"Ugh... that hurt! That was so mean!"
In the operations room, Little Jack crashed into the rear wall under the force of the shockwave, letting out a childish cry of protest. Yet her restless little hands fished two daggers from the swirling mist again, hurling them mercilessly at Joan of Arc, who had come to the rescue, before she stubbornly charged once more at the paralyzed Fiore.
The battle-hardened saint sensed the currents in the air. Her left hand gripped the banner, continuously purifying the toxins in the air with Holy Flame, while her right drew the Sword of Saint Catherine from her waist. With a twist of her wrist and a horizontal sweep, she knocked aside the two incoming daggers.
At the same time, worried for his sister's safety, Caules, the bespectacled youth who had been the first to climb up from the ground, slammed one palm against the floor. Veins bulged on his forehead as he gritted his teeth and roared.
"CraftedTree—Thunder of Hanging!"
After a long period of buildup, the mage, who had considerable expertise in electrical thaumaturgy, unleashed the counterspell he had silently prepared.
In an instant, flickering dark-blue arcs of electricity wove themselves into a strangling net, lashing out and closing in from all directions, forcing the tiny serial killer charging forward to leap and dodge, temporarily avoiding its edge.
Seeing the fallen mages gradually break free from their negative conditions under the cleansing of holy light, while the saint guarding the doorway eyed her like a tiger watching its prey, the enemy Assassin seemed to realize that things could not be done. She leapt toward the window spilling thick mist.
"Ruler, she's escaping!"
The fully recovered fat middle-aged man, Gordes, immediately cried out in warning.
He was still young, talented, and far from ready