Kal'tsit? Seriously? Chapter 33

At this point, it no longer mattered whether the witchcraft involved souls or concepts.

Though the energy within his body would be completely drained in an instant, if he only needed to deal with top-tier experts whose close-combat skills were not particularly exceptional at close range, he might still have a slim chance of winning.

However, this time, the cloth on his shoulder did not replenish him as it had before... Whether he could suppress the power of this Incantation remained unknown.

Gerald narrowed his eyes slightly, let out a soft breath, tightened his grip on his sword, and stepped forward with steady strides.

The closer Gerald came to that enormous bedframe, the more clearly he could feel the power of the Incantation gathering in the air.

Something about this felt very wrong.

No one ever blew a whistle to signal the start of a battle. The instant he stepped toward the bed, the Incantation in the Courtyard ignited like flame.

This time, Lamaline did not need to speak herself. The songs of generations of Royal Courts rulers had long been deeply woven into this space. Every breath seemed to murmur softly, and every inch of ground represented inviolable authority and truth.

Gerald went from stillness to high-speed movement in an instant, as though everything around him had been flung behind him. The formal attire the Banshee had designed for him had clearly taken his fighting style into consideration. The fabric flowed in the wind, fitting every sudden stop and evasive maneuver. His limbs still felt light—yet that lightness was soon reversed into crushing weight.

Centered around the enormous bed, Thorns rapidly spread across the surrounding stone pillars, identical to the Thorn Altar at the center of River Valley. Those Thorns intertwined, forming intricate cross-knot patterns like some precise seal, locking down the entire space.

An invisible pressure settled over Gerald. Every step felt as heavy as trudging through a swamp, and simply moving one foot required tremendous strength.

More suffocating still, the Thorns were not stationary. They activated at an astonishing speed and rapidly closed in with hostile intent. His room to evade was compressed bit by bit until there was nowhere left to retreat.

At first, there were only a few Thorns. Then the Thorns spreading between the stone pillars grew, climbed, and tangled like living things gone mad, eventually filling every inch of the entire space.

When he looked up, the ceiling had already been covered by Thorns. A thick layer of vegetation sealed every exit, and even light struggled to penetrate it.

Gerald quickly adjusted his breathing, his eyes searching for a possible breakthrough. Yet every sound was gradually swallowed by the noise of the Thorns growing, leaving only that hair-raising rustling in his ears.

The Banshee Queen stood not far away, her figure hidden within the deepening darkness. Only her breathing and his intertwined, unusually clear upon this silent battlefield.

But the problem he was about to face would be even worse.

Lamaline personally joined the battle.

She did not use the Bone Pen in her hand, because Thorns were spreading toward them. As they drew closer, he could even sense Wither and Incantation clinging to them.

Using Incantation in such a space risked it rebounding onto herself, not to mention that she, too, was within this darkness.

But the Banshee had more than one weapon of attack.

Lamaline lifted her chin slightly, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.

Then a beautiful, lingering song slowly flowed from her lips.

An Elegy passed down since ancient times, symbolizing death itself, carrying an indescribable sorrow and allure.

The Banshee Queen's voice was exceedingly soft, like the strength of a mother gathering a swaddled infant into her arms. Yet it was also piercingly penetrating, like invisible threads echoing through the air and weaving an airtight net. Every note carried a sharp pain, digging out and chewing over the deepest fears and regrets of the past.

Blood flowed from Gerald's nostrils.

The Banshee's shriek had clearly been deliberately weakened, but that only made it more precise. Its lethality became subtler and deadlier.

His Originium Arts also came into play against this assault of sound—the power of wind was controlled into an almost vacuum-like zone, greatly slowing the transmission of sound. It was a crude method, like forcibly piercing through his own ears to block out the song, but at least it left him enough room to breathe.

Yet that margin soon vanished as well.

With every step closer, the Banshee's song grew stronger through the echoes of the space. His movements became increasingly sluggish, and he could only drag his body to its limits, desperately fleeing through gaps between the Thorns toward space not yet consumed.

When the song reached its peak, the air abruptly congealed as if frozen. Everything around him was shrouded by invisible pressure, making even breathing difficult.

Only now did the Pegasus realize what lay at the end of this hunt.

The Thorns appeared to be spreading toward him without pattern, but their flood-like assault had been a carefully designed deception from the very beginning.

Gerald had thought that bed should have been swallowed by the constantly advancing Thorns.

Yet after losing his sense of space and distance, coupled with the Banshee's song briefly breaking through his concentration, he had failed to notice that his position was being continuously squeezed toward the center of the room.

Then his foot caught on the suddenly appearing edge of the bed, and his entire body fell onto it.

He finally understood one thing.

It was not the Incantation at the bed that had activated everything around it. Everything—the song, the Thorns, the darkness, even every movement he made—had been preparation to guide him here.

The bed had never been consumed by the Thorns.

The spreading Thorns came to a stop, and the Banshee Queen's footsteps sounded behind him.

"The Banshee Queens before me used their Courtyards to select prey they liked and hunt them, taking pleasure in watching them struggle among the Thorns."

"Sometimes, powerful and perceptive warriors would hear of it and come to challenge them. Then they would make these rituals... more formal."

"That tradition was eventually passed down to this day. I once swore that my Courtyard would exist only to keep foreign enemies from the Banshees, for the continuation of our race."

That gentle voice pressed against his back and climbed up his spine.

"But do you know what this place is used for, Gerald?"

The Pegasus felt part of his body being repaired... The Incantation carved into the bed itself was suppressing him while also healing his body... Why? And why had it been designed this way? Was it meant for the rulers of the Royal Courts to recover? Were only Banshees unaffected by the suppression?

He kept thinking of a way to break the deadlock. The cloth on his shoulder had not replenished him. From the time he left Mansfield until now, he had accepted this challenge recklessly before he had time to make any preparations.

He had to keep thinking. Think of a way out of this—

"—Naturally, it is for continuation."

"And I have not broken my oath. I truly activated the Incantation here for the continuation of my race, not for my own amusement... Never."

"Do not forget, Gerald. No matter how friendly a Banshee may seem before you, Banshees are ultimately a race that has lived by plunder since ancient times. We seize everything we want and hold it in our hands."

"A Banshee's claws will crush a prey's skull and tear apart its flesh, leaving behind what is most precious, what is worth tasting—"

The Pegasus finally spoke. "Wait."

The air fell silent for a while.

Lamaline's movements softened again. She slowly withdrew her weight from the bed, suppressing the irritation and uncontrollable feelings within her heart along with it.

She really had been too hasty.

Fine. This had only been a test to begin with. The problem was not too serious.

She only needed to patiently wait for the next opportunity. She had already spent enough time caring for him during this period. She only needed to keep herself in check.

There was still time before the limit arrived.

That thought lingered in her mind, remaining there unwillingly—until Gerald spoke his next sentence.

"I haven't had time to rinse my mouth or wash my face. Banshee... is there an Incantation for that?"

"...That's all?"

"That's all."

Lamaline's long hair fell like the night, scattered around him, its soft strands brushing over his shoulder.

Good.

Gerald thought.

This could also count as a way to win a battle. He would not lose.

"What's wrong, Nastya?"

The young Banshee hugged the oversized book in her arms, reciting its contents with a worried expression as she occasionally looked toward the friend before her.

Ever since yesterday, she seemed to have been staring at the palace built of piled stone in the distance. That was the Courtyard of the Royal Courts ruler.

"Come to think of it," the young Banshee said, looking around, "it seems something huge happened over at Wordcraft Tower yesterday. Did you go see it? I was asleep then, so I have no idea what happened."

"I don't know either."

She silently kept track of the time in her heart. A full day had passed since the moment she sensed the Thorns.

She had read about it in books. It was a domain the Banshee Queen would only use to resist foreign enemies. If it had not dissipated after a full day and night of fighting, then it could only have been that person named Gerald.

That Kuranta-looking young man truly was someone whose strength did not fall short of the Royal Courts ruler.

Even if she had to kneel and beg... she had to explore whether her idea was feasible. If the Thorns could disappear, she could quickly ask him about this knowledge.

As she thought that, her gaze drifted toward that Courtyard for the countless time.

The Thorns coiled within it finally began to slowly recede.

"Young" Banshees Dream of Reincarnated Pegasus?

The dawn of the next day spilled across the Banshee Courtyard.

Cold, clear light passed through the gaps between the stone pillars, gradually dispersing the darkness that had shrouded the night. The Thorns entrenched within the Courtyard began to slowly contract. Having completed their mission, their branches folded back onto the stone pillars one by one, hiding once more beneath the protection of Incantation.

Gerald silently watched the Thorns retreat. In his hand, he held a broken branch cut from them. A few strands of faint light seeped from the break, carrying an Incantation aura that had not fully faded.

The power of Wither tried to enter his body along the branch, but the traces of Incantation were always rejected by an invisible barrier and could not invade him in the slightest.

His fingertips lightly brushed over the rough surface of the broken branch.

This was not a change Lamaline had brought him. It was the result he had analyzed while taking advantage of the person beside his pillow being asleep—with the Incantation within the Banshee bed, he could still maintain a... vigorous life force.

Perhaps that was why Lamaline had originally seemed prepared to forcefully subdue him until he begged for mercy.

Though now she could only lie motionless on the bed, unable to make even the faintest sound.

There were two reasons for this result. First, Kuranta were more accustomed to being with their own kind than engaging in deep contact with other races. Other races found it difficult to endure their size and behavior in certain intimate matters. Coupled with the scattered physical differences, the battle had essentially been one-sided from the start.

On the other hand... For some reason, after Lamaline had forcefully pinned him to the bed at the beginning, she quickly lost her initial momentum. Not only had she become exceptionally compliant, but she had almost indulged his every wish, showing no intention of resisting any of his actions.

He had even prepared himself to die once.

During the time left after their exertions ended, he had mostly been studying the surrounding Thorns and the core purpose of the Incantation on the bed.

But the process of deconstructing it had not gone smoothly either. Other than testing that it would most likely restore his life force to its original state, he found no other clues. Meanwhile, the cloth on his shoulder had kept conveying a sort of celebratory joy to him.

...For no reason at all.

The Pegasus rubbed his sore eyes and sighed.

He gently pulled out the arm pinned beneath him, carefully lifting himself so as not to press down on the hair scattered across the bed.

The current state of things might have been flattered by being called disastrous. Though wind could ensure that, the instant the Thorns opened, the heavy scent in the space would not reach certain people's noses but would instead rise straight into the clouds and disperse. Yet the designer of this bed had clearly never imagined that the Banshee Queen would be defeated within her own domain.

And the result of losing control was that this enormous bed, capable of holding more than a dozen people, was completely covered in traces left after battle.

The satin-smooth bedding now looked exactly as if it had been fished from water and dried in the sun. Even after thirty thousand heartbeats had passed since their exertions ended, he could still feel faintly hardened patches upon it.

The wrinkles in the sheets were bunched together, as though the entire place had been turned upside down. Torn strips of cloth could be seen everywhere, scattered over the floor with a rustle.

The scars on his body still burned painfully, and his back had suffered the worst of it. The Pegasus's regeneration allowed fresh, tender flesh to quickly grow back, but before long, the Banshee's sharp nails would tear it open again amid her extreme suppression, leaving nearly indelible marks on him.

Blood and sweat had become impossible to distinguish. Their breaths at almost zero distance had long since blended together, inseparable.

Darkness really was no good, Gerald thought.

It drove the little rationality he had left all the way to the bottom, making him act almost like a beast.

Once he calmed down, things gradually became troublesome as well.

As far as he was concerned, he could not understand Lamaline's thought process at all.

All the way back to that previous dream—no, rather, during their past journey, although Lamaline had expressed sincere gratitude and made a few intimate gestures toward him, a Royal Courts ruler should not have acted so impulsively. Even if she trusted him unconditionally, she should have remained vigilant at all times.

Think carefully about her motives.

The continuation of the Banshee bloodline—he did meet that condition.

As the Banshee Queen, he had previously taken on the responsibility of continuing the race as well in order to have a pure battle without holding back, and had also thrown in some grand principles along the way.

And Lamaline herself had already made a request of him before, saying that she only wanted him to stay a little longer... He did not seem to have done anything to offend her. Such a forceful attitude clearly indicated something unusual.

He still could not understand.

Though they both appeared humanoid, the Banshee Queen and he seemed to have always stood on opposite sides of understanding.

Gerald slowly shifted closer to the Banshee's side, lowered his head, and watched Lamaline's sleeping face.

Weariness still lingered on her face, while tear tracks had etched shallow marks along both cheeks. Her breathing was steady and faint, and her long eyelashes trembled slightly, as though she were dreaming some dream no one else knew.

But what was she dreaming of? Would she dream of Kazdel's walls, or battlefields she had once personally crossed? Of the times Banshees gathered together, or that fleeting moment when she fought him?