Chapter 179 Escape
Talon is on the run.
Dark Warlocks are recognized as having the strongest concealment abilities among all existing warlocks. The only ones who can compare with them are the legendary Space Warlocks, but the latter have long since become legends, and those few Space Warlock magic tools and scrolls are all single-pieces with only one left in use.
But this dark saint, supposedly a seldom-seen figure in the world, felt his teeth chattering, a grating, irritating sound. Blood flowed endlessly from the holes in his body, like a leaking leather bag. If it weren't for the remaining divine power of the Night God protecting his heart, he wouldn't even have a chance to breathe.
Thick darkness swelled into liquid form within the shadows, nervously observing any movement within a few kilometers. Talon hung the bleeding little prince upside down on his back, unconcerned about whether his beloved student's broken ribs would pierce his lungs. Surviving the hands of a god was paramount. Fear nearly took over his mind, so much so that the little prince's faint, painful moans seemed particularly harsh.
He seemed to be able to feel the pressure of the unknown god penetrating the clouds, chasing and locking onto the ants who dared to offend the god throughout Hong Kong. Even the breeze passing by his ears was the other party's eyes and ears.
If Azuka were here, he would have commented that the saint was actually frightened by the infinitely magnified terrifying fantasy of "God" in his heart - but at this time, the other party had completely disappeared into a dirty and messy slum, turning into a low-lying black shadow, passing by the smelly rattan baskets filled with rotten sardines and oyster shells, and quickly disappeared among the tattered fishing nets and huge whale oil barrels.
Not far from the slums is the dock. The crooked pier is soaked in the muddy sea water, the rotten cables are covered with dense barnacles, and several smuggling ships are unloading cargo under the cover of high tide.
Talon stepped onto the deck, the damp wood creaking slightly under his feet.
He could clearly smell the smugglers' scent of cheap tobacco mixed with foul whale oil. If he wanted to, he could instantly take away the breath of these lowly creatures, turn them into pus, and then leave this damned place where gods existed—but Talon's steps gradually stopped, and the sea water menacingly flooded over the toes of his shoes.
——He can't leave.
The Alan, the miserable and desolate Alan, had struggled for centuries in a savage land despised by the gods. They were considered born slaves and beasts, captured and toyed with at will, slaughtered and driven away mercilessly. Until today, the god of night and death finally lowered his gaze upon them. The sacrifice had already failed once. If no remedial action was taken, the utterly enraged and cruel gods would destroy the hope that all the Alan had waited for for thousands of years.
"Teacher... why do you want to..."
The future monarch of Alan still didn't understand what was going on. His breathing was filled with blood foam. He used his arms, which were rubbed to the point of blood and flesh being blurred and deep enough to see the bones, to grab his clothes, which were covered with marks like smoke.
...Divine Seal. Furthermore, the little prince Hardy also had the Divine Seal of the God of Night and Death on him.
"Shut up."
Before the smugglers could even scream, they were silently killed by their own shadows. Talon stopped the student's inappropriate questioning and nervously sensed every human shadow he passed by: slaves, prostitutes, merchants... There was nothing there. This huge port was still diligently and numbly swallowing up bloody wealth.
He breathed a sigh of relief and poured several bottles of healing potion into himself and his students. As long as it was night, as long as it was night... the night would bless the believers of the god of night and death.
As night fell, the ship swayed gently with the waves. There was no one on board except for a few wreckages that were rotting into pus at an abnormal rate.
And deep in the darkness-shrouded Temple of Night, the priests whose faces, figures, and even voices could not be seen suddenly raised their heads in unison, dimly and silently watching the person walking out from the depths of the shadows.
"...Sir Talon."
The black-robed man standing at the front whispered.
The middle-aged man with an ordinary face seemed to have no abnormalities except that his face was slightly pale.
…
Graven gradually understood why the black-haired "slave" - let's call him a slave - called himself "Ghost".
He… really was like a ghost, appearing and disappearing at will in the Rusty Iron Market. Occasionally, he would appear during their gatherings, startling everyone, then utter a few chilling words before disappearing silently.
Greven once vaguely tested the identities of the two with Red Snake, but the other party acted as if his reverse scale was touched. He became furious and whipped him severely, and then threw him into the rare treasure arena.
The opponent's moods were always volatile, so this kind of "punishment" was common. But this time, the whip wounds, which were almost visible to the bone, hindered him. The level 8 monster, which he could have managed to deal with, nearly killed him. Fortunately, Greven broke the opponent's spine with his bare hands at the last moment, but the price he paid was that his right arm was almost torn off by the beast.
He lay in the small preparation room of the amphitheater, his mind beginning to sink into an ominous daze. Beneath him lay a small pool of blood, and at his feet lay a small bottle of low-level healing potion, a handout. But the slave didn't want to wriggle over and struggle like a dog with a broken leg just yet. He wanted to lie down a little longer.
Because from this angle you can see the starry sky, the ever-changing and unreachable starry sky, brilliant and great, cold and indifferent.
Slow footsteps approached from afar. Someone squatted beside him. Greven's eyes trembled—he was met by a pair of smoky gray pupils, brighter and more mysterious than the stars. The owner of the gray eyes gazed coldly at his bloody mess, at the hideous slave marks on his face, like a silver mirror reflecting everything. There was no disgust, no contempt, no pity, no lament—as if he were merely recording a scene, a video, a calm gaze upon him.
...What a cold and beautiful color.
Greven didn't bother to figure out how this person had gotten into the Colosseum, or how they'd found him. He'd expected them to at least ask why they were there, and how they'd been injured like this—that's just how people think—but instead, this person spoke in a completely emotionless, declarative manner.
"You are confident that the red snake will not kill you."
The brown-haired young man's pupils shrank slightly and his breathing paused almost imperceptibly.
"You knew him before you became a slave." The black-haired young man carefully observed the changes in the other man's facial expression. "He hates and fears you, so he wants to humiliate you, but he doesn't dare to kill you. Soul Contract?"
Greven's brows slowly furrowed. Even though he was good-tempered, he couldn't help but feel a little angry at someone who had exposed his secrets so rudely in just a few words: "You—"
"Never mind. It's not important. I'm not interested in your entanglement." The other party interrupted him rather rudely, lowering his eyes listlessly, a hint of boredom and disinterest on his pale face. "I just want to know if you will die if Red Snake dies. Now, please tell me the answer."
Greven: “…No.”
Another thing, he thought expressionlessly, this guy's temper was as weird and unpredictable as a ghost.
A piece of paper was suddenly handed to him. The brown-haired young man was startled and instinctively tried to reach out to take it. Then he realized that his right hand was almost broken.
He was about to switch to his left hand, which was also torn to pieces by the fangs, when the other party put the paper away again. The black-haired young man stood up and turned to look to his side. "With such heavy bleeding, an ordinary person would die."
"A warrior can't." A clear and pleasant voice sounded in the room without warning. Greven's pupils shrank sharply and his muscles suddenly tensed up, but his tattered body was unable to move - since the ghost appeared, he was sure that he had not sensed the existence of a third person.
The other person's tone was very gentle, but the words he spoke were ruthless: "But if his right arm is not treated, it will be completely useless."
"Please treat him," the ghost said decisively. "You don't have to cure him completely. Just keep him at a level that's not life-threatening and preserves his limbs' functionality."
The man seemed to sigh softly: "...Understood, sir."
Then, suddenly, Greven felt a strange warmth all over his body. The bleeding soon stopped, and he could barely move his right arm. He sat up from the ground and stretched his wrist, just in time to see the cloaked figure behind the ghost withdraw his hand.
"...Thank you very much." Greven thanked the warlock in a deep voice. "What kind of compensation do I need to pay you?"
"You shouldn't ask me." The warlock smiled gently, but Greven instinctively felt that there was not much smile in his eyes. "I was just following the master's orders."
"You can take a look at this first." The ghost drew their attention back and handed the paper to Greven again. The other party reached out to take it and found that it was a list.
He raised his eyebrows: "This is..."
"The list of VIPs attending the gold auction on the day of the god's sacrifice." Nova stared at him thoughtfully. This man probably had a basic understanding of these names, otherwise he would not have the confidence to choose this day to start a riot.
"This isn't the complete list," he suddenly said, his expressionless face distorted as Greven's expression suddenly changed dramatically. "Based on my speculation, there's about a 90% chance that Duke Kamu, the Speaker of the Royal Court Council and the only Duke of the Silver Iris Empire, will also attend the auction."
——The other party is the mysterious noble who has a fondness for beautiful blond boys.
More importantly, this meant that the auction would be extremely heavily guarded. Furthermore, as a noble who valued his life, the Duke would undoubtedly bring a large number of experts with him to escort him to a place like Port Morris, where all sorts of people gathered. He himself was a powerful figure of the Lord's Prayer class.
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