And a twelve-foot snake materialized from the shadows behind Silas.

Its scales were black as midnight, shot through with veins of purple that glowed with inner light. It coiled around Silas in an instant—protective, defensive, its massive body interposing itself between her and the descending blade.

The water sword hit the scales.

CLANG!

It bounced off like it had struck steel.

Silas smirked.

"Jackpot."

The water sword hung in the air for a fraction of a second.

Then it clattered to the ground, forgotten, as the Mana Heart Rank 3 direwolf’s fist punched through Water Demon’s chest.

The elf looked down.

Blood bubbled around the fist buried in his torso. His water element flickered and died—not from lack of mana, but from the shock of having his heart literally crushed inside his own body. His dark hair, once pristine, was matted with sweat and grime. His pale skin had gone gray.

"How?" The word came out wet. Gurgling.

Silas stepped out from behind her snake protector. The massive black serpent remained coiled around her, scales gleaming, purple veins pulsing with inner light. It was easily twelve feet long, thick enough to crush a carriage, and its eyes held an intelligence that bordered on human.

"I’m just the greatest summoner of the Slanders family." Her voice was and clinical. "You thought the wolves were impressive?"

She tilted her head.

"Those were the appetizers."

Water Demon’s eyes widened.

The direwolf twisted its fist.

CRUNCH.

Something important broke inside the elf’s chest. His mouth opened. No words came out—just a wet, rattling sound that might have been a breath or might have been a death rattle.

The fist withdrew.

Water Demon dropped.

His body hit the red stone with a soft thump, dark blood pooling beneath him, spreading slowly across the ground. The water that had been swirling around him moments ago dissipated into nothing—returning to the air, to the moisture in the ground, to wherever water went when its master died.

Silas looked down at the corpse without expression.

Then she turned to her snake.

It was dying too.

The summoning had cost too much. Maintaining three Mana Heart realm beasts simultaneously while summoning a fourth had pushed her beyond her limits. The direwolf’s form was flickering, becoming translucent, its connection to her fading.

The snake was stable. Barely. The shadow summoning was less draining than the light constructs—different energy source, different pathways—but it was still weakened.

The lightning birds dissolved first. Then the original direwolf pack. Then the second direwolf, its massive form shivering once before collapsing into motes of light that scattered on the crimson wind.

The black snake held on.

Silas touched its scales gently. "Rest now."

It obeyed, dissolving into her shadow with a soft hiss, returning to wherever summoned beasts went when their contract ended.

Silas stood alone on the battlefield.

Three dead Mana Heart realm cultivators lay around her—Water Demon in a pool of his own blood, two others killed by her beasts earlier. Her mana reserves were nearly empty. Her body ached from the strain of maintaining so many summons.

But she was alive.

Fifty meters away, Rue was literally playing with her opponent.

The Mana Heart Rank 3 cultivator—a body cultivator named Mako. Not from injury. Not from exhaustion. From something far worse.

His eyes were glassy and distant. Seeing things that weren’t there.

Rue stood before him, scythe resting on her shoulder, tails swishing lazily behind her. Her expression was soft. The look of someone watching a favorite pet do a trick.

"Please." Mako’s voice cracked. "Just kill me."

He’d been begging for five minutes now.

It had started normally enough—Rue’s Word Magic freezing him in place, her illusions wrapping around his mind like chains. But then she’d done something different. Instead of attacking while he was frozen, she’d made him watch.

Over and over.

The illusion was simple. Brutally simple. Mako, standing in his home, killing his family. His wife. His children. His parents. Watching their faces as he cut them down. Feeling their blood on his hands. Hearing their screams.

And then it would reset.

And he’d do it again.

And again.

And again.

The first time, Mako had screamed. The fifth time, he’d cried. The tenth time, he’d gone silent. The twentieth time, something inside him had broken.

Now he just begged.

"Please." Tears streamed down his face. Snot ran from his nose. His massive body—built from years of body cultivation, reinforced with techniques that should have made him unbreakable—shook like a leaf. "I can’t—I can’t see that anymore—please—just kill me—"

Rue tilted her head.

Her golden eyes looked soft and innocent. The same eyes that had looked at Kael with adoration, that had sparkled when she was happy, that could make a grown man’s heart melt with a single glance.

Right now, they were the most terrifying thing on the battlefield.

"Alright." Her voice was sweet and gentle. "Kill yourself."

The words settled into Mako’s mind like seeds taking root.

His body moved without his consent. His hand reached to his belt—where a small knife hung and drew it. His arm raised. The blade pressed against his throat.

"No—" His voice was barely a whisper. "No, please—I don’t want to—"

But his hand didn’t listen.

The knife sliced across his throat.

Blood sprayed. Mako’s eyes went wide—still aware, still conscious, still feeling his own body betray him—and then they went dim. His massive frame crumpled to the ground, knife still clutched in a hand that had stopped moving.

Rue watched him die.

Her expression didn’t change.

Kael and Aria stood nearby, their own fights finished, watching the scene with expressions that could only be described as disturbed.

"Damn." Aria’s voice was quiet. "She’s really scary."

Rue turned toward them.

Her expression shifted instantly—the softness vanishing, replaced by her usual bright demeanor, tails perking up, golden eyes sparkling like nothing had happened.

"Did you guys see? He begged for like forever. So annoying."

Aria took a step back. Just a small one.

"I’ll be sure not to get on her bad side."

Kael nodded slowly.

He’d known Rue was dangerous. She was a nine-tailed fox of the Royal Bloodline, Mana Heart realm at twenty, trained by her clan in techniques that most cultivators never even heard of. But watching her break a man’s mind and force him to kill himself with a smile on her face—

This shy, cute girl could be a demon sometimes.

Inside the temple, the fighting had reached its conclusion.

Dean knelt on the ground.

He was a complete mess. His left arm was gone—torn off at the shoulder, the wound cauterized by some combination of Lyra’s attacks and his own dark energy backfiring. His right hand was shattered, fingers bent at wrong angles, made useless forever. His face was a mask of blood and bruises, one eye swollen shut, the other barely able to open.

Lyra stood before him.

Her green eyes were cold and empty. The kind of emptiness that came from someone who had seen so much death that it had stopped meaning anything.

"Did you really think." Her voice was soft. Almost conversational. "Just because I can’t absorb your attacks means I’m weak against you?"

Dean chuckled.

It was a wet, broken sound—blood gurgling in his throat, air whistling through damaged lungs. But he was laughing. Actually laughing.

"You truly live up to the name." He looked up at her through his one functioning eye. "The Grim Reaper of the Guardians."

Lyra’s expression didn’t change.

Her hand moved as her fingers closed around his skull.

And twisted.

CRACK.

Dean’s head came off.

It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling once before coming to rest against a pipe. The body slumped forward, still kneeling, still upright, held in place by nothing but the particular physics of sudden decapitation.

Lyra turned away without looking back.

On the other side of the chamber, Grey was having a worse time.

He’d killed five Mana Heart realm cultivators already—three Rank 5s and two Rank 7s, all of them dispatched with the brutal efficiency that had earned him his three-star rating. But the remaining three were different.

Two Mana Heart Rank 9s. One Mana Heart Rank 9 Peak.

And Grey was injured.

Blood soaked through his uniform—a deep gash across his chest where a sword had gotten past his guard, a broken arm that hung at an unnatural angle, numerous smaller cuts and bruises that spoke to a prolonged, brutal engagement.

But his opponents were worse.

The two Rank 9s were barely standing—one had a broken leg, the other was missing an ear and bleeding from a dozen wounds. The Rank 9 Peak cultivator was in better shape, but even he was showing signs of exhaustion, his breathing heavy, his movements slower than they should have been.

Grey had been fighting all seven of them alone.

And he’d nearly won.

The Rank 9 Peak cultivator raised his weapon—a massive war hammer that crackled with earth energy—and prepared for another strike.

Grey met his eyes.

"Come on then," Grey said quietly.

The hammer came down.

Grey moved to meet it.