Chapter 445: The Mysterious Person in the Black Robe
"Hehe, well, this is exactly what you call a 'Fateful Encounter'!" Stelle puffed out her chest, planting her hands on her hips with the exaggerated swagger of a storybook hero. "March, you wouldn't understand, would you?"
She cleared her throat, adopting a highly theatrical tone. "Who told me I was the... wait, what was it again? Oh, right! The Child of Fortune! Destined by Fate! No matter which world I stroll into, opportunities and treasures just sprout legs and dive straight into my arms. You simply can't stop this kind of luck!"
"I mean, just look at what happened! I casually helped a Bangboo on the side of the road, and it handed me a treasure map—er, a navigation card. It directly unlocked a new Hollow that supposedly has a 'Golden Bangboo' inside! A Golden Bangboo! Just saying the name makes me feel su—per rich!"
She conveniently glossed over the minor detail that Dan Heng was actually the one who repaired the little machine—affectionately dubbed 'Good Boy Pom-Pom'—and that Pom-Pom was the one who actually found the card. Instead, she gesticulated wildly, painting a magnificent verbal portrait of countless gear coins raining from the sky, entirely ignoring the oppressive, suffocating darkness pressing in around them.
Beside her, Castorice blinked, a deep bewilderment clouding her pale features. She hadn't grasped a single word of the Trailblazer's rant.
Trianne, always the more straightforward and lively of the two locals, didn't bother hiding her confusion. She tilted her head, her vibrant eyes wide. "Little Grey, what on earth are you going on about? What's a Bangboo? What's a Hollow? And a Child of Fortune? Why does it feel like you're speaking a completely different language?"
The utter bafflement on their faces only fueled Stelle's smugness. She leaned in, deliberately adopting a deep, shadowy facade. Lowering her voice to a dramatic whisper, she said, "Well... that is a heavily guarded secret! A secret intimately connected to the 'Great Beyond'!"
She pointed a finger straight up toward the sky—a sky entirely choked by the thick, swirling mist of the black tide, rendering the stars invisible. "Want to know? No can do~ Unless you cough up some genuinely top-tier loot to trade, my lips are sealed!"
Trianne let out a huff, caught somewhere between genuine annoyance and reluctant amusement at the gray-haired girl's ridiculous antics.
But the lighthearted bubble popped in an instant.
Mimi, the little creature who had been quietly trailing behind Stelle, suddenly dug its heels into the stone path. "Mi! Mimi—! Mi, mi...!" (Partners! Careful! Ahead... extreme danger! It's that... the swordsman in the black robe!)
The banter died on Stelle's tongue. Her golden eyes sharpened into twin points of amber glass. The relaxed atmosphere shattered, replaced by a suffocating tension. Weapons materialized in flashes of light and shifting data. Boots scraped against the ancient stone as the group smoothly shifted into a tight defensive formation, their long history of fighting side-by-side eliminating the need for a single spoken command.
Every ounce of their focus locked onto the looming structure ahead. A colossal, closed gate constructed from pale, weathered stone blocked their path.
It was the entrance to the Throne of Enlightenment.
Dan Heng met Stelle's gaze. A silent nod passed between them. Moving in perfect sync, they flanked the massive doors, pressing their palms against the cold, pale stone. With a synchronized heave, they pushed.
Creak—Thud.
The ancient hinges shrieked in protest, grinding loudly as the heavy doors swung inward, spilling the stale air of the chamber into the corridor.
Beyond lay an incredibly spacious, vaulted circular hall. Its architecture echoed the same deep sense of ancient wisdom that permeated the rest of the Tree Garden, yet the atmosphere here was entirely different. It was choked with the stench of decay and a heavy, deathly silence.
In the very center of the hall, elevated atop a dais of pale steps, sat a simple yet solemn wooden throne.
A solitary figure occupied the seat. He wore a scholar's robe, heavily stained with centuries of dust and grime, though the complex, elegant weaving of its original design remained faintly visible. His hands rested limply on his thighs. His head hung low against his chest. He was completely motionless.
This had to be one of the primary targets of their journey: Anaxa.
Yet, not a single breath left his lungs. They could detect no heartbeat, no trace of vitality, and absolutely no fluctuations from the spark of Reason that should have resided within him. He was nothing more than an empty shell.
But the dead scholar was not what made the air in the room feel like lead. The true source of the suffocating pressure was the figure standing quietly at the base of the throne.
He stood with his back to the entrance, draped in a wide, ancient-style black robe that seemed to swallow the ambient light, exuding an endless, deep darkness. A heavy hood and a mask completely obscured his features.
In his grip rested a uniquely shaped weapon. It wasn't a standard blade; its curved, crescent-like design resembled a ceremonial ritual apply more than a tool of war. The man had his arm slightly raised, the tip of the ritual sword pointed directly at the silent Anaxa. His posture was perfectly relaxed, yet it radiated the cold, absolute intent of an executioner about to deliver the final strike.
The instant the heavy doors slammed open, the black-robed figure's movement hitched—a microscopic pause—but he refused to turn around.
Beside Stelle, Mimi began to tremble violently. The little creature stared at the man's back in sheer terror. "Mi...! Mimi! Mi, mi mi mi—!!!" (I saw a burning fairyland, a shattered sun! Partner, he's too dangerous! We can't beat him, run quickly!)
Before Stelle could even process the warning, a voice echoed through the cavernous hall. It was low, steady, and entirely devoid of emotion.
"Leave," the black-robed man commanded, still facing the throne. "Or die."
That ultra-brief, edge-lord warning, combined with the dramatic back-facing posture, instantly triggered a very specific memory in Stelle's chaotic brain. Back in Penacony, she had witnessed this exact type of scene. 'Right! It's just like when Firefly was piloting the Sam armor!' That absolute, overwhelming confidence. That suffocating sense of oppression.
The sheer protagonist syndrome hardwired into her DNA took the wheel.
Shoving her genuine tension deep down, Stelle replaced it with a deliberately exaggerated aura of deep mystery. She took a bold step forward, squared her shoulders, and channeled every ounce of that masterly style she remembered. Dropping her voice an octave to maximize the intimidation factor, she pointed her weapon at his back.
"Leave now, and nobody gets hurt!" she declared, perfectly mimicking Firefly's iconic line, her golden eyes locked onto the dark fabric of the man's cloak. Not satisfied with just plagiarizing, she tacked on her own personal flair. "Otherwise, you might die!"
Even though she felt a tiny bit ridiculous saying it out loud, the desired effect was achieved. She wasn't just messing around for the sake of comedy. The final encrypted message Sesshis had transmitted right before they breached the throne room was still flashing in her mind: 'The plan needs time... distract him...'
Acting like an arrogant powerhouse and bluffing her way through the encounter was the only way to buy those precious seconds.
Simultaneously, the weight of her star sword materialized fully in her grip. The dual Paths of Destruction and Preservation surged quietly through her veins, coiling like a compressed spring, ready to violently intercept a lightning-fast strike at a moment's notice.
"..."
The ritual sword, hovering inches from Anaxa's chest, stopped dead.
Clearly, the mysterious executioner hadn't anticipated such a bizarrely childish response from a group of intruders. It wasn't a scream of fear. It wasn't a desperate plea for negotiation. It was just a highly confusing, mildly juvenile provocation.
The silence stretched for a fraction of a second before a cold whisper cut through the air.
"One Slash."
The black-robed man finally moved. He didn't even bother to fully turn around. He simply shifted his footing slightly, and the arm holding the crescent blade blurred into a smear of motion.
A pitch-black clone, a perfect mirror image of the swordsman, violently tore through the fabric of space on the left side of the hall. It moved with such blinding velocity that it burned an afterimage into their retinas. This was no mere optical illusion. The shadow-clone brandished its own ritual longsword, and it completely bypassed the loudmouthed Trailblazer at the front.
Instead, it launched itself directly at Castorice, homing in on the deep aura radiating from her position near the back.
"?!"
Genuine shock fractured Castorice's usually stoic, pale face. The sudden, calculated choice of target, combined with the clone's terrifying speed, completely shattered her tactical predictions. The deathly aura surrounding her body instinctively flared outward, desperately trying to weave a protective barrier.
But caught entirely off guard, her reaction was just half a beat too slow.
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