The elental sword, forged from tal elent, was in no way inferior in sharpness to a wind-forged blade—perhaps even comparable to his own divine weapon, Lun Sancta.
The robed man, now bombarded by searing pain spreading across his body, was gripped by an overwhelming sense of fear and tension.
But just as the blade was about to strike true, a sturdy spike shield suddenly appeared in front of him, intercepting the deadly blow with brute force.
Alan narrowed his eyes and glanced sideways. As expected, the uninvited guest was none other than the shield-wielding attacker whom Blanche had previously driven away—the one whose arms had been tangled together unnaturally. Now, despite his skin being covered in dark bruises, it was clear he had forcibly separated his arms by sheer will—or madness.
Seeing his strike foiled, Alan clicked his tongue and dissolved the elental sword. He clenched his right fist and slamd it heavily into the ground.
BOOM!
Instantly, a thick, blinding cloud of greyish-yellow dust and smoke spread out across the battlefield, obscuring the uneven terrain beneath. Alan vanished into the haze like a ghost slipping into the fog.
The spike shield attacker remained vigilant. He closed his eyes and relied on his hearing, filtering out distractions to pinpoint Alan's movent.
Monts later, his eyes snapped open. He abruptly withdrew his shield and launched it backward in a swift thrust.
And sure enough—Alan was already there.
Once again, Alan found himself surrounded by a web of razor-sharp spikes. But this ti, he didn't dodge.
He took a deep breath, firmly gripped the hilt of Lun Sancta, and let the white radiance intensify along the blade—bright and urgent, like a heartbeat racing toward climax.
Then, a new elent erged—white flas.
Flickering gently at first, then with growing ferocity, the flas wove themselves around the divine sword.
Alan had once more fused the powers of light and fire, unleashing a powerful ability:
Divine Fla Light Sword.
Clearly, the shield attacker had no idea what this move truly entailed.
With a sharp sizzling sound, the iron spikes that composed the shield's deadly structure instantly lted upon contact with the white fla. Molten tal dripped and hissed on the scorched ground.
Then, the broad shield made of ebony wood—thick, sturdy, and seemingly indestructible—was consud in less than a second by the surging Divine Fla. It was charred into ash.
Crack—crack—crack!
The whole shield crumbled like dry, black leaves, falling to the dirt in a soft pile of powder.
The attacker stood frozen, his mind blank with disbelief. His shield was more than a weapon; it was the core of all his combat techniques—his offense, his defense, even his magic channels depended on it.
Now it was gone. Without it, he was like a bird stripped of wings… a fish flung onto dry land… a man with no hope of survival.
A long pause passed before the attacker slowly turned, gazing at Alan with disbelief etched across his face.
"S-So strong… What kind of sword art is that?!"
He barely got the words out before—
SWOOSH.
His head tumbled from his shoulders, rolling across the ground.
Oddly enough, not a single drop of blood spilled from the wound.
On closer inspection, the reason beca clear—the white Divine Fla had cauterized the injury instantly, turning flesh and bone to blackened ash. Without blood vessels, there was nothing left to bleed.
With the white fla still smoldering, Alan tightened his grip on Lun Sancta and walked toward the robed man, placing the sword's radiant edge against his neck.
The intense heat radiating from the blade prickled against the man's skin. At last, fear finally crept onto his face.
"C-Can I… surrender? Maybe just forfeit half the match?" he stamred.
Even a fool could see it now: Alan had survived a multi-pronged ambush and still erged victorious. His strength had clearly far exceeded everyone's expectations.
If he didn't surrender now, death was all but guaranteed.
"Surrender?" Alan repeated the word in a flat tone, as if it were foreign to him—an idea he couldn't quite grasp.
The robed man's temper flared. "Quit pretending to be righteous. I'll tell you the truth—I am the Sixth Prince of the Principality of Felice! If you take captive, you can ransom for an enormous fortune! I'm talking about wealth that could last you several lifetis!"
He raised his chin arrogantly, continuing, "But if you dare to kill —my father, no—everyone in the Principality will brand you an enemy! You'll be hunted for the rest of your miserable life. They will rain endless vengeance upon your head!"
Squelch.
Before he could finish his pompous threat, Alan thrust Lun Sancta straight through his throat.
The wound sizzled and blackened in an instant. Divine Fla scorched his trachea, his blood vessels, his brain stem—obliterating everything vital before he even had the chance to struggle.
The Sixth Prince collapsed, eyes still wide in stunned disbelief, lips slightly parted in eternal confusion.
Even at the mont of death, he couldn't comprehend how Alan dared to kill him after learning his identity.
But what he didn't know—what he never had ti to learn—was this:
After pulling Lun Sancta from the charred remains of the prince's neck, Alan gave the blade a quick flick, slinging off the scorched gri, and muttered coldly:
"Principality of Felice? Sixth Prince? Revenge? Screw all of it. If I had to fear that kind of crap, I wouldn't be Alan."
As he finished, Alan raised Lun Sancta once more. The white Divine Fla roared back to life, dancing along the blade with renewed intensity.
Then, without hesitation, Alan brought the blade down.
A thick plu of black smoke rose into the air.
An acrid stench wafted over the battlefield—a strange mixture of burnt at and scorched wood.
There was no body left. No bones, no prince. Just a dark, human-shaped patch of ash on the ground—silent witness to what had just occurred.
Alan's gaze shifted. With the tip of his sword, he gently lifted a charred piece of ebony armor lining from the ash pile.
To his surprise, sothing ca with it—a small enchanted cloth pouch sewn into the lining.
Palm-sized, unassuming.
But Alan knew: a mage's personal storage item is never as simple as it looks.
This was undoubtedly a magical storage artifact. Its internal space might be vast.
Still, now was not the ti to investigate. The battle wasn't over. His comrades were still fighting. The remaining enemies hadn't all been dealt with.
Without further thought, Alan tossed both the ebony lining and the magic pouch into his Hellspace for later inspection.
Just as he turned, ready to go assist Francis and the others—
The blurred figure that had been standing silently at the edge of the rainforest… finally moved.
In the blink of an eye, the silhouette appeared directly in front of Alan.
Alan reacted instantly. A stranger blocking his path in the middle of battle? No question—it had to be another enemy!
Without hesitation, he stabbed forward with Lun Sancta.
CLANG!
The mont the sword tip touched the stranger, Alan felt a trendous force rebound through the blade, jarring his hands so violently that his tiger's mouth nearly tore. He almost lost grip on his weapon.
Then he looked up.
The figure had stopped his thrust with just the nail of his pinky finger.
And in the next instant, with a flick of that sa finger—
BOOM!
Alan, sword and all, was flung backward like a rag doll.
He had no chance to counter. No ti to react.
He never stood a chance.
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