"Hold it right there, fellow cultivator. How about letting me admire your vase?"
Just as Circe hugged the vase and happily prepared to leave, a strange voice suddenly rang out behind her. The voice modulator's effect, like fingernails scraping against glass, was unmistakably familiar.
But how had Deathstroke gotten in? Witch's Moon was supposed to be extremely well hidden and forbid any outsiders from entering.
Circe immediately turned around warily. Sure enough, it was not just Deathstroke—Satan, with half his face rotten away, stood beside him, his sharp claws lifting Diana's body from the ground and toying with it in his hands.
"How did you get in here? This is impossible! This makes no sense!" Circe hid the jar behind her back and began cursing.
Deathstroke held the Black Greatsword in one hand. He shrugged and slowly walked toward Circe.
The silver reflections on the ground did not make him look radiant. Instead, he seemed dark and gloomy.
"Actually, we slept our way in. You really aren't suited to be the God of Witchcraft. Seeking reason in a Magic Dimension formed from thought? Why not go play with technology instead? Now, hand over the jar."
Circe raised the jar high over her head. "Take another step closer, and I'll smash it."
"Heh. I know no less about the Soul Forging Technique than you do. Breaking the vessel would at most injure the soul inside; it wouldn't kill her." Su Ming stopped walking. He was not actually certain about that—he could only see whether he could bluff Circe.
"This is my dimension. Killing her would take no more than a thought." Circe sneered and pulled the jar back into her arms. "But I'm not falling for your trick and smashing it. Want Diana's soul? Then come make a deal with me."