Chapter 450: A Slippery Escape
The black-robed figure swept his left hand backward. With a harsh, tearing crackle, the very fabric of space behind him ripped open like a fragile curtain. That familiar, abyssal black hole materialized once more, its edges warping reality as it rapidly expanded outward.
Stelle's boots skidded against the frost-slicked floor, abruptly halting her reckless charge. She swung her blazing Flame Lance horizontally across her chest, her golden eyes narrowing with razor-sharp vigilance.
This enigmatic swordsman possessed a seemingly endless arsenal of bizarre, reality-bending tricks. For all she knew, this sudden vortex could be the prelude to another suicidal, area-of-effect ultimate attack.
Yet, defying all their battle-hardened instincts, the figure didn't weaponize the spatial tear. He didn't even attempt a final, desperate struggle. Instead, he lingered for a fraction of a second, casting a deep, unfathomable stare at the trio. Behind that mask, a storm of complex, unspoken emotions seemed to churn. And then...
He simply leaned backward. Gravity claimed him, pulling his body straight into the gaping maw of the expanding singularity.
Along with his partially frozen greatsword and the lingering remnants of his phantom clones, he vanished without a single trace—erased from existence as if he had never been there at all.
The instant he disappeared, the oppressive, isolated domain lost its master's anchor. The strange spatial realm shuddered violently, its invisible walls fracturing and collapsing inward.
A dizzying wave of vertigo washed over them. When their vision finally cleared, Stelle, Dan Heng, and March 7th found themselves standing right back in the grand, desolate hall of the Throne of Enlightenment.
The cracked, obsidian stone tiles crunched beneath their boots. In the dim distance, the ancient, high-backed throne loomed in silent majesty. The heavy air was thick with the chaotic aftermath of their battle—a sharp, stinging blend of scorching ozone and biting frost.
Just a few paces away, Castorice, Anaxa, and Trianne were huddled together, guarding the exact spot where the Trailblazers had vanished. Their expressions were taut with anxiety. Even little Trianne was clutching a gorgeous, ornate shortsword—a weapon that looked far more suited for a ceremonial display than actual combat. Her small face was a mask of fierce determination, knuckles white around the hilt, looking absolutely prepared to fight for her life.
Clang!
Stelle slammed the butt of her Flame Lance heavily against the floor, the metallic impact ringing sharply against the frost-covered stone. Her chest heaved. It wasn't physical exhaustion driving her heavy breaths, but a suffocating, burning frustration that had absolutely nowhere to vent.
The final, fleeting seconds of the clash looped relentlessly in her mind. The black-robed swordsman had been right there—dead to rights, half-encased in March's solid ice, his defenses completely shattered. She had been a fraction of a second away from driving her lance straight through him. But that damned spatial tear had forced her to abort the strike.
She had been forced to watch, entirely helpless, as the bastard slipped away into the void like a greased loach. The bitter taste of falling short at the absolute last millisecond gnawed at her. It felt like she had been strung along and played for a fool, and it pissed her off immensely.
Her jaw locked tight. Literal sparks of residual fire energy crackled around her narrowed golden eyes. Radiating pure, unadulterated annoyance, she refused to speak, instead glaring daggers at the empty space where their enemy had vanished. If looks could kill, the sheer intensity of her stare would have burned a permanent crater into the obsidian floor.
Dan Heng, ever the anchor of the group, maintained a far more composed demeanor. He caught the fiery irritation rolling off Stelle, but his attention quickly shifted to the lingering anxiety of those who had been left behind—especially Castorice and Trianne.
Exhaling a long breath of cold, stale air, he smoothly twirled his Cloud Piercer and banished the spear into motes of light. He turned to meet Castorice's frantic, questioning gaze. "We are unharmed," he stated in his habitually calm, grounding tone. "Just some minor shock and physical exertion. A brief rest will suffice."
His teal eyes briefly flicked toward March, noting the unhealthy pallor of her cheeks, before locking back onto Castorice and Trianne. The gentle reassurance in his voice hardened into a grave warning.
"However, we cannot lower our guard. That black-robed figure possesses immense combat prowess—far exceeding any ordinary black tide creations or adversaries we have faced thus far. His swordsmanship is masterful, his energy is erratic, and he commands an arsenal of highly unpredictable methods."
"Specifically, his ability to drag his targets into an isolated, independent domain, coupled with that spatial traversal technique he used to flee... they are nearly impossible to defend against. Just now..." He paused, a flicker of self-reproach crossing his stoic features. "It was our own momentary hesitation. We failed to seize the optimal window to finish him off, allowing him to slip away."
He offered the admission frankly, refusing to sugarcoat their tactical error while ensuring everyone fully grasped the sheer lethality of the enemy they were dealing with.
"The black-robed figure... actually escaped?" Mimi, who had been hovering anxiously on the periphery, drifted closer to Dan Heng. Her wide eyes were swimming with absolute disbelief.
Based on everything she understood, and the terrifying fragments of memory she had previously accessed, that swordsman was supposed to be an unbeatable, walking incarnation of a nightmare. The very idea that her newfound companions could directly clash with such an apocalyptic existence—and actually force him into a desperate retreat—shattered her entire worldview.
"Hmph!" Stelle finally snapped, unable to contain her simmering irritation a second longer. "Next time! I swear, the next time I catch that edge-lord, he is going to severely regret being born!"
She aggressively pantomimed her brutal fantasies of revenge, slashing her empty hands through the air. "I'm going to shred that stupid, ragged cloak of his into confetti! I'll rip that mask right off his face! Let's see how cool and mysterious he acts when I'm beating him over the head with his own sword!"
While her violent rant sounded undeniably childish, it radiated a fierce, unyielding stubbornness. The Trailblazer absolutely refused to accept defeat.
"Alright, alright, we get it. You're the toughest, meanest brawler on the Astral Express." March 7th let out a shaky breath, finally dismissing her beautiful white blade, Sode no Shirayuki. She trudged over to Stelle, waving a hand to irritably cut off the gray-haired girl's unproductive threats.
March's complexion remained uncomfortably pale. Executing the Final Dance: Shattered Jade had drained a massive toll on her reserves. It wasn't merely physical exhaustion; the sheer mental focus and the violent mobilization of her soul power had left her feeling hollowed out and fragile.
Now that the immediate adrenaline of the crisis was fading, the lingering dread and bone-deep exhaustion were rushing in to take its place.
She swiveled toward Dan Heng, her voice tight with obvious worry. "But seriously, Dan Heng, shouldn't we fall back immediately? Who knows if that creep is just waiting in the wings to launch a surprise counterattack?"
"He literally has spatial abilities! What if he just popped out to grab reinforcements? Or what if he chugs a healing potion and sneaks right back behind us? I really don't want to get dragged into another life-and-death deathmatch when I've barely caught my breath!"
She shivered, genuinely rattled. Being trapped inside that isolated domain, desperately dodging an endless barrage of phantom slashes, and facing down a final strike that felt like it could cleave the entire world in half... it had been utterly terrifying.
Dan Heng gave a curt nod, validating the archer's concerns. "Agreed. This is no place to linger. While the swordsman was injured and forced to retreat, the broader tactical situation remains entirely unclear., the Garden of Enlightenment has been thoroughly corrupted by the black tide. Our primary objective for this expedition has already been accomplished."
He cast a calculating glance toward Anaxa, who was slumped against a pillar with shallow, ragged breaths, and then toward Castorice, whose pale face betrayed her own significant magical exertion.
"The most prudent course of action is to evacuate to Okhema immediately. We need to rendezvous with City Lord Aglaea and the others, consolidate the intelligence we've gathered, and formulate our next steps." He stepped closer to the weary mages. "Miss Castorice, how are your reserves holding up? Are you and the others capable of making the journey back?"
Before Castorice could even part her lips to reply, Trianne—who had been trying her absolute hardest to play the role of a stoic little bodyguard—leapt to her feet with an energetic whoosh. She planted her hands firmly on her hips, her small face lighting up with an earnest, 'it's finally my turn to shine' expression.
"Why don't I just open the Gate of a Hundred Worlds and take everyone back?" she offered crisply. "It's super fast! We'll be back in Okhema in the blink of an eye!"
She puffed out her chest, practically vibrating with confidence in her spatial leaping abilities, desperate to contribute something useful to the team after such a tense ordeal.
"No, Lady Trianne!" Castorice interjected instantly, a rare, panicked urgency cracking her usually composed demeanor.
She floated hurriedly in front of the young girl, her voice dropping to a soft but exceptionally firm whisper. "The divine power of Janus that you possess... it is already running dangerously low. Frequently forcing open the Gate of a Hundred Worlds places a massive physical and spiritual burden on your body. It absolutely cannot be used so lightly."
Her tone dripped with fierce protectiveness. It was glaringly obvious that Castorice intimately understood the precious nature—and the severe limitations—of this 'divine power'. She knew exactly what horrific consequences awaited if Trianne overexerted herself, consequences she was entirely unwilling to vocalize in front of the group.
Stelle didn't have the faintest clue about the specific mechanics behind this 'Janus divine power', nor did she know what would happen if it ran dry. But watching the grim tension lock up Castorice's face, and seeing the brief flicker of rebellious defiance—quickly followed by guilty self-awareness—on Trianne's features...
She didn't need to be a genius to read the room. This clearly wasn't some convenient video game skill that automatically regenerated mana over time. The side effects of using it were likely severe, if not outright life-threatening.
"Hey! No need to go through all that trouble!" Stelle waved her hand dismissively. Ignoring the dull, throbbing ache radiating through her biceps, she smoothly hoisted the heavy Flame Lance back onto her shoulder, projecting an aura of absolute, relaxed confidence.
"It's just some edgy guy in a black robe who tucks his tail and runs the second he realizes he can't win. We've already completely downloaded his attack patterns!" She laid the boast on a bit thick, but right now, maintaining the team's morale and momentum was paramount.
"Phantom slashes, black flame sword energy, that weird little one-on-one domain trick, and his little spatial escape hatch... Next time he shows his masked face, I guarantee he won't get the drop on us!" She flashed a cocky, reassuring grin at the anxious mages. "As for the heavy lifting and the fighting? Just leave all of that to us. We're professional Trailblazers, after all!"
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