"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin" Chapter 136: The Fall of Sister Mordane

The night was thick with tension. A storm lood on the horizon, lightning flashing across the sky, casting eerie shadows over the towering spires of the Sanctum of the Veil. This was Sister Mordane’s stronghold, a place of whispered prayers and concealed horrors.

Seraphis and her team moved like phantoms through the rain-soaked streets, their dark cloaks blending into the night. This was not just another target—Mordane was a na spoken in fear, a woman who claid to serve the divine but thrived in the darkest depths of depravity.

The Underworld whispered of her cris: abductions, twisted experints in the na of her faith, bodies discarded like broken dolls in the catacombs beneath the Sanctum.

Tonight, that would end.

Breaking the Gates

The massive iron gates of the Sanctum lood before them, wrought with intricate sigils designed to ward off intruders. Seraphis ran a gloved hand along the carvings, feeling the magic pulse beneath her fingertips.

"Wards?" Theia whispered, her golden eyes narrowing.

Seraphis nodded, pulling a dagger from her belt. "A strong one. But not unbreakable."

She plunged the blade into one of the carvings, twisting it sharply. The dagger’s edge was imbued with disruptive magic, a rare enchantnt designed to tear through protective spells. A low hum vibrated through the air as the ward cracked, its magic splintering like shattered glass.

Theia smirked. "Neat trick."

With a single kick, the heavy gates burst open, sending a reverberating boom through the silent halls of the Sanctum.

The hunt had begun.

The Sisters of the Veil

As they moved inside, hooded figures erged from the darkness—Sister Mordane’s devoted acolytes. They were dressed in flowing black robes, their faces obscured by ivory masks, each carved with serene expressions that hid the cruelty beneath.

One of them raised a hand, chanting in a language older than ti itself. A wave of holy fire erupted from her palm, surging toward Seraphis and Theia.

Seraphis twisted mid-air, barely dodging the flas.

Theia lashed out with her curved daggers, her movents swift and precise. Her blades found purchase in the acolyte’s throat, silencing the chant in an instant.

The other sisters moved as one, a chorus of whispers filling the air, their magic coalescing into a deadly storm of light and shadow.

Seraphis’s tal playing cards flashed in the dim torchlight, weaving through the air like silver blades of death. One card severed a hand. Another plunged deep into an eye socket.

The battle was quick and brutal—shadows clashed with fire, steel t flesh, and in re monts, the Sanctum’s once-holy halls were drenched in scarlet.

The Inner Sanctum

They pressed forward, past marble pillars lined with golden scripture, past the ornate stained glass windows depicting false saints, until they reached a set of massive double doors.

Seraphis could feel it. Mordane was inside.

She placed a hand on the door, her fingers tracing the golden insignia. The weight of thousands of tornted souls seed to press against the wood.

"Are you ready?" Theia asked, her voice steady.

Seraphis exhaled slowly. "Always."

With a single push, the doors creaked open, revealing the chamber within.

Sister Mordane: The False Saint

At the center of the grand chamber stood Sister Mordane.

She was clad in flowing robes of white and crimson, her golden hair coiled in elaborate braids. Her pale, aged face was illuminated by the light of hundreds of floating candles.

She did not look surprised to see them.

"Ah," she said softly, a cold smile tugging at her lips. "The heretic arrives at last."

Her voice was honeyed, but beneath it lurked sothing dark and venomous.

Seraphis stepped forward, her fingers tightening around the hilts of her daggers. "You know why we're here."

Mordane chuckled, raising a delicate hand.

"Do you think you are the first to co for my head?" she mused. "I have stood against assassins, warriors, and kings. I have crushed empires with whispers and turned heroes into martyrs. You, child, are nothing more than a fleeting shadow in my story."

"Wrong," Seraphis said, eyes cold as steel. "I am the ending."

Mordane sighed. "So be it."

She raised both hands—and the room exploded into chaos.

The Battle of Blood and Light

A torrent of divine energy surged from Mordane’s fingertips, tearing through the air like a celestial storm.

Seraphis rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the blast as it obliterated the marble floor where she had stood.

Theia darted forward, her daggers glinting, aiming straight for Mordane’s throat.

But the priestess was faster than she looked.

She twisted her hand, and a chain of golden light erupted from the air, wrapping around Theia’s wrist, slamming her into the ground with bone-crushing force.

Seraphis’s tal playing cards flashed through the air, weaving around the tendrils of light that Mordane summoned in defense. So were deflected. So found flesh.

The priestess hissed as a card slashed across her cheek, drawing a thin line of crimson.

Her golden eyes burned with fury.

"Blasphemous wretch!"

A wall of radiant fire roared toward Seraphis.

She leapt into the air, twisting mid-motion, her cards forming a protective barrier around her.

Theia recovered, breaking free from the chains, her daggers coated in dark poison.

She lunged.

Seraphis moved in tandem, her cards striking in a deadly rhythm, carving through Mordane’s defenses like a storm of razors.

The priestess staggered, blood seeping through her robes, her magic flickering.

But she was not done yet.

With a scream, she unleashed everything.

Holy fire engulfed the chamber.

Seraphis and Theia were swallowed in flas.

The Final Strike

The room was ablaze—golden flas licking the walls, consuming the very foundation of the Sanctum of the Veil.

Seraphis felt her skin burn, her breath searing.

But she did not falter.

Through the haze, she saw her opening.

With a final command, her cards surged forward—not as individual blades, but as one shifting, spinning guillotine.

Mordane realized too late.

The cards struck true, slicing through her throat in a clean, rciless arc.

For a mont, there was only silence.

Then the priestess’s head toppled from her shoulders, hitting the marble with a wet thud.

Her body collapsed soon after, the once-mighty Sister Mordane reduced to nothing but a corpse in a burning temple.

Seraphis exhaled. It was done.

She reached down, grabbing Mordane’s severed head, and placed it inside her dinsional bag.

Theia, panting, smirked. "One more down."

Seraphis turned toward the doors.

"Let’s finish the rest."