In their minds, they were stripped naked and bound by heavy iron chains. The illusion was absolute.

They could feel the biting cold of the metal. They could smell the damp stone of a dungeon.

They realized, with suffocating terror, that they were no longer the masters.

Lysandra did not conjure monsters to torture them. She used their own vile memories.

She turned the horrifying acts they had committed against helpless women for decades directly back onto them.

The Commanders felt their own bodies being violated, torn, and brutalized by phantom copies of themselves.

They experienced the exact, agonizing helplessness of their victims. They felt the unbearable pain.

They felt the degrading, soul-crushing despair of being used as disposable meat.

They screamed and begged for mercy in the darkness, fucking and tearing each other apart in an endless, looping nightmare of their own design.

Rapists suffering the ultimate, inescapable violation.

To the pack watching in the real world, only five seconds passed.

But inside the mind prison, the Commanders endured weeks of absolute, mind-shattering agony.

Lysandra snapped her fingers.

The illusion shattered.

The four Commanders gasped violently, violently sucking in the smoky air of the battlefield. They collapsed to their knees in the mud.

Tears streamed down their pristine faces. They sobbed, dry-heaved, and shook uncontrollably. Their arrogant pride was completely annihilated.

"Please..." the lead Commander whimpered, staring up at Lysandra with wide, broken eyes.

"Please... no more. Just kill us."

Lysandra smiled. It was a dark, devilish expression that held no warmth whatsoever.

"You were fully conscious just now, weren’t you?" Lysandra asked softly as she stepped closer.

"You felt every single tear. You felt your body betray you. Let us keep it that way."

She pushed her B-Grade aura directly into their nervous systems.

The Commanders let out muffled shrieks of absolute horror as their bodies stood up against their will.

They were entirely conscious, trapped inside their own skulls, but they had absolutely zero control over their muscles.

Lysandra twitched her slender fingers like a puppeteer manipulating strings.

The four Elven Commanders stiffly reached down into the mud. They picked up their heavy, glowing broadswords.

"Do you remember the cold iron you wrapped around my neck?" Lysandra asked, pacing slowly around them.

She flicked her wrist.

The Commander on the far left swung his sword, driving the blade directly into the gut of the man beside him.

The victim screamed in agonizing, real-world pain, coughing up dark blood. But his hands did not reach for the wound. Instead, his hands raised his own sword and severed the attacker’s arm.

"Do you remember how I begged you to stop while you laughed?" Lysandra continued. Her voice was an icy whisper cutting through their screams.

She pulled her hands closer together.

The remaining two Commanders turned on each other. They hacked and slashed with brutal, uncoordinated strikes.

They were crying. They were begging through gritted teeth, but their arms kept swinging.

They felt every single slice of cold steel. They watched themselves butcher their lifelong comrades, completely unable to stop the slaughter.

It was the ultimate loss of autonomy. They were reduced to bloody puppets.

Lysandra watched them tear each other to pieces. "You said my tears were sweet," she whispered to the dying men.

"Let me taste yours."

Within a minute, three of the Commanders lay dead in the mud, chopped to pieces by their own hands.

Only the lead Commander remained. He was bleeding from a dozen fatal wounds, barely standing on trembling, hijacked legs.

His sword fell from his hands. He looked at Lysandra. There was nothing left in his eyes but hollow, absolute terror.

Lysandra stepped directly in front of him.

She didn’t use a magical spell to finish it. She reached into her dark robes and pulled out the simple, lightweight iron dagger Grik had given her back in the Forge.

"Die," she whispered.

She drove the iron dagger directly through his throat, severing his spine.

The Commander collapsed backward into the bloody mud. He was finally dead. The terrifying B-Grade magic in the air slowly dissipated.

Lysandra stood alone in the center of the carnage. Her beautiful face was splattered with drops of Elven blood.

The chaotic sounds of the mechanical war raged in the distance, but her immediate perimeter was completely silent.

She looked down at the butchered corpses of the men who had haunted her nightmares for years.

The men who had taken her freedom, her dignity, and her youth. They were gone.

They had suffered immensely. She had delivered the ultimate justice.

But as the adrenaline slowly faded from her veins, the warmth never came.

Her hands trembled, still gripping the bloody iron dagger. She stared into the dead, glassy eyes of the lead Commander.

Nothing had changed inside her chest. The horrific memories were still there. The scars on her back still burned.

Killing them had not erased the past. It had just added more blood to the mud.

Lysandra dropped the dagger. She wrapped her arms around her own chest, suddenly feeling incredibly cold.

’Why?’she thought, her glowing pink eyes dimming in the darkness.

’Why do I still feel so empty?’